It was Mrs. Dupont’s maiden aunt, who had cast her off when she displeased her by marrying the poor doctor. She was sixty years of age, but looked scarce fifty.
Many a time her heart had been lonely and sick for the want of a little love; many a time her conscience had whispered that she had done wrong in forsaking her own flesh and blood; but pride would not let her yield, until her once darling and favorite was laid cold and silent beneath the sod.
Then, in her grief and remorse, she pounced down upon poor, terrified little Dora, and carried her off, to love, pet, and spoil her, if she could, and to make a lady of her.
Everything that heart could wish was now hers, and she reigned a very queen over a household of servants, and in the heart of Madame Alroyd, and despite the shadows that had clouded her young life, she grew happy as a bird, and bright and winsome as the day.
Her education was now completed, and for the past few months she had reigned as a beauty and a belle in the first circles of New York.
But Dora had not forgotten her childhood, nor her boy husband.
Oh, no! Even now his picture lay against her throbbing heart, and not a day passed but that it was taken from its hiding-place, and pressed tenderly and passionately to her ripe, beautiful lips.
But it was her secret!
She had never dared to tell her aunt of that episode in her life, fearing that the sacredness with which she regarded it would be laughed to scorn.
And so the years came and went, until she arrived at young ladyhood, and suitors by the score flocked around the wealthy beauty, seeking in vain for a favorable response to their vows of eternal love and fidelity.