At this point, Mrs. Deane, who had been slower in her movements, reached the gate, and, resigning his post near the fence, Mr. Hastings walked slowly home, bearing in his mind that picture of Dora Deane as he saw her through the window, with no shadows on her brow, save those left there by early grief, and which rendered her face still more attractive than it would otherwise have been. That night, all through the silent hours, there shone a glimmering light from the room where Howard Hastings sat, brooding upon what he had heard, and meditating upon the best means for removing Dora from the influence of her heartless cousin. Slowly over him, too, came memories of the little brown-faced girl who, when his home was cheerless, had come to him with her kindly acts and gentle ways, diffusing over all an air of comfort and filling his home with sunlight. Then he remembered that darkest hour of his desolation—that first coming home from burying his dead; and, now as then he felt creeping over him the icy chill which had lain upon his heart when he approached the house whence they had borne his fair girl wife. But he had found her there—Dora Deane— folding his motherless baby to her bosom, and again in imagination he met the soft glance of her eye as she welcomed him back to Ella's room which seemed not half so lonely with Dora sitting by his side. Again he was with her in the storm which she had braved on that night when his child lay dying—the child whom she had loved so much, and who had died upon her lap. Anon, this picture faded too, and he saw her as he had seen her but a few hours before—almost a woman now, but retaining still the same fair, open brow, and sunny smile which had characterized her as a child. And this was the girl whom Eugenia would trample down—would misrepresent to the fond old uncle, far away. "But it shall never be," he said aloud; "I will remove her Iron them by force if need be." But "where would she go?" he asked. Then as he remembered Ella's wish that he should care for her—a wish which his foolish fancy for Eugenia had for a time driven from his mind, he felt an intense longing to have her there with him; there, in his home, where he could see her every day—not as his wife, for at that time Howard Hastings had never thought it possible for him to call her by that name, she seemed so much a child; but she should be his sister, and his manly heart throbbed with delight, as he thought how he would watch over and protect her from all harm. He would teach her and she would learn, sitting at his feet as she sat two years before; and life would seem no longer sad and dreary, for he would have a pleasant home and in it Dora Deane! Ere long, however, his better judgment told him that the censorious, curious world would never suffer this to be; she couldn't come as his sister—she couldn't come at all— and again there came over him a sense of desolation, as if he were a second time bereaved.

Slowly and steadily the raindrops pattered against the window pane, while the lamp upon the table burned lower and lower, and still Mr. Hastings sat there, pondering another plan, to which he could see no possible objection, provided Mrs. Deane's consent could be obtained: "and she shall consent," he said, "or an exposure of her daughter will be the consequence."

Then, it occurred to him that, in order to succeed, he must for a time at least appear perfectly natural—must continue to visit at Locust Grove, just as he had been in the habit of doing—must meet Eugenia face to face, and even school himself to listen to the sound of her piano, which he felt would grate so harshly on his ear. And all this he could do if in the end Dora would be benefited.

For the more immediate accomplishment of his purpose, it seemed necessary that he should visit New York, and as in his present excitement, he could not rest at home, he determined upon going that very morning, in the early train. Pushing back the heavy drapery which shaded the window he saw that daylight was already breaking in the east, and, after a few hurried preparations, he knocked at Mrs. Leah's door, and telling her that important business required his presence in New York, whither he should be gone a few days, he started for the depot, just as the sun was rising; and, that night, Mrs. Elliott, his sister, was surprised to hear that he was in the parlor, and wished to see her.

"Why, Howard!" she exclaimed, as she entered the room and saw how pale and haggard he was, "what is the matter, and why have you come upon me so suddenly?"

"I have come, Louise, for aid," he answered, advancing towards her, and drawing her to his side. "Aid for an injured orphan. Do you remember Dora Deane?"

"Perfectly well," answered Mrs. Elliott. "I was too much interested in her to forget her soon. Ella wrote me that she was living in Dunwood, and when next I visited you, I intended seeking her out. But what of her, and how can I befriend her?"

In as few words as possible, Mr. Hastings told what he knew of her history since his sister saw her last, withholding not even the story of his own strange fancy for Eugenia. "But that is over, thank Heaven," he continued; "and now, Louise, you must take Dora to live with you. You have no child, no sister, and she will be to you both of these. You must love her, educate her, make her just such a woman as you are yourself; make her, in short, what that noble-hearted old man in India will wish her to be when he returns, as he shall do, if my life is spared; and Louise," he added, growing more and more earnest, "she will well repay you for your trouble. She brought sunshine to my home; she will bring it to yours. She is naturally refined and intelligent. She is amiable, ingenuous, open-hearted, and will one day be beautiful."

"And you, my brother, love her?" queried Mrs. Elliott, looking him steadily in his face, and parting the thick, black hair from off his high, white forehead.

"Love her", Louise!" he answered, "I love Dora Deane! Why, no. Ella loved her, the baby loved her, and for this I will befriend her, but to love her, I never thought of such a thing!" and walking to the window, he looked out upon the night, repeating to himself, "Love Dora Deane. I wonder what put that idea into Louise's brain?" Returning ere long to his seat, he resumed the conversation, which resulted at last in Mrs. Elliott's expressing her perfect willingness to give Dora a home, and a mother's care, to see that she had every possible advantage, to watch over and make her not only what Uncle Nat would wish to find her, but what Howard Hastings himself desired that she should be. Of Mrs. Elliott, we have said but little, neither is it necessary that we should dwell upon her character at large. She was a noble, true-hearted woman, finding her greatest happiness in doing others good. Widowed in the second year of her married life, her home was comparatively lonely, for no second love had ever moved her heart. In Dora Deane, of whom Ella had written so enthusiastically, she felt a deep interest, and when her brother came to her with the story of her wrongs, she gladly consented to be to her a mother, nay, possibly a sister, for, with woman's ready tact, she read what Mr. Hastings did not even suspect, and she bade him bring her at once.

A short call upon his mother, to whom he talked of Dora Deane; a hasty visit to Ella's grave, on which the winter snow was lying; a civil bow across the street to Mrs. Grey, who had never quite forgiven him for having killed her daughter; and he started back to Dunwood bearing with him a happier, healthier, frame of mind, than he had experienced for many a day. There was something now worth living for—the watching Dora Deane grow up into a woman, whose husband would delight to honor her, and whose children would rise up and call her blessed. This picture, however, was not altogether pleasing, though why the thoughts of Dora's future husband should affect him unpleasantly, he could not tell. Still it did, and mentally hoping she would never marry, he reached Dunwood at the time and took his departure from it. And here we leave him while, in another chapter, we look in upon Eugenia, whom we left waiting for him at the hotel.



CHAPTER XVI.

FAILURE AND SUCCESS.

In a state of great anxiety, which increased each moment, Eugenia looked for the twentieth time into the long hall, and seeing no one, went back again to the glass, wondering if her new hat, which, without her mother's knowledge, had that afternoon been purchased, and now adorned her head, were as becoming as the milliner had said, and if fifteen dollars were not a great price for one in her circumstances to pay for a bonnet. Then she thought if Mr. Hastings proposed soon, as she believed he would, she should never again feel troubled about the trivial matter of money, of which she would have an abundance. But where was he and why did he not come? she asked herself repeatedly, caring less, however, for the delay, when she considered that if they were late, more people would see her in company with the elegant Mr. Hastings, who was well known in the city.

"Eight o'clock as I live," she exclaimed at last, consulting her watch, "and the concert was to commence at half-past seven. What can it mean?" and with another glance at her bonnet, she walked the length of the hall, and leaning far over the balustrade looked anxiously down into the office below, to see if by any chance he were there.

But he was not, and returning to her room, she waited another half hour, when, grown more fidgety and anxious, she descended to the office, inquiring if Mr. Hastings had been there that evening. Some one thought they had seen him in the ladies' parlor that afternoon, but further information than that she could not obtain, and the discomfited young lady went back to her room in no very enviable frame of mind, particularly as she heard the falling of the rain and thought how dark it was without.

"What can have kept him?" she said, half crying with vexation. "And how I wish I had gone home with mother!"

Wishing, however, was of no avail, and when that night at half- past ten, the hotel omnibus as usual went to the depot, it carried a very cross young lady, who, little heeding what she did, and caring less, sat down beneath a crevice in the roof, through which the rain crept in, lodging upon the satin bows and drooping plumes of her fifteen-dollar hat, which, in her disappointment, she had forgotten to exchange for the older one, safely stowed away in the bandbox she held upon her lap. Arrived at Dunwood station, she found, as she had expected, no omnibus in waiting, nor any one whose services she could claim as an escort, so, borrowing an umbrella, and holding up her dress as best she could, she started, band-box in hand, for home, stepping once into a pool of water, and falling once upon the dirty sidewalk, from which the mud and snow were wiped by her rich velvet cloak, to say nothing of the frightful pinch made in her other bonnet by her having crushed the band-box in her fall.

In a most forlorn condition, she at last reached home, where to her dismay she found the door was locked and the fire gone out, her mother not having expected her to return on such a night as this. To rouse up Dora, and scold her unmercifully, though for what she scarcely knew, was under the circumstances quite natural, and while Mr. Hastings at Rose Hill was devising the best means of removing Dora from her power, she at Locust Grove was venting the entire weight of her pent-up wrath upon the head of the devoted girl, who bore it uncomplainingly. Removing at last her bonnet, she discovered the marks of the omnibus leak, and then her ire was turned towards him as having been the cause of all her disasters.

"I'll never speak to him again, never," she exclaimed, as she crept shivering to bed.

But a few hours' quiet slumber dissipated in a measure her wrath, and during the next day she many times looked out to see him coming, as she surely thought he would, laden with apologies for his seeming neglect. But nothing appeared except the huge box containing the piano, and in superintending the opening of that her mind was for a time diverted. Greatly Alice and Dora marveled whence came the money with which the purchase had been made, and both with one consent settled upon Mr. Hastings as having been the donor. To this suggestion Eugenia made no reply, and feeling sure that it was so, Dora turned away and walking to the window sighed as she wondered what Ella would say if she could know who was to take her place in the heart of Howard Hastings.

The instrument was finely toned, and Eugenia spent the remainder of the day in practising a very difficult piece, which she knew Mr. Hastings admired, and with which she intended to surprise and charm him. But he did not come, either that day or the next, and on the morning of the next, which was Saturday, feigning some trivial errand to Mrs. Leah, she went herself to Rose Hill, casting anxious glances towards the windows of his room to see if he were in sight. Dame Leah was a shrewd old woman, and readily guessing that Eugenia's visit was prompted from a desire to see her master, rather than herself, she determined to tantalize her by saying nothing of him unless she were questioned. Continually hoping he would appear, Eugenia lingered until there was no longer a shadow of excuse for tarrying, and then she arose to go, saying as she reached the door, "Oh, now I think of it, Mr. Hastings has a book in his library which I very much wish to borrow. Is he at home?"

"No," answered Mrs. Leah, "he went to New York, Thursday morning, on the early train."

"To New York!" repeated Eugenia, "for what? and when will he be home?"

"He said he had important business," returned Mrs. Leah, adding that "maybe he'd be home that night."

Eugenia had heard all she wished to know, and forgetting entirely the book, bade Mrs. Leah good-morning, and walked away, feeling in a measure relieved, for the business which took him so suddenly to New York, had undoubtedly some connection with his failing to call at the hotel for her! He had never called upon Sunday evening, but thinking that after so long an absence he might do so now, she sat in state from six o'clock till nine, starting nervously at every sound, and once, when sure she heard him, running from the room, so he would not find her there, and think she had been waiting for him. But he did not come, and the next day, feeling exceedingly anxious to know if he had returned, and remembering the book, which she had failed to get, and must have, she towards night sent Dora to Rose Hill, bidding her if she saw Mr. Hastings tell him that her piano had come and she wished him to hear it.

In the long kitchen by a glowing stove, Dame Leah sat, busy with her knitting, which she quickly suspended when she saw Dora, who was with her a favorite.

"So Eugenia sent you for that book?" she said, when told of Dora's errand. "I'll see if he will lend it."

Mr. Hastings was alone in his library. All that day he had been making up his mind to call at Locust Grove, where he knew Eugenia was impatiently expecting him, for Mrs. Leah had told him of her call, winking slily as she spoke of the forgotten book!

"Yes, I will go and have it over," he thought, just as Mrs. Leah entered, telling him that "Miss Deane wanted that book."

Thinking that Eugenia was in the house, he answered hastily. "Take it to her, and pray don't let her in here."

"It's Dora, not Eugenia," said Mrs. Leah, and instantly the whole expression of his countenance changed.

"Dora!" he exclaimed. "It's a long time since I saw her in this room. Tell her to come up."

Very gladly Dora obeyed the summons, and in a moment she stood in the presence of Mr. Hastings.

"I am glad to see you," he said, motioning her to the little stool, on which she had often sat when reciting to him her lessons, and when she now sat down, it was so near to him that, had he chosen, his hand could have rested on her beautiful hair, for she held her hood upon her lap.

Two months before and he would not have hesitated to smooth these shining tresses, but the question of his sister, "Do you love her?" had produced upon him a curious effect, making him half afraid of the child-woman who sat before him, and who, after waiting a time for him to speak, looked up into his face, and said, "Do you want me for anything in particular, Mr. Hastings?"

"Want you, Dora? Want you?" he said, abstractedly, as if that question, too, had puzzled him; then remembering himself, and why he had sent for her, he answered, "I want to talk with you, Dora— to tell you something. Do you remember my sister Mrs. Elliott?"

The eager, upward glance of Dora's eyes, was a sufficient answer, and he continued, "I saw her last week and talked with her of you. She wishes you to come and live with her. Will you go?"

Dora could never tell why she cried, but the thought of living with Mrs. Elliott, whom she regarded as an almost superior being, overcame her, and she burst into tears, while Mr. Hastings looked at her, quite uncertain as to what, under the circumstances, it was proper for him to do. If his sister had never bothered him with that strange question, he would have known exactly how to act; but now in a state of perplexity, he sat motionless, until, thinking he must do something, he said gently, "Dora, my child" The last word removed his embarrassment entirely. She was a child, and as such he would treat her. So he said again," Dora, my child, why do you cry?" and Dora answered impulsively, "It makes me so glad to think of living with Mrs. Elliott, for you do not know how unhappy I have been since she found me four years ago."

"I know more than you suppose. But it is over now," he said; and stretching out his arm, he drew her nearer to him, and resting her head upon his knee, he soothed her as if she were indeed the child he tried to believe she was, and he her gray-haired sire, instead of a young man of twenty-seven!

And Dora grew very calm sitting there with Mr. Hastings's hand upon her head, and when he told her it was all arranged, and she should surely go, she sprang to her feet, and while her cheeks glowed with excitement, exclaimed, "It is too good to come true. Something will happen, Aunt Sarah will not let me go."

"Yes, she will," said Mr. Hastings decidedly. "I am going there to-night to talk with her."

Then, as it was already growing dark, he rose to accompany Dora home, both of them forgetting the book, which Eugenia seemed destined never to receive. But she did not think to ask for it in her joy at meeting Mr. Hastings, who succeeded in appearing natural far better than he had expected, telling her not that he was sorry for having failed to keep his appointment, but that it was not consistent for him to do so, and adding that he hoped she was not very much disappointed.

"Oh, no," she said, "I know of course that business detained you;"—then, as she saw him looking at her piano, she advanced towards it, and seating herself upon the stool, asked, "if he would like to hear her play?"

He could not conscientiously answer "yes," for he felt that the sound would sicken him; but he stood at her side and turned the leaves of her music as usual, while she dashed through the piece she had practised with so much care.

"How do you like it?" she said, when she had finished; and he answered, "I always admired your playing, you know, but the tone of the instrument does not quite suit me. It seems rather muffled, as if the wires were made of hair!" and his large black eyes were bent searchingly upon her.

Coloring crimson, she thought, "Can he have learned my secret?" then, as she remembered how impossible it was for him to know aught of the money, she answered, "Quite an original idea," at the same time seating herself upon the sofa. Sitting down beside her as he had been in the habit of doing, he commenced at once upon the object of his visit, asking if her mother were at home, and saying he wished to see her on a matter of some importance; then, knowing who was really the ruling power there, he added, as Eugenia arose to leave the room in quest of her mother, "perhaps I had better speak of my business first to you!"

Feeling sure now of a proposal, the young lady resumed her seat, involuntarily pulling at her fourth finger, and mentally hoping the engagement ring would be a diamond one. What then was her surprise when she found that not herself, but Dora was the subject of his remarks! After telling her of his visit to his sister, and of her wishes with regard to Dora, he said, "since the death of my wife and baby, I have felt a deep interest in your family for the kindness shown to me in my affliction. I promised Ella that I would befriend Dora, and by placing her with Louise, I shall not only fulfil my word, but shall also be relieved of all care concerning her. Do yon think I can persuade your mother to let her go?"

Eugenia did not know. She would speak to her about it after he was gone, and tell him on the morrow.

"I shall rely upon you to plead my cause," he continued; "Louise's heart is quite set upon it, and I do not wish to disappoint her."

"I will do my best," answered Eugenia, never suspecting that Mr. Hastings was quite as anxious as his sister, who, she presumed, intended making a half companion, half waiting-maid of her cousin.

"But it will be a good place for her, and somewhat of a relief to us," she thought, after Mr. Hastings had gone. She is getting to be a young lady now, and growing each year more and more expensive, I presume Mrs. Elliott will send her to school for a time at least, and in case our families should be connected, it is well for her to do so. I wrote to Uncle Nat that we wished to send her away to school, and this is the very thing. Mother won't of course insist upon her having all that money, for she will be well enough off without it, and if Mr. Hastings ever does propose, I can have a handsome outfit! Fortune does favor me certainly."

Thus Eugenia mused, and thus did she talk to her mother and she was the more easily persuaded when she saw how eager Dora was to go."

"I shall be sorry to leave you, Aunt Sarah," said Dora, coming to her side, and resting her hand upon her shoulder, "but I shall be so happy with Mrs. Elliott, that I am sure you'll let me go."

Mrs. Deane was naturally a cold, selfish woman, but the quiet, unassuming Dora had found a place in her heart, and she would be very lonely without her; still it was better for her, and better for them all that she should go; so she at last gave her consent, and when the next day Mr. Hastings called he was told that Dora could go as soon as he thought best.

"Let it be immediately, then," he said. "I will write to Louise to-night, and tell her we shall come next week."

"I wish I could go to New York with her," said Eugenia. "It's so long since I was there."

"You had better wait till some other time, for I could not now show you over the city," answered Mr. Hastings, who had no idea of being burdened with Eugenia.

"He expects me to go with him sometime, or he would never have said that," thought Eugenia, and this belief kept her good-natured during all the bustle and hurry of preparing Dora for her journey.

The morning came at last on which Dora was to leave, and with feelings of regret Mrs. Deane and Alice bade her good-by, while Eugenia accompanied her to the depot, where she knew she should see Mr. Hastings.

"I've half a mind to go with you as far as Rochester," she said to Dora, in his presence, as the cars came up, but he made no reply, and the project was abandoned.

Kissing her cousin good-by, she stood upon the platform until the train had moved away, and then walked slowly back to the house, which even to her seemed lonesome.



CHAPTER XVII.

THE QUESTION ANSWERED.

It was late in the evening when our travelers reached the city, which loomed up before Dora like an old familiar friend. They found Mrs. Elliott waiting to receive them, together with Mr. Hastings's mother, who, having heard so much of Dora Deane, had come over to see her. Very affectionately did Mrs. Elliott greet the weary girl, and after divesting her of her wrappings, she led her to her mother, whose keen eyes scrutinized her closely, but found no fault in the fair childish face which looked so timidly up to her. Half bewildered, Dora gazed about her, and then, with her eyes swimming in tears, whispered softly to Mr. Hastings, "I am so afraid it will prove to be a dream."

"I will see that it does not," said Mrs. Elliott, who had overheard her, and who, as time passed on, became more and more interested in the orphan girl.

For several days Mr. Hastings lingered, showing her all over the city, and going once with her to visit the room where he had found her. But the elements had preceded them—fire and water—and not a trace of the old building remained. At the expiration of a week, Mr. Hastings started for home, half wishing he could take Dora with him, and wondering if his sister were in earnest, when she asked him if he loved her?

A new world now seemed open to Dora, who never thought it possible for her to be so happy. The ablest instructors were hired to teach her, and the utmost care bestowed upon her education, while nothing could exceed the kindness both of Mrs. Elliott and Mrs. Hastings, the latter of whom treated her as she would have done a young and favorite daughter. One evening when Mrs. Elliott was dressing for a party, Dora asked permission to arrange her soft glossy hair, which she greatly admired.

"It's not all my own," said Mrs. Eliott, taking off a heavy braid and laying it upon the table. "I bought it in Rochester, nearly two years ago, on the day of Ella's party. I have often wished I knew whose it was," she continued, "for to me there is something disagreeable in wearing other people's hair, but the man of whom I purchased it, assured me that it was cut from the head of a young, healthy girl."

For a moment Dora stood thinking—then catching up the beautiful braid and comparing it with her own she exclaimed, "It was mine! It was mine! Eugenia cut it off, and sold it the day before the party. Oh, I am so glad," she added, "though I was sorry then, for I did not know it would come to you, the dearest friend I ever had," and she smoothed caressingly the shining hair, now a shade lighter than her own.

Mrs. Elliott had heard from her brother the story of Dora's shorn locks, and the braid of hair was far more valuable to her, now that she knew upon whose head it had grown. In her next letter to her brother, she spoke of the discovery, and he could not forbear mentioning the circumstances to Eugenia, who, not suspecting how much he knew of the matter, answered indifferently, "Isn't it funny how things do come round? Dora had so much of the headache that we thought it best to cut off her hair, which she wished me to sell for her in Rochester, I think she was always a little penurious!"

Wholly disgusted with this fresh proof of her duplicity, Mr. Hastings could scarcely refrain from upbraiding her for her perfidy, but thinking the time had not yet come, he restrained his wrath, and when, next he spoke, it was to tell her of a foreign tour which he intended making.

"I have long wished to visit the old world," said he, "and as there is nothing in particular to prevent my doing so, I shall probably start the first of June. I should go sooner, but I prefer being on the ocean in the summer season."

For a moment Eugenia grew faint, fancying she saw an end of all her hopes, but soon rallying, she expatiated largely upon the pleasure and advantages to be derived from a tour through Europe, saying, "it was a happiness she had herself greatly desired, but should probably never realize."

"Not if you depend upon me for an escort," thought Mr. Hastings, who, soon after, took his leave.

Much Eugenia wondered whether he would ask the important question, and take her with him, and concluding at last that he would, she secretly made some preparations for the expected journey! But alas for her hopes! The spring went by the summer came, and she was still Eugenia Deane, when one evening towards the middle of June, Mr. Hastings came over to say good-by, as he was intending to start next morning for New York, or rather for his sister's country seat on the Hudson, where she was now spending the summer. This was a death-blow to Eugenia, who could scarcely appear natural. Tears came to her eyes, and once when she attempted to tell him how lonely Rose Hill would be without him, she failed entirely for want of voice.

"How hoarse you are. Have you a cold," said Mr. Hastings, and that was all the notice he took of her emotion.

Fearing lest he should suspect her real feelings, she tried to compose herself, and after a time said, jokingly, "I shouldn't wonder if you were going to take you a wife from some of the city belles."

"Oh, no," he answered lightly. "Time enough to think of that when I return."

This gave her hope, and she bore the parting better than she could otherwise have done.

"You will not forget me entirely, I trust," she said, as she gave him her hand.

"Oh, no," he answered. "That would be impossible. I have many reasons which you do not perhaps suspect, for remembering you! By the way," he continued, "have you any message for Dora! I shall probably see her as she is with my sister."

"Give her my love," answered Eugenia, "and tell her to write more definitely of her situation. She never particularizes, but merely says she is very happy. I do hope Mrs. Elliott will make something of her!"

The next moment Mr. Hastings's good-by was ringing in her ears, and he was gone. Seating herself upon the stairs, and covering her face with her hands, Eugenia wept bitterly, and this was their parting.

One week later and at the same hour in the evening, Mr. Hastings sat in his sister's pleasant parlor, looking out upon the blue waters of the Hudson, and wondering why, as the time for his departure drew near, his heart should cling so fondly to the friends he was to leave behind. "I shall see them again if I live," he said, "and why this dread of bidding them farewell?"

At this moment his sister entered the room, bringing to him a letter from a rich old Texan bachelor, who was spending the summer with some friends in the vicinity of her home. It was directed to the "Guardians of Dora Deane," and asked permission to address her! He had seen her occasionally at Mrs. Elliott's house, had met her frequently in his morning rambles, and the heart which for forty-five years had withstood the charms of northern beauties and southern belles, was won by the modest little country girl, and he would make her his wife, would bear her to his luxurious home, where her slightest wish should be his law. With a curious smile upon her lip, Mrs. Elliott read this letter through, and then without a word to Dora, carried it to her brother, watching him while he read it, and smiling still more when she saw the flush upon his brow, and the unnatural light in his eye.

"Have you talked with Dora?" he said, when he had finished reading.

"No, I have not," answered his sister. "I thought I would leave that to you, for in case she should ask my advice, my fear of losing her might influence me too much."

"Louise" he exclaimed, leaning forward so that his hot breath touched her cheek, "you surely do not believe that Dora Deane cares aught for that old man. She is nothing but a child."

"She is seventeen next November," said Mrs. Elliott, "almost as old as Ella was when first you were engaged, and how can we tell how often she has thought of matrimony? Mr. Trevors is a man of unexceptionable character, and though old enough to be her father, he is immensely wealthy, and this, you know, makes a vast difference with some girls."

"But not with her—not with Dora Deane, I'm sure," he said. "Where is she? Send her to me, and I will see."

Dora's governess, who had accompanied them to the country, was sometimes very exacting, and this day she had been unusually cross, on account of her pupil's having failed in one or two lessons.

"I'll report you to Mr. Hastings, and see what he can do," she had said as she hurled the French Grammar back upon the table.

This threat Dora had forgotten, until told that Mr. Hastings had sent for her; then, fancying he wished to reprimand her, she entered the parlor reluctantly, and rather timidly took a seat upon an ottoman near the window, where he was sitting.

During Dora's residence with Mrs. Elliott, she had improved much, both in manner and personal appearance, and others than the Texan planter called her beautiful. The brownish hue, which her skin had acquired from frequent exposure, was giving way to a clearer and more brilliant complexion, while the peculiarly sweet expression of her deep blue eyes would have made a plain face handsome. But Dora's chief point of beauty lay in her hair—her beautiful hair of reddish brown. It had grown rapidly, fully verifying Alice's prediction, and in heavy shining braids was worn around her classically shaped head. And Dora sat there very still— demurely waiting for Mr. Hastings to speak, wondering if he would be severe, and at last laughing aloud when, in place of the expected rebuke, he asked if she knew Mr. Trevors.

"Excuse me," she said, as she saw his look of surprise, "Miss Johnson threatened to report me for indolence, and I thought you were going to scold me. Yes, I know Mr. Trevors. I rode horseback with him last week."

A pang shot through Mr. Hastings's heart, but he continued, holding up the letter, "He has sued for your hand. He asks you to be his wife. Will you answer yes?"

And trembling with excitement, he awaited her reply, while the revelation of a new light was faintly dawning upon him.

"Mr. Trevors wish me to be his wife—that old man?" she exclaimed, turning slightly pale. "It cannot be; let me read the letter." And taking it from his hand, she stood beneath the chandelier, and read it through, while Mr. Hastings scanned her face to see if he could detect aught to verify his fears.

But there was nothing, and breathing more freely, he said, as she returned to him the letter, "Sit down here, Dora, and tell me what I shall say to him. But first consider well, Mr. Trevors is rich, and if money can make you happy, you will be so as his wife."

Dora did not know why it was, but she could not endure to hear him talk in such a calm, unconcerned manner of what was so revolting. It grieved her, and laying her head upon the broad window seat, she began to cry. Mr. Hastings did not this time say "Dora, my child," for Louise had told him she was not a child, and he began to think so, too. Drawing his chair nearer to her, and laying his hand upon her hair, he said gently, "will you answer me?"

"Yes," she replied, somewhat bitterly. "If Mrs. Elliott is tired of me, I will go away, but not with Mr. Trevors. I would rather die than marry a man I did not love, because of his gold."

"Noble girl!" was Mr. Hastings's involuntary exclamation, but Dora did not hear it, and looking him in his face, she said, "do you wish me to marry him?"

"Never, never," he answered, "him, nor any one else!"

"Then tell him so," said she, unmindful of the latter part of the remark. "Tell him I respect him, but I cannot be his wife."

And rising to her feet she left the room, to wash away in another fit of tears the excitement produced by her first offer.

Very still sat Mr. Hastings when she was gone, thought after thought crowding fast upon him, and half bewildering him by their intensity. He could answer Louise's question now! It had come to him at last, sitting there with Mr. Trevor's letter in his hand, and Dora at his feet. Dora who was so dear to him, and his first impulse was to hasten to her side, and sue for the love she could not give the gray-haired Texan.

"And she will not tell me nay," he said. "It will come to her as it has to me—the love we have unconsciously borne each other."

He arose to leave the room, but meeting his sister in the door, he turned back, and seating himself with her in the deep recess of the window, he told her of the mighty love which had been so long maturing, and of whose existence he did not dream until another essayed to come between him and the object of his affection.

"And, Louise," he said, "Dora Deane must be mine. Are you willing— will you call her sister, and treat her as my wife?"

And Mrs. Elliott answered, "I know, my brother, that you love Dora Deane. I knew it when I asked you that question, and if to-night I tried to tease you by making you believe it possible that she cared for Mr. Trevors, it was to show you the nature of your feelings for her. And I am willing that it should be so—but not yet. You must not speak to her of love, until you return. Hear me out," she continued, as she saw in him a gesture of impatience, "Dora is no longer a child—but she is too young to be trammeled with an engagement. And it must not be. You must leave her free till she has seen more of the world, and her mind is more mature."

"Free till another wins her from me," interrupted Mr. Hastings, somewhat bitterly; and his sister answered, "I am sure that will never be, though were you now to startle her with your love she probably would refuse you."

"Never" he said emphatically; and Mrs. Elliott replied, "I think she would. She respects and admires you, but as you have looked upon her as a child, so in like manner has she regarded you as a father, or, at least the husband of Ella, and such impressions must have time to wear away. You would not take her with you, and it is better to leave her as she is. I will watch over her and seek to make her what your wife ought to be, and when you return she will be older, will be capable of judging for herself, and she will not tell you no. Do you not think my reasoning good?"

"I suppose it is," he replied, "though it is sadly at variance with my wishes. Were I sure no one would come between us, I could more easily follow your advice, and were it not that I go for her I would give up my journey at once, and stay where I could watch and see that no one came near."

"This I will do," said Mrs. Elliott, "and I fancy I can keep her safe for you."

Awhile longer they talked together, and their conversation was at last interrupted by the appearance of Dora herself who came to say good night.

"Come and sit by me, Dora," said Mr. Hastings, unmindful of his sister's warning glance. "Let me tell you what I wish you to do while I am gone," and moving along upon the sofa, he left a place for her at his side.

Scarcely was she seated when a servant appeared, wishing to speak with Mrs. Elliott, and Mr. Hastings was left alone with Dora, with whom he merely talked of what he hoped to find her when he returned. Once, indeed, he told her how often he should think of her, when he was far away, and asked as a keepsake a lock of her soft hair.

Three days afterwards he went to New York accompanied by Mrs. Elliott and Dora. He was to sail next morning, and wishing to see as much of the latter as possible, he felt somewhat chagrined when, soon after their arrival, his sister insisted upon taking her out for a time, and forbade him to follow. For this brief separation, however, he was amply repaid when, on the morrow, his sister, who went with him on board the vessel, placed in his hand at parting a daguerreotype, which she told him not to open till she was gone. He obeyed, and while Dora in his sister's home was weeping that he had left them, he in his state-room was gazing rapturously on a fair young face, which, looking out from its handsome casing, would speak to him many a word of comfort when he was afar on the lonely sea.



CHAPTER XVIII.

MR. HASTINGS IN INDIA.

It was night again in Calcutta, and in the same room where we first found him was Nathaniel Deane—not alone this time, for standing before him was a stranger—"an American," he called himself, and the old East Indiaman, when he heard that word, grasped again the hand of his unknown guest, whose face he curiously scanned to see if before he had looked upon it. But he had not, and pointing him to a chair, he too sat down to hear his errand. Wishing to know something of the character of the individual he had come so far to see, Mr. Hastings, for he it was, conversed awhile upon a variety of subjects, until, feeling sure that 'twas a noble, upright man, with whom he had to deal, he said, "I told you, sir, that I came from New York, and so I did; but my home is in Dunwood."

One year ago, and Uncle Nat would have started with delight at the mention of a place so fraught with remembrances of Dora, but Eugenia's last cruel letter had chilled his love, and now, when he thought of Dora, it was as one incapable of either affection or gratitude. So, for a moment he was silent, and Mr. Hastings, thinking he had not been understood, was about to repeat his remark, when Uncle Nat replied, "My brother's widow lives in Dunwood—Mrs. Richard Deane—possibly you may have seen her!" And with a slight degree of awakened interest, the little keen black eyes looked out from under their thick shaggy eyebrows at Mr. Hastings, who answered, "I know the family well. Dora is not now at home, but is living with my sister."

Many and many a time had Uncle Nat repeated to himself the name of Dora, but never before had he heard it from other lips, and the sound thrilled him strangely, bringing back in a moment all his olden love for one whose mother had been so dear. In the jet black eyes there was a dewy softness now, and in the tones of his voice a deep tenderness, as, drawing nearer to his guest, he said in a half whisper,

"Tell me of her—of Dora—for though I never saw her, I knew her mother."

"And loved her too," rejoined Mr. Hastings, on purpose to rouse up the old man, who, starting to his feet exclaimed, "How knew you that? You, whom I never saw until to-night! Who told you that I loved Fannie Deane? Yes, it is true, young man— true, though love does not express what I felt for her; she was my all—my very life, and when I lost her the world was a dreary blank. But go on—tell me of the child, and if she is like her mother. Though how should you know? You, who never saw my Fannie?"

"I have seen her," returned Mr. Hastings, "but death was there before me, and had marred the beauty of a face which once must have been lovely. Five years ago last January I found her dead, and at her side was Dora, sweetly sleeping with her arms around her mother's neck."

"You—you," gasped the old man, drawing near to Mr. Hastings—"you found them thus! I could kneel at your feet, whoever you may be, and bless you for coming here to tell me this; I never knew before how Fannie died. They never wrote me that, but go on and tell me all you know. Did Fannie freeze to death while in India I counted my gold by hundreds of thousands?"

Briefly Mr. Hastings told what he knew of Mrs. Deane's sad death, while the broad chest of Uncle Nat heaved with broken sobs, and the big tears rolled down his sunken cheeks.

"Heaven forgive me for tarrying here, while she was suffering so much!" he cried; "but what of Dora She did not die. I have written to her," and sent her many messages, bat never a word has she replied, save once"—here Uncle Nat's voice grew tremulous as he added, "and then she sent me this—look—'twas Fannie's hair," and he held to view a silken tress much like the one which lay next Howard Hastings's heart! "Oh, what a child it made of me, the first sight of this soft hair," he continued, carefully returning it to its hiding-place, without a word of the generous manner in which it had been paid for.

"Shall I tell him now?" thought Mr. Hastings, but Uncle Nathaniel spoke before him, and as if talking with himself, said softly, "Oh, how I loved her, and what a wreck that love has made of me. But I might have known it. Twenty-one years' difference in our ages was too great a disparity, even had my face been fair as John's. She was seventeen, and I was almost forty; I am sixty now, and with every year added to my useless life, my love for her has strengthened."

"Could you not transfer that love to her daughter? It might make you happier," suggested Mr. Hastings, and mournfully shaking his head, Uncle Nat replied, "No, no, I've tried to win her love so hard. Have even thought of going home, and taking her to my bosom as my own darling child—but to all my advances, she has turned a deaf ear. I could not make the mother love me—I cannot make the child. It isn't in me, the way how, and I must live here all alone. I wouldn't mind that so much, for I'm used to it now, but when I come to die, there will be nobody to hold my head, or to speak to me a word of comfort, unless God sends Fannie back to me in the dark hour, and who knows but He will?"

Covering his face with his hands, Uncle Nathaniel cried aloud, while Mr. Hastings, touched by his grief, and growing each moment more and more indignant, at the deception practised upon the lonesome old man, said slowly and distinctly: "Dora Deane never received your letter—never dreamed how much you loved her—never knew that you had sent her money, She has been duped—abused—and you most treacherously cheated by a base, designing woman! To tell you this, sir, I have come over land and sea! I might have written it, but I would rather meet you face to face—would know if you were worthy to be the uncle of Dora Deane!"

Every tear was dried, and bolt upright, his keen eyes flashing gleams of fire, and his glittering teeth ground firmly together, Nathaniel Deane sat, rigid and immovable, listening to the foul story of Dora's wrongs, till Mr. Hastings came to the withholding of the letter, and the money paid for Fannie's hair. Then, indeed, his clenched fists struck fiercely at the empty air, as if Eugenia had been there, and springing half way across the room, he exclaimed, "The wretch! The fiend! The beast! The Devil! What shall I call her? Help me to some name which will be appropriate."

"You are doing very well, I think," said Mr. Hastings, smiling in spite of himself at this new phase in the character of the excited man, who, foaming with rage, continued to stalk up and down the room, setting his feet upon the floor with vengeance, and with every breath denouncing Eugenia's perfidy.

"Curse her!" he muttered, "for daring thus to maltreat Fannie's child, and for making me to believe her so ungrateful and unkind. And she once cut off her hair to buy a party dress with, you say," he continued, stopping in front of Mr. Hastings, who nodded in the affirmative, while Uncle Nat, as if fancying that the few thin locks, which grew upon his own bald head, were Eugenia's long, black tresses, clutched at them savagely, exclaiming, "The selfish jade! But I will be avenged, and Madam Eugenia shall rue the day that she dared thus deceive me. That mother, too, had not, it seems, been wholly guiltless. She was jealous of my Fannie—she has been cruel to my child. I'll remember that, too!" and a bitter laugh echoed through the room, as the wrathful old man thought of revenge.

But as the wildest storm expends its fury, so Uncle Nat at last grew calm, though on his dark face there were still traces of the fierce passion which had swept over it. Resuming his seat and looking across the table at Mr. Hastings, he said, "It is not often that old Nat Deane is moved as you have seen him moved to-night; but the story you told me set me on fire, and for a moment, I felt that I was going mad. But I am now myself again, and would hear how you learned all this."

In a few words, Mr. Hastings told of his foolish fancy for Eugenia, and related the circumstance of his having overheard her conversation at the hotel in Rochester.

"And Dora, you say, is beautiful and good," said Uncle Nat; "and I shall one day know her and see if there is in her aught like her angel mother, whose features are as perfect to me now as when last I looked upon them beneath the locust trees."

Bending low his head, he seemed to be thinking of the past, while Mr. Hastings, kissing fondly the picture of Dora Deane, laid it softly upon the table, and then anxiously awaited the result. Uncle Nathaniel did not see it at first, but his eye ere long fell upon it, and, with a cry like that which broke from his lips when first he looked on his dead Fannie's hair, he caught it up, exclaiming, "'Tis her—'tis Fannie—my long-lost darling, come back to me from the other world. Oh, Fannie, Fannie!" he cried, as if his reason were indeed unsettled, "I've been so lonesome here without you. Why didn't you come before?"

Again, for a time, he was silent, and Mr. Hastings could see the tears dropping upon the face of Dora Deane, who little dreamed of the part she was acting, far off in Hindostan. Slowly the reality dawned upon Uncle Nat, and speaking to Mr. Hastings, he said, "Who are you that moves me thus from one extreme to another, making me first a fury and then a child?"

"I have told you I am Howard Hastings," answered the young man, adding that the picture was not that of Fannie, but her child.

"I know—I know it," returned Uncle Nat, "but the first sight of it drove me from my senses, it is so like her. The same open brow, the same blue eyes, the same ripe lips, and more than all, the same sweet smile which shone on me so often 'mid the granite hills of New Hampshire. And it is mine," he continued, making a movement to put it away. "You brought it to me, and in return, if you have need for gold, name the sum, and it shall be yours, even to half a million."

Money could not buy that picture from Howard Hastings, and though it grieved him to do so, he said, very gently, "I cannot part with the likeness, Mr. Deane, but we will share it together until the original is gained."

Leaning upon his elbows and looking steadily at his visitor, Uncle Nathaniel said, "You have been married once?"

"Yes, sir," answered Mr. Hastings, while his countenance flushed, for he readily understood the nature of the questioning to which he was to be subjected.

"What was the name of your wife?" was the next query, and Mr. Hastings replied, "Ella Grey."

"Will you describe her?" said Uncle Nat, and almost as vividly as the features of Dora Deane were delineated by the artist's power, did Mr. Hastings portray by word the laughing blue eyes, the pale, childish face, the golden curls, and little airy form of her who had once slept upon his bosom as his wife.

"And did you love her, this Ella Grey?" asked Uncle Nat.

"Love her? Yes. But she is dead," answered Mr. Hastings, while Uncle Nat continued:

"And now if I mistake not, you love Dora Deane?"

"Yes, better than my life," said Mr. Hastings, firmly. "Have you any objections?"

"None whatever," answered Uncle Nat, "for, though you are a stranger to me, there is that in your face which tells me you would make my darling happy. But it puzzles me to know how, loving one as you say you did, you can forget and love another."

"I have not forgotten," said Mr. Hastings, sadly; "God forbid that I should e'er forget my Ella; but, Mr. Deane, though she was good and gentle, she was not suited to me. Our minds were wholly unlike; for what I most appreciated, was utterly distasteful to her. She was a fair, beautiful little creature, but she did not satisfy the higher, nobler feelings of my heart; and she, too, knew it. She told me so before she died, and spoke of a coming time when I would love another. She did not mention Dora, who then seemed like a child, but could she now come back to me, she would approve my choice, for she, too, loved Dora Deane."

"Have you told her this?" asked Uncle Nat—"told Dora how much you loved her?"

"I have not," was Mr. Hastings reply. "My sister would not suffer it until my return, when Dora will be more mature. At first I would not listen to this; but I yielded at last, consenting the more willingly to the long separation, when I considered that with Louise she was at least safe from Eugenia, and I hope, safe from any who might seek either to harm her, or win her from me."

"You spoke of having stopped in Europe on your way hither," said Uncle Nat. "How long is it since you left New York?"

"I sailed from there the latter part of June, almost ten months ago," was Mr. Hastings's answer, adding that, as he wished to visit some parts of Europe, and left home with the ostensible purpose of doing so, he had thought it advisable to stop there on his way, for he well knew that Mr. Deane, after learning why he had come, would be impatient to return immediately.

"Yes, yes; you are right," answered the old man. "I would go to- morrow if possible; but I shall probably never return to India, and I must make some arrangements for leaving my business in the hands of others. Were Dora still in Eugenia's power, I would not tarry a moment, I would sacrifice everything to save her, but as you say she is safe with your sister, and a few weeks' delay, though annoying to me, will make no difference with her. Do they know aught of this—those wretches in Dunwood?" he continued, beginning to grow excited.

"They suppose me to be in Europe, for to no one save my mother and sister, did I breathe a word of India," Mr. Hastings replied; and Uncle Nat rejoined, "Let them continue to think so, then. I would rather they should not suspect my presence in America until I meet them face to face and taunt them with their treachery. It shall not be long, either, before I do it. In less than a month, we are homeward bound—and then, Miss Eugenia Deane—we'll see!" and his hard fist came down upon the table, as he thought of her dismay when told that he stood before her.

But alas for Uncle Nat! The time was farther in the distance than he anticipated. The excitement of what he had heard, told upon a frame already weakened by constant toil and exposure in the sultry climate of India, and one week from the night of Mr. Hastings's arrival, the old man lay burning with fever, which was greatly augmented by the constant chafing at the delay this unexpected illness would cause. Equally impatient, Mr. Hastings watched over him, while his heart grew faint with hope deferred, as weeks, and even months, glided by; while vessel after vessel sailed away, leaving Uncle Nat prostrate and powerless to move. He had never been sick before in all his life, and his shattered frame was long in rallying, so that the summer, and the autumn and a part of the winter passed away, ere, leaning heavily on Mr. Hastings's arm, he went on board the ship which was to take him home—take him to Dora Deane, who had listened wonderingly to the story of her wrongs, told her by Mrs. Elliott at Mr. Hastings's request.

Indignant as she was at Eugenia, she felt more than repaid for all she had suffered, by the knowledge that Uncle Nat had always loved her; and many a cheering letter from her found its way to the bedside of the invalid, who laid each one beneath his pillow, beside the picture which Mr. Hastings suffered him to keep. More than once, too, had Dora written to Mr. Hastings kind, sisterly notes, with which he tried to be satisfied, for he saw that she was the same frank, ingenuous girl he had left, and from one or two things which she wrote, he fancied he was not indifferent to her. "She did not, at least, care for another," so Louise assured him. There was comfort in that, and during the weary days when their floating home lay, sometimes becalmed and sometimes tossed by adverse winds, he and Uncle Nat whiled away the tedious hours, by talking of the happiness which awaited them when home was reached at last.

During Mr. Deane's illness, Mr. Hastings had suggested that the annual remittance be sent to Dunwood, as usual, lest they should suspect that something was wrong, if it were withheld, and to this Uncle Nat reluctantly consented saying, as he did so, "It's the last dime they'll ever receive from me. I'll see her starve before my eyes, that girl Eugenia."

Still, as the distance between himself and the young lady diminished, he felt a degree of satisfaction in knowing that the draft had as usual been sent, thus lulling her into a state of security with regard to himself. Rapturously he talked of the meeting with Dora, but his eye was fiery in its expression when he spoke of that other meeting, when Eugenia would be the accused and he the wrathful accuser. The invigorating sea breeze did him good, and when at last the Cape was doubled and he knew that the waves which clashed against the ship, bore the same name with those which kissed the shores of America, he stood forth upon the deck, tall and erect as ever, with an eager, expectant look in his eye, which increased as he each day felt that he drew nearer and Bearer to his home—and Dora Deane.



CHAPTER XIX.

THE MEETING.

One bright, beautiful summer morning, a noble vessel was sailing slowly into the harbor of New York. Groups of passengers stood upon her deck, and a little apart from the rest were Uncle Nat and Howard Hastings, the former gazing eagerly towards the city, which had more than doubled its population since last he looked upon it.

"We are almost home," he said to his companion, joyfully, for though the roof that sheltered his childhood was further to the northward, among the granite hills, he knew that it was America, the land of his birth, which lay before him, and as a child returns to its mother after a long and weary absence, So did his heart yearn towards the shore they were fast approaching.

A crowd of memories came rushing over him, and when, at last, the plank was lowered, he was obliged to lean upon the stronger arm of Howard Hastings, who, procuring a carriage, bade the hackman drive them at once to his sister's. For some time Mrs. Elliott and Dora had been looking for the travelers, whose voyage was unusually long, and they had felt many misgivings lest the treacherous sea had not been faithful to its trust; but this morning they were not expecting them, and wishing to make some arrangements for removing to her country seat on the Hudson, Mrs. Elliott had gone out there and taken Dora with her. Mr. Hastings's first impulse was to follow them, but knowing that they would surely be home that night, and remembering how weary Uncle Nathaniel was, he wisely concluded to remain in the city and surprise them on their return.

Like one in a dream, Uncle Nat walked from room to room, asking every half hour if it were not almost time for the train, and wondering if Dora would recognize him if no one told her who he was. Scarcely less excited, Mr. Hastings, too, waited and watched; and when, just at dark, he heard the door unclose, and Dora's voice in the hall without, the rapid beating of his heart was distinctly audible.

"That's her—that's Dora. I'll go to her at once," said Uncle Nat; but Mr. Hastings kept him back, and Dora passed on to her room, from which she soon returned, and they could hear the sound of her footsteps upon the stairs, as she drew near.

With his face of a deathlike whiteness, his lips apart, and the perspiration standing thickly about them, Uncle Nat sat leaning forward, his eyes fixed upon the door through which she would enter. In a moment she stood before them—Dora Deane—but far more lovely than Mr. Hastings had thought or dreamed. Nearly two years before, he had left her a school girl, as it were, and now he found her a beautiful woman, bearing about her an unmistakable air of refinement and high breeding. She knew him in an instant, and with an exclamation of surprised delight, was hastening forward, when a low, moaning cry, from another part of the room, arrested her ear, causing her to pause ere Mr. Hastings was reached. Uncle Nat had recognized her—knew that she was Dora and attempted to rise, but his strength utterly failed him and stretching out his trembling arms towards her, he said supplicatingly,"Me first, Dora me first."

It was sufficient, and Dora passed on with a welcoming glance at Mr. Hastings, who feeling that it was not for him to witness that meeting, glided noiselessly from the room in quest of his sister. Fondly the old man clasped the young girl to his bosom, and Dora could hear the whispered blessings which he breathed over her, and felt the hot tears dropping on her cheek.

"Speak to me, darling," he said at last; "let me hear your own voice assuring me that never again shall we be parted until your mother calls for me to come and be with her."

Looking lovingly up in to his face, Dora answered, "I will never leave nor forsake you, my father, but whereever your home may be there will mine be also."

Clasping her still closer in his arms, he said, "God bless you, my child, for so I will call you, and never, I am sure, did earthly parent love more fondly an only daughter than I love you, my precious Dora. I have yearned so often to behold you, to look into your eyes and hear you say that I was loved, and now that it has come to me, I am willing, almost, to die."

Releasing her after a moment, and holding her off at a little distance, he looked earnestly upon her, saying, as he did so, "Yes, you are like her—like your mother, Dora. Some, perhaps, would call you even more beautiful, but to me there is not in all the world a face more fair than hers."

In his delight at seeing her, he forgot for the time being how deeply she had been injured, and it was well that he did, for now nothing marred the happiness of this meeting, and for half an hour longer he sat with her alone, talking but little, but looking ever at the face so much like her whom he had loved and lost. At last, as if suddenly remembering himself, he said, "Excuse me, Dora; the sight of you drove every other thought from my mind, and I have kept you too long from one who loves you equally well with myself, and who must be impatient at the delay. He is worthy of you, too, my child," he continued, without observing how the color faded from Dora's cheek. "He is a noble young man, and no son was ever kinder to a father than he has been to me, since the night when I welcomed him to my home in India. Go to him, then, my daughter, and ask him to forgive my selfishness."

From several little occurrences, Dora had received the impression that a marriage between herself and Mr. Hastings would not be distasteful to his sister, but she had treated the subject lightly as something impossible. Still the thought of his loving another was fraught with pain, and when at last she knew that he was on the stormy sea, and felt that danger might befall him—when the faces of his mother and sister wore an anxious, troubled look as days went by, bringing them no tidings—when she thought it just possible that he would never return to them again, it came to her just as two years before it had come to him, and sitting alone in her pleasant chamber, she, more than once had wept bitterly, as she thought how much she loved him, and how improbable it was that he should care for her, whom he had found almost a beggar girl.

In the first surprise of meeting him she had forgotten everything, save that he had returned to them in safety, and her manner towards him then was perfectly natural; but now when Uncle Nat, after telling what he did, bade her go to him, she quitted the room reluctantly, and much as she wished to see him, she would undoubtedly have run away upstairs, had she not met him in the hall, together with Mrs. Elliott, who was going to pay her respects to Uncle Nat.

"I have not spoken with you yet, Dora," he said, taking her hand between both his. "Go in there," motioning to the room he had just left, "and wait until I present Louise to your uncle."

It was a habit of Dora's always to cry just when she wished to least, and now entering the little music room, she threw herself upon the sofa and burst into tears. Thus Mr. Hastings found her on his return, and sitting down by her side, he said gently, "Are you, then, so glad that I have come home?"

Dora would not, for the world, let him know her real feelings, and she answered, "Yes, I am glad, but I am crying at what Uncle Nat said to me."

Mr. Hastings bit his lip, for this was not exactly the kind of meeting he had anticipated, and after sitting an awkward moment, during which he was wishing that she had not answered him as she did, he said: "Will you not look up, Dora, and tell me how you have passed the time of my absence? I am sure you have improved it both from your own appearance and what Louise has told me."

This was a subject on which Dora felt that she could trust herself, and drying her tears, she became very animated as she told him of the books she had read, and the studies she had pursued. "I have taken music lessons, too," she added. "Would you like to hear me play?"

Mr. Hastings would far rather have sat there, watching her bright face, with his arm thrown lightly around her waist, but it was this very act, this touch of his arm, which prompted her proposal, and gracefully disengaging herself she crossed over to the piano, which was standing in the room, and commenced singing the old, and on that occasion very appropriate, song of "Home again, home again, from a foreign shore." The tones of her voice were rich and full, and they reached the ear of Uncle Nat, who in his eagerness to listen, forgot everything, until Mrs. Elliott said, "It is Dora singing to my brother. Shall we join them?"

Leading the way she ushered him into the music room, where, standing at Dora's side, he listened rapturously to her singing, occasionally wiping away a tear, called forth by the memories that song had awakened. The sight of the piano reminded him of Eugenia, and when Dora had finished playing, he laid his broad hand upon her shoulder and said, "Do you ever hear from them—the villains?"

Dora knew to whom he referred, and half laughing at his excited manner, she replied, as she stole a mischievous glance towards Mr. Hastings, "I received a letter from Eugenia not long since, and she seemed very anxious to know in what part of Europe Mr. Hastings was now traveling, and if he were ever coming home!"

"Much good his coming home will do her, the trollop!" muttered Uncle Nat, whispering incoherently to himself as he generally did, when Eugenia was the subject of his thoughts. "Don't answer the letter," he said at last, "or, if you do, say nothing of me; I wish to meet them first as a stranger."

Near the window Mr. Hastings was standing, revolving in his own mind a double surprise which he knew would mortify Eugenia more than anything else. But in order to effect this, Uncle Nat must remain incog. for some time yet, while Dora herself must be won, and this, with the jealous fears of a lover, he fancied might be harder to accomplish than the keeping Uncle Nat silent when in the presence of Eugenia.

"To-morrow I will see her alone, and know the worst," he thought and glancing at Dora, he felt a thrill of fear lest she, in all the freshness of her youth, should refuse her heart to one, who had called another than herself his wife.

But Ella Grey had never awakened a love as deep and absorbing as that which he now felt for Dora Deane, and all that night he lay awake, wondering how he should approach her, and fancying sometimes that he saw the cold surprise with which she would listen to him, and again that he read in her dark blue eyes the answer which he sought. The morrow came, but throughout the entire day, he found no opportunity of speaking to her alone, for Uncle Nat hovered near her side, gazing at her as if he would never tire of looking at her beautiful face. And Dora, too, had much to say to the old man, on this the first day after his return. With his head resting upon her lap, and her soft white hand upon his wrinkled brow, she told him of her mother, and the message she had left for him on the sad night when she died. Then she spoke of her Aunt Sarah, of Eugenia and Alice, and the wrath of Uncle Nat was somewhat abated, when he heard her pleading with him not to be so angry and unforgiving—

"I can treat Alice well, perhaps," he said, "for she, it seems, was never particularly unkind. And for your sake, I may forgive the mother. But Eugenia never!—not even if Fannie herself should ask me!"

Thus passed that day, and when the next one came, Uncle Nat still stayed at Dora's side, following her from room to room, and never for a moment leaving Mr. Hastings with her alone. In this manner nearly a week went by, and the latter was beginning to despair, when one evening as the three were together in the little music room, and Mrs. Elliott was with her mother, who was ill, it suddenly occurred to Uncle Nat that he had appropriated Dora entirely to himself, not giving Mr. Hastings a single opportunity for seeing her alone.

"I have wondered that he did not tell me he was engaged," he thought, "but how could he when I haven't given him a chance to speak to her, unless he did it before me; strange, I should be so selfish: but I'll make amends now—though I do hope he'll be quick!"

Rising up, he walked to the door, when thinking that Mr. Hastings might possibly expect him to return every moment, and so keep silent, he said, "I've been in the way of you young folks long enough, and I feel just as if something might happen if I left you together! Call me when you want me?" so saying he shut the door, and Mr. Hastings was alone at last with Dora Deane!

Both knew to what Uncle Nat referred, and while Dora fidgeted from one thing to another, looking at a book of prints wrong side up, and admiring the pictures, Mr. Hastings sat perfectly still, wondering why he was so much afraid of her. Two years before he felt no fear; but a refusal at that time would not have affected him as it would do now, for he did not then know how much he loved her. Greatly he desired that she should speak to him—look at him— or do something to break the embarrassing silence; but this Dora had no intention of doing, and she was just meditating the propriety of running away, when he found voice enough to say, "Will you come and sit by me, Dora?"

She had always obeyed him, and she did so now, taking a seat, however, as far from him as possible, on the end of the sofa. Still, when he moved up closely to her side, and wound his arm about her, she did not object, though her face burned with blushes, and she thought it quite likely that her next act would be to cry! And this she did do, when he said to her, "Dora, do you remember the night when Ella died?"

He did not expect any answer yet, and he continued, "She told me, you know, of a time when, though not forgetting her, I should love another—should seek to call another my wife. And, Dora, she was right, for I do love another, better, if it be possible, than I did my lost Ella. 'Tis four years since she left me, and now that I would have a second wife, will the one whom I have chosen from all the world to be that wife, answer me yes? Will she go back with me in the autumn to my long deserted home, where her presence always brought sunlight and joy?"

There was no coquetry about Dora Deane, and she could not have practised it now, if there had been. She knew Mr. Hastings was in earnest—knew that he meant what he said—and the little hand, which at first had stolen partly under her dress, lest he should touch it, came back from its hiding-place, and crept slowly along until his was reached, and there she let it lay! This was her answer, and he was satisfied!

For a long long time they sat together, while Mr. Hastings talked, not wholly of the future when she would be his wife, but of the New Year's morning, years ago, when he found her sleeping in the chamber of death—of the bright June afternoon, when she sat with her bare feet in the running brook—of the time when she first brought comfort to his home—of the dark, rainy evening, when the sight of her sitting in Ella's room, with Ella's baby on her lap, had cheered his aching heart—of the storm she had braved to tell him his baby was dying—of the winter night when he watched her through the window—of the dusky twilight when she sat at his feet in the little library at Rose Hill—and again in his sister's home on the Hudson, when he first knew how much he loved her. Of all these pictures so indelibly stamped upon his memory, he told her, and of the many, many times his thoughts had been of her when afar on a foreign shore.

And Dora, listening to him, did not care to answer, her heart was so full of happiness, to know that she should be thus loved by one like Howard Hastings. From a tower not far distant, a city clock struck twelve, and then, starting up, she exclaimed, "So late! I thought 'twas only ten! We have kept Uncle Nat too long. Will you go with me to him?" and with his arms still around her, Mr. Hastings arose to accompany her.

For half an hour after leaving the music-room Uncle Nat had walked up and down the long parlors, with his hands in his pockets, hoping Mr. Hastings would be brief, and expecting each moment to hear Dora calling him back! In this manner an hour or more went by, and then grown very nervous and cold (for it was a damp, chilly night, such as often occurs in our latitude, even in summer) he began to think that if Dora were not coming, a fire would be acceptable, and he drew his chair near to the register, which was closed. Wholly unaccustomed to furnaces, he did not think to open it, and for a time longer he sat wondering why he didn't grow warm, and if it took everybody as long to propose as it did Mr. Hastings.

It "didn't take me long to tell my love to Fanny," he said, "but then she refused, and when they accept, as Dora will, it's always a longer process, I reckon!"

This point satisfactorily settled, he began to wish the atmosphere of the room would moderate, and hitching in his chair, he at last sat directly over the register! but even this failed to warm him, and mentally concluding that although furnaces might do very well for New Yorkers, they were of no account whatever to an East India man," he fell asleep. In this situation, Dora found him.

"Poor old man," said she, "'twas thoughtless in me to leave him so long," and kissing his brow, she cried, "Wake up, Uncle Nat—wake up!" and Uncle Nat, rubbing his eyes with his red stiff fingers, and looking in her glowing face, thought "that something had happened!"



CHAPTER XX.

THE SPRINGS.

Mr. Hastings and Dora were engaged. Mrs. Hastings, the mother, and Mrs. Elliott, the sister, had signified their entire approbation, while Uncle Nat, with a hand placed on either head of the young people, had blessed them as his children, hinting the while that few brides e'er went forth as richly dowered as should Dora Deane. The marriage was not to take place until the following October, as Mr. Hastings wished to make some improvements at Rose Hill, which was still to be his home proper, though Uncle Nat insisted upon buying a very elegant house in the city for a winter residence, whenever they chose thus to use it. To this proposal Mr. Hastings made no objection, for though he felt that his greatest happiness would be in having Dora all to himself in Dunwood, he knew that society in the city would never have the effect upon her which it did upon Ella, for her tastes, like his own, were domestic, and on almost every subject she felt and thought as he did.

Immediately after his engagement he imparted to Uncle Nat a knowledge of the double surprise he had planned for Eugenia, and the old gentleman at last consented, saying though, that "'twas doubtful whether he could hold himself together when first he met the young lady. Still with Mr. Hastings's presence as a check, he would try."

So it was arranged that in Dunwood, where Mr. Hastings's return was still unknown, Uncle Nat should pass as a Mr. Hamilton, whom Mr. Hastings had picked up in his travels. Four years of his earlier life had been spent in South America, and whenever he spoke of any particular place of abode it was to be of Buenos Ayres, where he had once resided. By this means he could the more easily learn for himself the character and disposition of his relatives, and feeling now more eager than ever to meet them, he here started with Mr. Hastings for Dunwood. It was morning when they reached there, and with a dark, lowering brow, he looked curiously at the house which his companion designated as Locust Grove. It was a pleasant spot, and it seemed almost impossible that it should be the home of a woman as artful and designing as Eugenia. About it now, however, there was an air of desertion. The doors were shut and the blinds closed, as if the inmates were absent.

On reaching Rose Hill, where he found his servants overwhelmed with delight at his unexpected return, Mr. Hastings casually inquired of Mrs. Leah if the Deanes were at home. A shadow passed over the old lady's face, and folding her arms, she leaned against the door and began: "I wonder now, if you're askin' after them the first thing! I don't know but they are well enough, all but Eugenia, I believe I never disliked anybody as I do her, and no wonder, the way she's gone on. At first she used to come up here almost every week on purpose to ask about you, though she pretended to tumble over your books, and mark 'em all up with her pencil. But when that scapegrace Stephen Grey came, she took another tack, and the way she and he went on was scandalous. She was a runnin' up here the whole time that he wasn't a streakin' it down there."

"Stephen Grey been here? When and what for?" interrupted Mr. Hastings, who, as his father-in-law, during his absence, had removed to Philadelphia, knew nothing of the family.

"You may well ask that," returned Mrs. Leah, growing very much excited as she remembered the trouble the fast young man had made her. "Last fall in shootin' time, he came here, bag, baggage, gun, dogs and all—said it didn't make a speck of difference, you being away—'twas all in the family, and so you'd a' thought, the way he went on, drinkin', swearin', shootin', and carousin' with a lot of fellers who stayed with him here a spell, and then, when they were gone, he took a flirtin' with Eugenia Deane, who told him, I'll bet, more'n five hundred lies about an old uncle that, she says, is rich as a Jew, and has willed his property to her and Alice."

"The viper!" muttered Uncle Nat to himself; and Mrs. Leah continued, "I shouldn't wonder if old Mr. Grey was gettin' poor, and Steve, I guess, would marry anybody who had money; but Lord knows I don't want him to have her, for though he he ain't an atom too good, I used to live in the family and took care of him when he was little. I should a' written about his carryin's on to Mrs. Elliott, only I knew she didn't think any too much of the Greys, and 'twould only trouble her for nothin'."

"But where are they now—Mrs. Deane and her daughters?" asked Mr. Hastings; and Mrs. Leah replied. "Gone to Avon Springs: and folks do say they've done their own work, and ate cold victuals off the pantry shelf ever since last November, so as to save money, to cut a swell. I guess Eugenia'll be mighty glad if that old uncle ever dies. For my part, I hope he won't! or, if he does, I hope he won't leave her a dollar."

"Not a dime!" thought Uncle Nat, who, not being supposed to feel interested in Eugenia Deane, had tried to appear indifferent, holding hard the while upon the rounds of his chair "to keep himself together."

Alone with Mr. Hastings, his wrath burst forth, but after a few tremendous explosions, he grew calm, and proposed that they too should go at once to Avon. "We shall then see the lady in all her glory," said he, "and maybe hear something about her old uncle, though you'll have to keep your eye on me, or I shall go off on a sudden, and shake her as a dog would a snake! We'll send for Mrs. Elliott and Dora to join us there," he continued; "it will be fun to bring them together, and see what Eugenia will do."

"I am afraid you could not restrain yourself," said Mr. Hastings; but Uncle Nat was sure he could, and after a few days they started for Avon, where "Miss Eugenia Deane, the heiress," was quite a belle.

For a long time after Mr. Hastings's departure for Europe, she had remained true to him, feeding on the remembrance of his parting words, that "he had more reasons for remembering her than she supposed;" but when, as months went by, he sent her neither letter, paper nor message, she began to think that possibly he had never entertained a serious thought concerning her, and when Stephen Grey came, she was the more ready to receive his attentions, and forgive his former neglect. He was a reckless, unprincipled fellow, and feeling this time rather pleased with the bold dashing manner of Eugenia, backed as it was by the supposed will of Uncle Nat, he made some advances, which she readily met, making herself and him, as Mrs. Leah had said, "perfectly ridiculous." When he left Dunwood he went west, telling her playfully, that, "if he found no one there who suited him better than she, he would the next summer meet her at Avon, and perhaps propose! He was disgusted with Saratoga, Newport, Nahant, and all those stupid places," he said, "and wished to try something new."

To spend several weeks at Avon, therefore, was now Eugenia's object. She had succeeded in coaxing her mother to withhold from Dora the thousand dollars, a part of which was safely invested for their own benefit, but this alone would not cover all their expenses, for Mrs. Deane, growing gay and foolish as she grew older, declared her intention of going to Avon also. "The water would do her good." she said, "and 'twas time she saw a little of society."

To this plan Eugenia did not particularly object, for it would indicate wealth, she thought, for the whole family to spend the summer at a watering place. Still it would cost a great deal, and though Uncle Nat's remittance came at the usual time, they did not dare to depend wholly upon that, lest on their return there should be nothing left with which to buy their bread. In this emergency, they hit upon the expedient of dismissing their servant, and starving themselves through the winter and spring, for the purpose of making a display in the summer; and this last they were now doing. Eugenia fluttered like a butterfly, sometimes in white satin, sometimes in pink, and again in embroidered muslin; while her mother, a very little disgusted with society, but still determined to brave it through, held aside her cambric wrapper and made faces over three glasses of spring water in the morning, drowned herself in a hot bath every other day, rode twice a day in crowded omnibuses to and from the springs, through banks of sand and clouds of dust, and sat every evening in the heated parlors with a very red face, and a very tight dress, wondering if everybody enjoyed themselves as little in society as she did, and thinking ten dollars per week a great deal to pay for being as uncomfortable as she was!

For her disquietude, however, she felt in a measure repaid when she saw that Eugenia was the most showy young lady present, and managed to keep about her a cross-eyed widower, a near-sighted- bachelor, a medical student of nineteen, a broken-down merchant, a lame officer, a spiritualist, and Stephen Grey! This completed the list of her admirers, if we except a gouty old man, who praised her dancing, and would perhaps have called her beautiful, but for his better half, who could see nothing agreeable or pleasing in the dashing belle. True to his promise, Stephen Grey had met her there, and they were in the midst of quite a flirtation, when Mr. Hastings and Uncle Nat arrived; the latter registering his name as Mr. Hamilton; and taking care soon after to speak of Buenos Ayres, as a place where he formerly lived. The ruse was successful, and in less than half an hour, it was known through the house, that "the singular looking old gentleman was a South American, a bachelor, and rich undoubtedly, as such men always were!"

The Deanes were that afternoon riding with Stephen Grey, and did not return until after supper, a circumstance which Eugenia greatly lamented when she learned that their numbers had been increased by the arrival of an elegant looking stranger from New York, together with an old South American, whose name was Hamilton. The name of the other Eugenia's informant did not know, for he had not registered it, but "he was a splendid looking man," she said, and with more than usual care, Eugenia dressed herself for the evening, and between the hours of eight and nine, sailed into the parlor with the air of a queen.

From his window in an upper chamber Uncle Nat had seen the ladies, as they returned from their ride; and when Mr. Hastings, who at that time was absent from the room, came back to it, he found the old gentleman hurriedly pacing the floor and evidently much excited.

"I've seen her," said he, "the very one herself— Eugenia Deane! I knew her mother in a moment, and I knew her too, by her evil eyes. I could hardly refrain from pouncing upon her, and I believe I did shake my fist at her! But it's over now," he continued, "and I am glad I have seen her, for I can meet her and not betray myself; though, Hastings, if at any time I am missing, you may know that I've come up here to let myself off, for my wrath must evaporate somehow."

Feeling confident that he could trust him, Mr. Hastings ere long accompanied him to the parlor, where his gentlemanly manners, and rather peculiar looks procured for him immediate attention; and when Eugenia entered the room, he was conversing familiarly with some gentlemen whose notice she had in vain tried to attract. At a little distance from him and nearer the door was Mr. Hastings, talking to Stephen Grey. Eugenia did not observe him until she was directly at his side, then, turning pale, she altered an exclamation of surprise, while he, in his usual polite, easy manner, offered his hand, first to her mother, and then to herself and Alice, saying, in reply to their many inquiries as to when he returned, that he reached Dunwood a few days before, and finding they were all at Avon, had concluded to follow. At this remark the pallor left Eugenia's cheek, and was succeeded by a bright glow, for "Mr. Hastings must feel interested in her, or he would not have followed her there;" and the black eyes, which a few hours before had smiled so bewitchingly upon Stephen Grey, now shone with a brighter lustre, as she talked with Mr. Hastings of his European tour, asking him why he had stayed so long, and telling him how natural it seemed to have him home once more.

"By the way," she continued, "they say there is an old South American here—a queer old fellow—did he come with you?"

"Yes," answered Mr. Hastings, glancing towards Uncle Nat, whose eyes had never for a moment lost sight of Eugenia; "I found him in my travels, and liking him very much, brought him home with me. Allow me to introduce you, for though rather eccentric, he's a fine man, and quite wealthy, too."

"Wealth is nothing! I wouldn't think any more of him for that," returned Eugenia, taking Mr. Hastings's arm, and advancing toward Uncle Nat, whose left hand grasped tightly one side of his blue coat, while the other was offered to Eugenia.

With a slight shudder, he dropped her hand as soon as it was touched; then, pressing his fingers together so firmly, that his long nails left marks in his flesh, he looked curiously down upon her, eyeing her furtively as if she had been a wild beast. Nothing of all this escaped Eugenia, who, feeling greatly amused at what she thought to be his embarrassment, and fancying he had never before conversed with so fine a lady as herself, she commenced quizzing him in a manner excessively provoking to one of his excitable temperament. Lifting up first one foot, and then the other, he felt his patience fast giving way, and at last, as her ridicule became more and more marked, he could endure it no longer, but returned it with a kind of sarcasm far more scathing than anything she could say. Deeply chagrined, and feeling that she had been beaten with her own weapons, she was about to leave the "old bear" as she mentally styled him, when remembering that he was Mr. Hastings's friend, and, as such worthy of more respect than she had paid him, she said playfully, "I have a mother and sister here, whom you may like better than you do me. I'll introduce them," and tripping across the room, she made known her wishes to her mother, adding that "there was a chance for her, as he was an old bachelor."

Long and searchingly the old man looked in the face of the widow, thinking of the time when she had called Fannie her sister; but of this Mrs. Deane did not know; and remembering what Eugenia had said, she blushed crimson, and as soon as possible, stole away, leaving him alone with Alice, with whom he was better pleased, talking with her so long that Eugenia, who was hovering near Mr. Hastings, began to laugh at what she called her sister's conquest. Nothing had escaped Mr. Hastings, and thinking this a good opportunity for rebuking the young lady, he spoke of Mr. Hamilton in the highest terms, saying that, "he should consider any disrespect paid to his friend a slight to himself." This hint was sufficient, and wishing to make amends for her rudeness, Eugenia ere long sought the stranger, and tried to be very agreeable; but there was no affinity between them, and to Mr. Hastings, who was watching them, they seemed much like a fierce mastiff, and a spiteful cat, impatient to pounce upon each other!

During the evening the three were standing together, and Eugenia suddenly remembering Dora, asked Mr. Hastings how she was, saying she seldom wrote to them, and when she did, her letters amounted to nothing. With a warning glance at Uncle Nat, whose face grew very dark, Mr. Hastings replied that she was well, and had, he thought, improved under his sister's care.

"I am glad," said she, "for there was need enough of improvement. She was so unrefined, always preferring the kitchen to the parlor, that we couldn't make anything of her."

A sudden "Ugh!" from Uncle Nat stopped her, and she asked him what was the matter.

"Nothing, nothing," said he, wiping his face, "only I am getting pretty warm, and must cool off."

The next moment he was gone, and when, at a late hour, Mr. Hastings repaired to his room, he knew by the chairs, boots, brushes, and books scattered over the floor, that Uncle Nat, snoring so loudly in bed, had cooled off!

"I had to hold on, to keep from falling to pieces right before her," he said, next morning, in speaking of the last night's adventure; "but I shall do better next time. I am getting a little accustomed to it."

And he was right, for only twice during the entire day and evening did he disappear from the room. Once when Eugenia sat down to play, and once when he heard her telling Stephen Grey, who asked her to ride again, that, "he really must excuse her, as she had a letter to write to Uncle Nat, who undoubtedly wondered why she was so tardy. And you know," she said, "it won't do to neglect him!"