Uncle Titus and His Visit to the Country | Page 4

in the pillows, vainly
striving to choke down her tears and sobs. It seemed as if her heart
must break. The Major lay back on his pillow, white and still, with a
peaceful smile on his calm face. Dora could not understand it, could not
take it in, but she knew it. Her father was gone to join her mother in
heaven.
In the morning her father had not come as usual to her bedside to
awaken her, so when at last she opened her eyes, she went to seek him,
and she found him still in bed, and lying so quiet that she seated herself
quite softly by his side, that she might not disturb him.
Presently the servant came up with the breakfast, and looking through
the open door into the bed-room where Dora sat by her father's bed-side,
she called out in terror,
"Oh God, he is dead! I will call your aunt, child," and hurried away.
Dora's heart seemed cut in two by these words. She put her head upon
the pillow and sobbed and wept. Presently she heard her aunt come into
the room, and she raised her head and tried to control herself, for she
dreaded the scene that she knew was coming. And it came--cries and
sobs, loud groans and lamentations. Aunt Ninette declared that she
could never bear this terrible blow; she did not know which way to turn,
nor what to do first.
In the open drawer of the table by the side of the bed, lay several papers,
and as she laid them together, meaning to lock them up, she saw a letter
addressed to herself. She opened it and read as follows:
"Dear Sister Ninette,
"I feel that I shall shall soon leave you, but I will not talk to you about
it, for the sad time will come only too quickly. One only wish that I
have greatly at heart I now lay before you, and that is, that you will take

my child under your protection for as long as she may need your care. I
shall leave very little money behind me, but I beg you to employ this
little in teaching Dora something that will enable her, with God's help,
to support herself when she is old enough.
"Do not, my dear sister, give way to your grief; try to believe as I
believe, that God will always take our children under his care, when we
are obliged to leave them and can no longer provide for them ourselves.
Receive my heartfelt thanks for all the kindness you have shown to me
and my child. God will reward you for it all."
Aunt Ninette read and re-read these touching lines, and could not help
growing calmer as she read. She turned to the silently weeping Dora
with these words,
"Come, my child, your home henceforth will be with us. You and I will
try to remember that all is well with your father; otherwise we shall
break down under our sorrow."
Dora arose at once and prepared to follow her aunt, but her heart was
heavy within her; she felt as if all was over and she could not live much
longer.
As she came up the stairs behind her aunt, Aunt Ninette omitted for the
first time to caution her to step lightly, and indeed there was no need
now of the usual warning when they approached Uncle Titus' room, for
the little girl was so sad, so weighed down with her sorrow as she
entered her new home, that it seemed as if she could never again utter a
sound of childish merriment.
A little room under the roof, hitherto used as a store-room, was
changed into a bed-room for Dora, though not without some
complainings from Aunt Ninette. However, the furniture was brought
over from the Major's rooms, and after a slight delay, all was
comfortably arranged for the child.
When supper-time came, Dora followed her aunt, without a word, into
the dining-room, where they were joined by Uncle Titus, who however

seldom spoke, so deeply was he absorbed in his own thoughts. After
supper, Dora went up to her little room under the roof, and with her
face buried in her pillow, cried herself softly to sleep.
On the following morning she begged to be allowed to go over to look
once again at her father, and after some objection, her aunt agreed to go
with her, and they crossed the narrow street.
Dora took a silent farewell of her dear father, weeping all the time but
making no disturbance. Only when she again reached her little
bed-room, did she at last give way to her sobs without restraint, for she
knew that soon her good father would be carried away, and that