Dora Deane

Dora Deane

The Project Gutenberg EBook of Dora Deane, by Mary J. Holmes #4 in our series by Mary J. Holmes
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Title: Dora Deane
Author: Mary J. Holmes
Release Date: August, 2004 [EBook #6352] [Yes, we are more than one year ahead of schedule] [This file was first posted on November 29, 2002]
Edition: 10
Language: English
Character set encoding: ASCII
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DORA DEANE
OR
THE EAST INDIA UNCLE
BY
MRS. MARY J. HOLMES
_Author of "Tempest and Sunshine," "Meadow Brook," "Homestead on the Hillside," "The English Orphans," "Maggie Miller," etc._

DORA DEANE,
OR,
THE EAST INDIA UNCLE

CHAPTER I.
DORA AND HER MOTHER.
Poor little Dora Deane! How utterly wretched and desolate she was, as she crouched before the scanty fire, and tried to warm the little bit of worn-out flannel, with which to wrap her mother's feet; and how hard she tried to force back the tears which would burst forth afresh whenever she looked upon that pale, sick mother, and thought how soon she would be gone!
It was a small, low, scantily furnished room, high up in the third story of a crazy old building, which Dora called her home, and its one small window looked out on naught save the roofs and spires of the great city whose dull, monotonous roar was almost the only sound to which she had ever listened. Of the country, with its bright green grass, its sweet wild flowers, its running brooks, and its shady trees, she knew but little, for only once had she looked on all these things, and then her heart was very sad, for the bright green grass was broken, and the sweet wild flowers were trampled down, that a grave might be made in the dark, moist earth for her father, who had died in early manhood, leaving his wife and only child to battle with the selfish world as best they could. Since that time, life had been long and dreary to the poor widow, whose hours were well-nigh ended, for ere to-morrow's sun was risen, she would have a better home than that dreary, cheerless room, while Dora, at the early age of twelve, would be an orphan.
It was a cold December night, the last one of the year, and the wintry wind, which swept howling past the curtainless window, seemed to take a sadder tone, as if in pity for the little girl who knelt upon the hearthstone, and with the dim firelight flickering over her tear-stained face, prayed that she, too, might die, and not be left alone.
"It will be so lonely--so cold without my mother!" she murmured. "Oh, let me go with her; I cannot live alone."
"Dora, my darling," came faintly from the rude couch, and in an instant the child was at her mother's side.
Winding her arms fondly about the neck of her daughter, and pushing the soft auburn hair from off her fair, open brow, Mrs. Deane gazed long and earnestly upon her face.
"Yes, you are like me," she said at last, "and I am glad that it is so, for it may be Sarah will love you better when she sees in you a look like one who once called her sister. And should he ever return----"
She paused, while her mind went back to the years long ago--to the old yellow farmhouse among the New England hills--to the gray- haired man, who had adopted her as his own when she was written _fatherless_--to the dark-eyed girl, sometimes kind, and sometimes overbearing, whom she had called her sister, though there was no tie of blood between them. Then she thought of the red house just across the way, and of the three brothers, Nathaniel, Richard, and John. Very softly she repeated the name of the latter, seeming to see him again as he was on the day when, with the wreath of white apple blossoms upon her brow, she sat on the mossy bank and listened to his low spoken words of