Dora Deane

Dora Deane

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Title: Dora Deane
Author: Mary J. Holmes
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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,