Dorry appreciated both the notes and the oranges, and her spirits rose again as she heard Liddy softly singing in the next room. That evening, after she and her uncle had had a long talk together, she kissed him for good-night, and, though there were tears in her bright eyes, she looked a spirited little maiden who did not intend to give herself up to doubting and grieving, so long as "there was more than hope" that she was Dorothy.
Half an hour later, the young girl stole softly down to the deserted sitting-room, lit only by the glowing remains of a wood-fire, and taking an unlighted student's lamp from the centre-table, made her rapid way back to her pretty bedroom up stairs. Here, after putting on the soft Lady-Angelica wrapper, as Josie had called it, she sat for a long time in a low easy-chair, with her little red-slippered feet in a rug before the fire, thinking of all that the eventful day had brought her.
"There is more than hope," she mused, while her eyes were full of tears: "those were Uncle's very words—more than hope, that I am Dorothy Reed. But what if it really is not so; what if I am no relation to my—to the Reed family at all—no relation to Uncle George nor to Donald?" From weeping afresh at this thought, and feeling utterly lonely and wretched, she began to wonder how it would feel to be Delia. In that case, Aunt Kate would have been her mother. For an instant this was some consolation, but she soon realized that, while Aunt Kate was very dear to her fancy, she could not think of her as her mother; and then there was Uncle Robertson—no, she never could think of him as her father; and that dreadful, cruel Eben Slade, her uncle? Horrible! At this thought her soul turned with a great longing toward the unknown mother and father, who, to her childish mind, had appeared merely as stately personages, full of good qualities—Mr. and Mrs. Wolcott Reed, honored by all who knew them, but very unreal and shadowy to her. Now, as she sat half-dreaming, half-thinking, their images grew distinct and loving; they seemed to reach out their arms tenderly to her, and the many good words about them that from time to time had fallen tamely upon her ears now gained life and force. She felt braver and better, clinging in imagination to them, and begging them to forgive her, their own girl Dorothy, for not truly knowing them before.
Meantime, the night outside had been growing colder and there were signs of a storm. A shutter in some other part of the building blew open violently, and the wind moaned through the pine-trees at the corner of the house. Then the sweet, warm visions that had comforted her faded from her mind and a dreadful loneliness came over her. A great longing for Donald filled her heart. She tried to pray,—
"No thought confessed, no wish expressed,
Only a sense of supplication."
Then her thoughts took shape, and she prayed for him, her brother, alone in a foreign land, and for Uncle, troubled and waiting, at home, and for herself, that she might be patient and good, and have strength to do what was right—even to go with Eben Slade to his distant home, if she were really his sister's child.
The storm became so dismal that Dorry poked the fire into a blaze, and lighted the student's lamp that she had placed on the table behind the arm-chair. Then she took a photograph from the mantel-shelf and an oval hand-glass from her dressing-table, and, looking hurriedly about her to be doubly sure that she was alone, she sat down resolutely, as if saying to herself: "Now, we'll see!"
Poor Dot! The photograph showed Donald, a handsome, manly boy, of whom any loving sister might be proud; but the firm, boyish face, with its square brows, roundish features, and shining black hair, certainly did not seem to be in the least like the picture that looked anxiously at her out of the hand-glass—a sweet face, with its oval outline, soft, dark eyes and long lashes, its low, arched eyebrows, its expressive mouth, and sunny, dark brown tresses.
Feature by feature, she scanned the two faces carefully, unconsciously drawing in her warm-tinted cheeks and pouting her lips, in her desire to resemble the photograph; but it was of no use. The two faces would not be alike; and yet, as she looked again, was there not something similar about the foreheads and the lower line of the faces? Hastily pushing back her hair with one hand, she saw with joy that, excepting the eyebrows, there really was a likeness: the line where the hair began was certainly almost the same on both faces.
"Dear, dear old Donald! Why, we are just alike there! I'll show Uncle to-morrow. It's wonderful."