Dora Deane; Or, The East India Uncle

by Mary Jane Holmes

And hiding her face in the pillow, poor Ella sobbed bitterly. For a time Eugenia stood, revolving the propriety of offering Dora as a substitute in the place of the girl who had just left. "Mother can work a little harder," she thought. "And Alice can help her occasionally. It will please Mr. Hastings, I know. Poor man, I pity him!"

So, more on account of the pity she felt for Mr. Hastings, than for the love she bore his wife, she said at last, "We have a little girl at our house, who is very capable for one of her years. I think she would be quite handy in a sick-room. At all events, she can rock the baby. Shall I send her up until you get some one else?"

"Oh, if you only would," answered Ella. "I should be so glad,"

So, it was arranged that Dora should come next morning, and then Eugenia, who was this time in a hurry, took her leave, having first said that Mrs. Hastings "needn't think strange if Dora called her cousin and her mother aunt, for she was a poor relation, whom they had taken out of charity!"

At first Mrs. Deane objected to letting her niece go, "for she was needed at home," she said; but Eugenia finally prevailed, as she generally did, and the next morning Dora, who was rather pleased with the change, started bundle in hand for Rose Hill. She had never been there before, and she walked leisurely along, admiring the beautiful house and grounds, and thinking Mrs. Hastings must be very happy to live in so fine a place. Ella was unusually nervous and low-spirited this morning, for her husband had gone to Rochester; and when Dora was shown into the room she was indulging in a fit of crying, and paid no attention whatever when Mrs. Leah said, "This is the new girl." "She'll get over it directly," muttered the housekeeper, as she went from the room, leaving Dora inexpressibly shocked at witnessing such grief in one whom she had thought so happy.

"Can I do anything for you?" she said at last, drawing near, and involuntarily laying her hand on the golden curls she had so much admired.

There was genuine sympathy in the tones of that childish voice, which touched an answering chord in Ella's heart, and lifting up her head she gazed curiously at the little brown-faced girl, who stood there neatly attired in a dress of plain dark calico, her auburn hair, which had grown rapidly, combed back from her open brow, and her dark-blue eyes full of tears. No one could mistake Dora Deane for a menial, and few could look upon her without being at once interested; for early sorrow had left a shade of sadness upon her handsome face, unusual in one so young. Then, too, there was an expression of goodness and truth shining out all over her countenance, and Ella's heart yearned towards her at once as towards a long-tried friend. Stretching out her white, wasted hand, she said, "And you are Dora. I am glad you have come. The sight of you makes me feel better already," and the small, rough hand she held was pressed with a fervor which showed that she was sincere in what she said. It was strange how fast they grew to liking each other—those two children—for in everything save years, Ella was younger far than Dora Deane; and it was strange, too, what a change the little girl's presence wrought in the sick-chamber. Naturally neat and orderly, she could not sit quietly down in the midst of disorder, and as far as she was able, she put things in their proper places; then, as her quick-seeing eye detected piles of dust which for days had been unmolested, she said, "Will it disturb you if I sweep?"

"Not at all. Do what you like," answered Ella, her own spirits rising in proportion as the appearance of her surroundings was improved.

Everything was in order at last. The carpet was swept, the furniture dusted, the chairs emptied, the curtains looped back, and the hearth nicely washed. Fresh, clean linen was put upon the pillows, while Ella's tangled curls were carefully brushed and tucked under her tasteful cap, and then for the first time Dora took the baby upon her lap. It was a little thing, but very beautiful to the young mother, and beautiful, too, to Dora, when she learned that its name was "Fannie."

"Fannie!" how it carried her back to the long ago, when her father had spoken, and her precious mother had answered to that blessed name! And how it thrilled her as she repeated it again and again, while her tears fell like rain on the face of the unconscious infant.