Dora Deane | Page 3

YEAR'S CALL.
It was New Year's morning, and over the great city lay the deep,
untrodden snow, so soon to be trampled down by thousands of busy
feet. Cheerful fires were kindled in many a luxurious home of the rich,
and "Happy New Year" was echoed from lip to lip, as if on that day
there were no aching hearts--no garrets where the biting cold looked in.
on pinching poverty and suffering old age--no low, dark room where
Dora and her pale, dead mother lay, while over them the angels kept
their tireless watch until human aid should come. But one there was
who did not forget--one about whose house was gathered every
elegance which fashion could dictate or money procure; and now, as
she sat at her bountifully-furnished breakfast table sipping her fragrant
chocolate, she thought of the poor widow, Dora's mother, for whom her
charity had been solicited the day before, by a woman who lived in the
same block of buildings with Mrs. Deane.
"Brother," she said, glancing towards a young man who, before the
glowing grate, was reading the morning paper, "suppose you make your
first call with me?"
"Certainly," he answered; "and it will probably be in some dreary attic
or dark, damp basement; but it is well, I suppose, to begin the New
Year by remembering the poor."
Half an hour later, and the crazy stairs which led to the chamber of
death were creaking to the tread of the lady and her brother, the latter of
whom knocked loudly for admission. Receiving no answer from within,
they at last raised the latch and entered. The fire had long since gone
out, and the night wind, as it poured down the chimney, had scattered

the cold ashes over the hearth and out upon the floor. Piles of snow lay
on the window sill, and a tumbler in which some water had been left
standing, was broken in pieces. All this the young man saw at a glance,
but when his eye fell upon the bed, he started back, for there was no
mistaking the rigid, stony expression of the upturned face, which lay
there so white and motionless.
"But the child--the child," he exclaimed, advancing forward--"can she,
too, be dead!" and he laid his warm hand gently on Dora's brow.
The touch aroused her, and starting up, she looked around for a
moment bewildered; but when at last she turned towards her mother,
the dread reality was forced upon her, and in bitter tones she cried,
"Mother's dead, mother's dead, and I am all alone! Oh! mother, mother,
come back again to me!"
The young man's heart was touched, and taking the child's little red
hands in his, he rubbed them gently, trying to soothe her grief; while
his sister, summoning the inmates from the adjoining room, gave orders
that the body should receive the necessary attention; then, learning as
much as was possible of Dora's history, and assuring her that she
should be provided for until her aunt came, she went away, promising
to return next morning and be present at the humble funeral.
That evening, as Dora sat weeping by the coffin in which her mother
lay, a beautiful young girl, with eyes of deepest blue, and locks of
golden hair, smiled a joyous welcome to him whose first New Year's
call had been in the chamber of death, and whose last was to her, the
petted child of fashion.
"I had almost given you up, and was just going to cry," she said, laying
her little snowflake of a hand upon the one which that morning had
chafed the small, stiff fingers of Dora Deane, and which now tenderly
pressed those of Ella Grey as the young man answered, "I have not felt
like going out today, for my first call saddened me;" and then, with his
arm around the fairy form of Ella, his affianced bride, he told her of the
cold, dreary room, of the mother colder still, and of the noble little girl,
who had divested herself of her own clothing, that her mother might be

warm.
Ella Grey had heard of such scenes before--had cried over them in
books; but the idea that she could do anything to relieve the poor, had
never entered her mind. It is true, she had once given a party dress to a
starving woman, and a pound of candy to a ragged boy who had asked
for aid, but here her charity ended; so, though she seemed to listen with
interest to the sad story, her mind was wandering elsewhere, and when
her companion ceased, she merely said, "Romantic, wasn't it."
There was a look of disappointment on the young man's face, which
was quickly observed by Ella, who attributed it to its