THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES
 
 J)ORA. 
 
 Frontispiece
 
 D O E A. 
 
 BY 
 
 JULIA KAYANAGH, 
 
 AUTHOR OF 
 
 "NATHALIE," "ADELE," "QUEEN MAB," ETC., ETC. 
 
 niu$tt|ate<l btj (paston Jfay. 
 
 THREE VOLUMES COMPLETE IN ONE. 
 
 NEW YORK: 
 D. APPLETON AND COMPANY, 
 
 90, 92, & 94 GKAND STREET. 
 1 8G8.
 
 
 DOEA 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 The autumn wind swept with a long wail 
 over the broad bay of Dublin, then went and 
 died, still moaning, and lamenting, amongst 
 the distant mountains. In its occasional in- 
 tervals of silence, gusts of rain came and beat 
 against the window-panes with a pitiful, im- 
 patient sound, as if claiming to be heard, till 
 the clamorous wind rose again and drowned 
 every voice save its own tempestuous roar. 
 Dusk was gathering in Mrs. Courtenay's bare 
 parlor, and very chill and cheerless as well as 
 bare it would have looked on this evening, if 
 Dora Courtenay had not been standing by the 
 window with her work hanging loosely in her 
 hand, and her eyes fastened on the prospect of 
 sea and mist and cloudy mountains, which was 
 all that she could see through the slanting rain. 
 
 Mrs. Courtenay's parlor was, as we said, a 
 very bare one. The chairs, the table, the 
 black hearth, the low ceiling, sadly in need of 
 whitewash, the dull grey paper on the walls, 
 gave it a desolate look : but you forgot that 
 when you saw Dora. No room with a sun- 
 beam, or a Titian, or a Giorgione in it would 
 seem cold and desolate to you were it a garret ; 
 and no room in which this girl appeared could 
 fail being brightened by her gay young pres- 
 ence. She was not beautiful, she was not 
 handsome, she was not even very pretty — but 
 she was bright, wonderfully bright. If there 
 were such a thing as brown gold, Dora's hair 
 
 might be said to be of that color. If roses 
 ever bloomed on a maiden's cheek, they were 
 to be found on hers. If joy ever beamed in 
 mortal eyes, it surely shone in Dora's. When 
 you looked at ber you forgot her half-shabby 
 black dress, her mother's cold parlor — you 
 forgot even that Dora was young, and had a 
 charming figure — you forgot all save the shin- 
 ing hair and the happy eyes, and the genial 
 smile and the young warm voice which matched 
 with them so well; and these you remembered 
 for evermore. 
 
 " I can't stand this, you know," suddenly 
 said Dora, flinging down her work ; " I must 
 see if Paul is coming." 
 
 Mrs. Courtenay, who was gently falling 
 asleep in her arm-chair, awoke with a start : 
 but before her remonstrative, " Don't get wet," 
 was fairly uttered, the bright head and the 
 brighter face of Dora had passed through the 
 parlor door, and the parlor itself looked very 
 much like a cellar whence a sunbeam has de- 
 parted. 
 
 "She is so quick," said Mrs. Courtenay, -till 
 amazed and a little plaintive. "I always do 
 feel for hens who hatch ducks' ej 
 
 This remark was directed to her sister-in- 
 law, Mrs. Luan. Very different of aspect were 
 these two ladies. Mrs. Courtenay was a charm- 
 ing lady of sixty. She had the whitest hair, 
 the mildest blue eyes, the pleasantesl Bmile, 
 and the softest plump hands a lady of 
 over had. She was French by birth and Irish
 
 DORA. 
 
 by marriage ; and she spoke English with a 
 pretty French accent, and French with, an 
 equally pretty English accent ; and was inno- 
 cent and delightful in either language. 
 
 Mrs. Luan, her late husband's sister, was a 
 square, low-built woman. She had a dull, com- 
 monplace face, dingy in color, a dull brown eye 
 with a heavy lid, a low narrow forehead and a 
 thick indistinct utterance. Nature had been 
 very niggardly to this lady, and Fortune had 
 been very stingy to both sisters-in-law. The 
 little cottage in which they resided was one of 
 the plainest near Dublin ; their cook and maid- 
 of-all-work was a diminutive girl of thirteen 
 called Peggy, their furniture would not have 
 fetched twenty pounds at an auction. They 
 dressed very simply, made fires at the latest 
 extremity, and, when they were alone, never 
 burned more than one tallow candle. 
 
 They were widows, and we dare not say how 
 slender was their joint income. Mrs. Luan 
 had a son whom she had penuriously brought 
 up to his present position of medical student, 
 and Mrs. Courtenay's step-son Paul was an em- 
 bryo barrister ; and then there was Dora to 
 dress and educate. How all this was done, 
 nor yet how far it was done, was one of the 
 miracles which mothers daily accomplish, 
 whilst the world looks on, and takes it all as a 
 matter of course. 
 
 Brightness of intellect was not Mrs. Luan's 
 gift. She took time to ponder over Mrs. 
 Courtenay's proposition concerning hens and 
 ducks' eggs, then she said in her thick, hesi- 
 tating voice, 
 
 " Do you think so ? " 
 
 After having uttered this profound and ori- 
 ginal remark, she seemed startled at her own 
 daring, and relapsed into sudden silence. 
 
 Mrs. Courtenay sighed, turned up her eyes, 
 expanded her hands, and shook her head hope- 
 lessly. 
 
 " It's no use arguing with her, poor soul," 
 she said, half aloud. " She's so — you know." 
 
 This speech Mrs. Luan so far understood, 
 that she made no comment upon it. She took 
 her intellectual inferiority, as she took her 
 poverty and her plainness, for granted. So 
 she remained very quiet in her shady part of 
 the room, thinking of and brooding over her 
 life, after her own fashion. 
 
 " I should like a light, Mrs. LuaD," said Mrs. 
 Courtenay. 
 
 Mrs. Luan replied calmly, 
 
 "Candles are a halfpenny dearer in the 
 pound this week." 
 
 Mrs. Courtenay sighed — nature had given 
 her a liberal, prodigal heart — but she did not 
 attempt a remonstrance; she remembered, 
 however, her youth in a gay French home, 
 where wax lights were of no account, and 
 where the saloon mirrors flashed like a sheet 
 of light in their brilliant glow, and she sighed 
 again, Mrs. Luan thought, in the mean- 
 while : 
 
 " We burn a candle a night, eight a week, 
 Sundays included. Four times eight thirty- 
 two; five pounds of candles, and two over 
 every month ; that's more than twopence half- 
 penny a month dearer than last autumn. "We 
 must light the candle later." 
 
 And made happy by this mental calcula- 
 tion, she sat with her hands folded on her lap, 
 content to remain thus, spite the increasing 
 darkness, for the sake of saving an inch of 
 tallow. 
 
 "That child will be quite wet," said Mrs. 
 Courtenay, plaintively, after another while ; 
 "you should have told her not to go, Mrs. 
 Luan." 
 
 Mrs. Luan did not answer, she was accus- 
 tomed to that too. She was House of Com- 
 mons in this little household, perhaps because, 
 thanks to her power of management, she held 
 the strings of the purse. Mrs. Courtenay, her 
 constitutional sovereign, snubbed and coaxed 
 her by turns, and blamed her not ill-natured- 
 ly, but as a matter of course, for everything ;
 
 DORA AND HER BROTHER RAUL. 
 
 Dora, her prime minister, tried every now and 
 then to carry it with a high hand ; and her 
 son John, and her nephew Paul, twitted and 
 flouted her like saucy young members, and 
 were as helpless as any brilliant minority at 
 the mercy of a stubborn majority ever will be. 
 Mrs. Luan was impenetrable to blame, and 
 coaxing, and ridicule. She was thick-skinned ; 
 made armor-proof against all such shafts by 
 provident Nature. With perfect equanimity 
 she now heard herself blamed for Dora's sin, 
 and after awhile she even said, very calmly : 
 
 " How hard it is raining ! " 
 
 " Just like her ! " exclaimed Mrs. Courtenay, 
 with gentle exasperation. " She lets the child 
 go out, and then she says, ' How bard it is 
 raining.' You would not let John go, Mrs. 
 Luan." 
 
 Now Mrs. Luan, though patient, was, like 
 many a patient animal, endowed with a weapon 
 of defence. This was her voice ; a heavy 
 buzzing, indistinct voice, which paused, and 
 stammered, and hesitated, till the conquered 
 listener would buy silence at any price. So, 
 whenever she was driven into a corner, she 
 roused herself, and talked her enemy down. 
 
 " I have nothing to do with the rain," she 
 began, in her buzzing fashion. 
 
 " Don't," entreated Mrs. Courtenay, becom- 
 ing alarmed. 
 
 But when Mrs. Luan had begun buzzing, 
 who could stop her ? Mrs. Courtenay, folding 
 her hands in her lap, let Mrs. Luan go on. 
 This lady from the rain diverged into her hus- 
 band's last illness ; then, having buzzed 
 through that, she made a pleasant diversion 
 into the world of fancy by wondering how 
 people felt when they were dead. Thence 
 she went off to butcher's meat, and having 
 worried her lively little sister-in-law for ten 
 minutes, she kindly dropped her, much the 
 worse for the infliction, and rolled herself back 
 into her habitual citadel of silence, feeling, 
 with the same instinct which had suggested 
 
 her system of defence, that she w r as safe there 
 for the rest of the evening. 
 
 In the meanwhile, Dora was standing in a 
 dilapidated summer-house at the end of the 
 garden, watching for her brother's return. 
 The cottage rented by Mrs. Courtenay stood 
 on a narrow promontory of heath, with a road 
 on either side. The front door faced the 
 Dublin road, and the apex of the triangular 
 garden gave egress on another road, long and 
 winding, which looked as if it passed forever 
 through heath and mountain, but which in 
 reality was within five minutes of the railway 
 station. With a shawl around her, and stand- 
 ing within the shelter of the summer-house, 
 Dora, whose look could command the whole 
 sweep of the road through the grated door, 
 watched and waited. But the wind moaned, 
 the rain drifted gustily, the hour at which the 
 train was due went by, and still Paul came 
 not. Night darkened around the mount 
 the rain ceased, the wind cleared away a few 
 clouds from the sky, and here and there a 
 star glimmered, and still the grey road showed 
 no tall figure approaching, and echoed to no 
 young firm step. Had anything happened to 
 him ? Had there been a railway collision ? 
 Had he been waylaid and murdered? But 
 not in vain had Dora bright hair, and happy 
 eyes, and a genial smile. These gloomy, mor- 
 bid fancies only passed athwart her mind like 
 clouds across a clear sky. She shook her 
 head defiantly at them, and bade them begone. 
 
 " I will not believe^ you," she told them. 
 " Paul has gone, like the knight or the prince 
 in the fairy tale, to the dangerous castle or 
 the perilous wood, and, like him, he will re- 
 turn triumphant. There is no trial Paul can- 
 not overcome; there is no heart Paul cannot 
 win. He was made to prevail and be king. 
 Since he stays so long, 'tis sine proof of vic- 
 tory, and if he comes by the night-train, why, 
 I shall let him in, and none shall be the 
 wiser."
 
 DORA. 
 
 The wind might blow, the raiu might fall — 
 Dora, whilst she had such thoughts, could not 
 help feeling happy. She was ambitious, not 
 for herself, but for her brother. She could sit 
 and dream about him, with the tender folly 
 of the young, and never feel that it was folly. 
 There was no success Paul was not to achieve, 
 no destiny was too great for Paul, and thus 
 little by little it came to pass that he was the 
 hero of his sister's life. 
 
 That life had been such as most girls lead ; 
 a still, narrow path, with a boundless world 
 around it, dangerously alluring. Such as it 
 was, it contented her. She was satisfied with 
 the seclusion which her poverty commanded, 
 with the society of her friends, with studies 
 which to her were no pastimes, but serious 
 pursuits, and with such relaxations as an old 
 cracked spinet and her flowers afforded. All 
 this sufficed her, for she had Paul — Paul who 
 was to be so great a man, the honor and the 
 stay of his family. When a young girl has 
 such a thought as this, it matters little what 
 dresses she wears, or what sort of a house she 
 lives in. She has an enchanted tower, whence 
 6he views the nether world with calm indiffer- 
 ence. Who dare pity, and who would not 
 envy her, till truth comes and knocks at the 
 door, claiming admittance in a voice that will 
 not be denied ? 
 
 CIIAPTER n. 
 
 But Paul's journey was a secret as yet, so, 
 with another look up the road, Dora went 
 back to the cottage through the wet garden. 
 As she reached the parlor she heard the voice 
 of her cousin, John Luan, talking within. At 
 once she broke in, bright and joyous. 
 
 "Ob, you faithless John, where have you 
 been till this hour V " she cried. " Tell me 
 directly." 
 
 A very good-looking young man, with a 
 good-natured face, very like Dora's in all save 
 
 its brightness, turned round on hearing this 
 imperious mandate, and looked at his cousin 
 with an unmistakable adorer look. "Slave" 
 was stamped on his aspect, and no less legibly 
 was "queen " written on Dora's. 
 
 " I have been dissecting," he began. 
 
 " Don't, John," interrupted Mrs. Courtenay, 
 shivering. 
 
 "Bless you, mamma," remarked Dora, 
 coolly, " John would dissect us all if he had us." 
 
 John had never much to say for himself, 
 but when he fell into the hands of this bright- 
 haired tormentor he became helpless. 
 
 " Now, Dora, you know I can't r " he said. 
 
 " Can't dissect ? " she suggested. " Then 
 give up your profession, and let there be an 
 end of it," she kindly added. 
 
 A sigh, verging on a groan, expressed John's 
 mental sufferings. 
 
 "Take pattern on Paul," she resumed. 
 "He means to be Grattan, or Chatham, or 
 Demosthenes. Why, don't you mean to be 
 something ? Now, mamma, please not to in- 
 terfere. I want to make something of John, 
 but if I am interfered with how can I ? " 
 
 John groaned again, yet did not seem to be 
 very miserable. 
 
 " Yes, I know you would dissect me," said 
 Dora, shaking her bright head ; " but you shall 
 not have the chauce, you little wretch ! " 
 
 Dora Courtenay had a graceful young figure, 
 but she was not a fine woman, and John Luan 
 was a remarkably fine young man. Yet little 
 wretch she had called him since they were 
 children, and it was the ouly part of her teaz- 
 ing which Mrs. Luan could never endure. She 
 now showed such unequivocal symptoms of 
 buzzing, that Dora, much alarmed, rose and 
 said quickly, 
 
 " I meant a big wretch, aunt. And now let 
 us have tea, since Paul is not coming." 
 
 To make tea was Dora's duty. She began 
 the process by peremptorily ordering John 
 Luan to cut some bread and butter, kindly
 
 MRS. LUAN AND HER SON. 
 
 adding an admonition concerning the wisdom 
 of pinning a cloth bib-wise before him, and not 
 buttering his coat instead of the bread ; after 
 which, the diminutive servant having brought 
 up the tray, Dora sat behind an old-fashioned 
 tea-urn, and looked through the curling 
 wreaths of steam, like a bright young Hebe, 
 with the ethereal vapors of Olympus around 
 her. It was a very plain meal. Tbe tea was 
 three shillings a pound, the butter was Irish 
 butter, and therefore could not be bad, but 
 had it come from a cheese country, John Luan 
 would have found it delicious, and all China 
 could not have matched the flavor of that mild 
 Congou. 
 
 He sat and ate through a plateful of bread 
 and butter, and drank through seven cups of 
 tea — looking all the time at that bright girl 
 before him, and meekly enduring such shafts 
 as it pleased her saucy little tongue to pierce 
 him with. 
 
 Dora could not help being aware of her 
 cousin's intellectual inferiority, and she was 
 not so perfect as not to take advantage of it 
 now and then. To make up for this, indeed, 
 she gifted him, like a kind fairy, with some 
 imaginary graces. He was good-natured, she 
 made him high-hearted; he was careless of 
 danger, she made him brave ; but unluckily 
 she forgot to feel more than a moderate regard 
 for the owner of these virtues. The crown- 
 gift of her affection was wanting. 
 
 John needed to use no such magic powers, 
 ne had no imagination, and could not conceive 
 another Dora than the one he knew. With 
 her he was quite satisfied. He was in that 
 happy stage of love when to see and hear the 
 beloved object is sufficient bliss to the wor- 
 shipper. He did not think of marriage. They 
 were first cousins, to begin with, and were by 
 right of birth supposed impenetrable to love. 
 Then they were both as poor as Job ; and best 
 reason of all, marriage was not in the least 
 necessary to John's happiness. To see Dora 
 
 and look at her bright face, to hear Dora and 
 be worried by her, to obey Dora and cut bread 
 and butter, or do any humble office for the 
 pleasure of that haughty little sovereign, was 
 all John Luan cared for ; and as he had but to 
 come to the cottage to secure these blessings, 
 that crown of all bliss, the wedded, was not in 
 his thoughts. 
 
 Now this disinterested adoration had been 
 going on five years — his mother, his aunt, 
 Paul, Dora herself, looked upon it as a matter 
 of course, and never gave it a second thought. 
 But a drop will overflow the full cun, and a 
 remark which Dora now darted at her cousin 
 across the table made him blush a little, and 
 caused Mrs. Luan to look first bewildered, 
 then to turn as pale as her dingy complexion 
 would let her. With a deeply-troubled mien 
 she put down her cup of tea untasted,. then 
 looked from her son to Dora, and from Dora 
 to her son again. Yet all Dora had said was : 
 " I wish you would not stare, John." 
 
 She spoke with a pretty little pettish toss 
 of her head, but something in John's thoughts 
 made him color up to the eyes, and dull though 
 she was, Mrs. Luan was a mother. In a mo- 
 ment she saw that these two were no longer 
 children, and whilst she was measuring the 
 extent of the calamity, Mrs. Courtenay, who 
 had an awkward and innocent habit of thinking 
 aloud, said with her pleasant smile : 
 
 "La! my dear, John does not stare; he 
 looks at you, and he looks because he admires 
 you, I suppose." 
 
 Which was the exact truth, and, precisely 
 because it was the truth, made John look 
 foolish, brought a sudden glow to Dora's face, 
 and caused Mrs. Luan to pour the contents of 
 her tea-cup into the sugar-basin. This do- 
 mestic calamity sobered them all save Mrs. 
 Luan herself. But long after the little excite- 
 ment she thus caused had subsided, John's 
 mother, though outwardly as dull and as calm 
 as ever, was brooding over her discovery.
 
 8 
 
 DORA. 
 
 She was habitually taciturn, and no one saw 
 any change in her this evening. She took out 
 her patchwork, and proceeded with it as 
 usual. This patchwork, which was literally 
 hideous, was however the only concession to 
 fancy which Mrs. Luan had ever made. It 
 was to her what music is to some, and poetry 
 to others. These lozenges of faded silks, three 
 of which being put together formed by their 
 different shades a cube with a very light top, 
 and a very dark side to it, were the only re- 
 laxation Mrs. Luan's mind knew or took from 
 domestic cares. She loved them, she was 
 proud of them, she admired them, and felt 
 pleased when they were praised by some polite 
 stranger. She never read books or news- 
 papers ; she took no pleasure in news, national 
 or local. The ruin of an empire, or the scan- 
 dalous elopement of a near neighbor, found her 
 equally indifferent. She could not help this to 
 a certain extent, for she was partly bora so ; 
 but she had likewise partly made herself so. 
 She had assisted Nature, as we all do, and had 
 not assisted her very wisely — too frequent a 
 case. Thus she had grown into a silent, apa- 
 thetic-looking woman, whose concentrated 
 depth of purpose no one suspected. 
 
 Whilst Dora teased John Luan this evening, 
 and Mrs. Courtenay made little innocent 
 speeches, Mrs. Luan, whom no one heeded, 
 and who seemed absorbed in her patchwork, 
 felt in a strange tumult. Her thoughts, un- 
 accustomed to wander far, centred around 
 this great fact : "John is iu love with her." 
 Gradually her circle widened. She saw the 
 pair standing at a church altar, and John's 
 ring on Dora's finger. Then, by a stretch of 
 her .-low mind, she imagined a poor lodging 
 somewhere, and John and Dora were in it, 
 fighting the great battle of respectability versus 
 poverty, with half-a-dozen children around 
 them. This was the real point at issue, and it 
 was frightful. Mrs. Luan liked Dora very 
 well — as well as she could like a being who 
 
 was not John. She felt no maternal jealousy 
 of a daughter-in-law. It would not have 
 grieved her to see John worship Dora with the 
 romantic fancy of a lover, or the yearning ten- 
 derness of the fondest husband. Her objection 
 to the first cousinship was of the slenderest 
 sort. She was a woman of few feelings, as 
 well as of few ideas. But the cruel truth was 
 that, if John was poor, Dora was poorer. This 
 was terrible, and nothing could overcome it in 
 Mrs. Luan's mind. The beauty of Helen, the 
 mind of a De Stael, the heart of a Mrs. Fry, 
 the piety of a saint, would have left her alien- 
 ated, indifferent, and cold. Poverty had early 
 taken and stamped her, and the mark was in- 
 delible. She woke to think of money, as she 
 slept to dream of it, not exactly for her own 
 sake, but for John's. She could not give him 
 wealth, not possessing it herself, but she could 
 try and make him acquire it ; above all, she 
 could try and not let him fall into such a snare 
 as that of a poor marriage. That he should 
 love Dora, and think of marrying her, was 
 something awful in her creed. Save him she 
 must, no matter how — no matter at what cost. 
 She had no plans as yet ; her mind was not an 
 inventive one, but she had a hard, stubborn will, 
 and on that she relied, not without cause. That 
 will had borne her up all her life, and it had 
 borne her successfully through many a trouble. 
 She now resolved that her son should never 
 marry Dora Courtenay. She was prepared to 
 use any means that might prevent him from 
 doing so, and beiug irremediably narrow- 
 minded, it never occurred to her that Dora 
 might not be in love with John. This narrow- 
 ness, this inability to take in more than one 
 idea at a time, was the weak point of a char- 
 acter to which tenacity of purpose, and reck- 
 lessness of all save its own ends, gave danger- 
 ous strength, all the more dangerous that it 
 was unsuspected, and was accompanied with 
 marked intellectual inferiority. 
 
 In the meanwhile, the pleasant little war
 
 ACCOUNT OF PAUL'S VISIT TO HIS UNCLE. 
 
 went on between Dora and John. Dora had 
 a skein of wool to wind, and she made John 
 hold it for her. Yery meek and awkward 
 looked this Hercules, whilst his Omphale 
 stamped her foot, or shook her bright head at 
 him with an encouraging " Don't be stupid," 
 or a flattering " Oh ! dear, if you would but 
 try and be useful, John, and not make me 
 snap my wool so ! " 
 
 " I do my best, Dora," was the good- 
 humored reply. 
 
 Upon which Dora pensively rejoined — 
 
 " I wonder what your worst would be like, 
 John ? " 
 
 Not a word, not a breath, not a motion, not 
 a turn of these two did Mrs. Luan lose. She 
 watched them till all her senses were strained 
 with the effort, and her mind felt so bewildered 
 and confused, that she heard without heeding 
 it the pleasant little chat of her sister-in-law. 
 
 Mrs. Courtenay was doing a patience, and 
 though she knit her brows, and looked pen- 
 sively at the cards spread on the table, she 
 was able to talk. 
 
 " I wish you had a new dress, Dora," she 
 said ; " you could give this to Peggy." 
 
 " Peggy must wait, mamma. When Paul is 
 Demosthenes, he will give me a velvet robe. 
 John, do mind my wool ? " 
 
 John, who was innocently thinking that 
 velvet could scarcely improve Dora, shook his 
 head like a good faithful dog under the re- 
 proof, and, dog-like, was mute. 
 
 " I am to have diamond earrings, too," re- 
 sumed Dora — " Paul says so — beau-tiful dia- 
 mond earrings, mamma." 
 
 Mrs. Courtenay sighed gently. Perhaps she 
 thought the diamond earrings were rather far 
 away. Dora herself thought so too. 
 
 " I shall be old by that time," she resumed 
 — " quite old; thirty, at the very least. John, 
 you know, or ought to know, anatomy. Do 
 tell me why people look old. Why do faces 
 get so very odd, you know ? It is not only 
 
 the skin that changes. How shall I look 
 when I get old ? — so ? " 
 
 She puckered her pleasant genial face into 
 the most extraordinary wrinkles, and made 
 her little mother shiver. 
 
 " My darling, how can you ? Surely you do 
 not mean to say that old people arc so horrid V " 
 
 " Oh ! no," coolly replied Dora, rcsuming- 
 her natural form and features, " but I shall be 
 so, mamma. Shall I not, John ? " 
 
 " Don't," he entreated ; " don't." 
 
 " Don't get old ! Do you mean to send me 
 to an early grave, sir ? " 
 
 Dora was rather fond of shaking her head, 
 and shook it now at the delinquent. So ve- 
 hement was the shake that her hair-pins got 
 loose, and a shower of rich brown gold locks 
 fell down her neck on her shoulders. Dora 
 blushed a little, and John, lost in admiration, 
 ventured to stretch out his hand, and touch 
 with worshipful timidity one of those beau- 
 tiful tresses. Dora pulled it from him with a 
 pleasant laugh, and Mrs. Courtenay said, 
 
 " Has she not beautiful hair, John ? " 
 
 And Mrs. Luan put down her work, and in 
 her blind mad terror at what she feared, 
 would, if she could, have destroyed Dora that 
 moment. Hatred she felt none ; but it is not 
 hate which works the most evil, or inflicts the 
 deepest wrongs. 
 
 Dora soberly put up her hair, and as the 
 evening was well-nigh spent, Peggy was told 
 to go to bed; and Mrs. Courtenay, Mrs. Luan, 
 and John and Dora parted, to follow her ex- 
 ample. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 " Paul will come by the night train," 
 thought Dora; so, when that train was nearly 
 due, she softly stole down to the kitchen to make 
 her brother a hot cup of tea. Dora was a clever 
 girl, and a clever woman is expert in every- 
 thing. It was no trouble to her to light
 
 10 
 
 DORA. 
 
 a fire, and prepare her brother's tea and 
 supper. The event justified her foresight. 
 The water was scarcely boiling when she 
 heard a few light grains of sand thrown against 
 the parlor window. She stole up-stairs, noise- 
 lessly opened the cottage door, and got a cor- 
 dial kiss in the dark for her pains. 
 
 " They are all asleep," she whispered ; 
 " come down to the kitchen." 
 
 A pleasant sight to a weary traveller was 
 that which greeted Paul Courtenay's eyes as 
 he followed his sister down-stairs. The fire 
 was blazing, the water was simmering on the 
 hob, a frying-pan was hissing on the fire, the 
 cloth was laid; a cottage-loaf, butter, and 
 jug of ale were the first instalments of a fru- 
 gal meal, where fried eggs and bacon were to 
 play the most conspicuous part, and which a 
 warm cup of tea, and that domestic iniquity, 
 hot buttered toast, were to crown. 
 
 Poor Mrs. Luan tossing restlessly on your 
 couch, and planning economy in your dreams, 
 where were you then ? 
 
 Paul Courtenay, a dark, good-looking young 
 man, with a broad beetling forehead, bestowed 
 a gratified look on these preparations, sat 
 down, drew his chair to the fire, rested his 
 feet on the fender, and said emphatically, 
 
 "You bright little fairy ! What lucky fel- 
 low will have you, I wonder ! " 
 
 " Well, I do think he will be lucky," can- 
 didly replied Dora, minding her frying-pan all 
 the time ; " only I wonder, Paul, if he will ap- 
 preciate his happiness." 
 
 "He had better do so," replied Paul, with 
 something like sternness. 
 
 "Dear Paul!" thought Dora, "I do be- 
 lieve he would defend me to the last drop of 
 his blood." 
 
 " Why don't you ask for news ? " said Paul. 
 " Xo, you must eat first. There, hold your 
 plate, and do not leave a morsel." 
 
 Paul obeyed literally. He ate and drank 
 heartily, and soon looked much the better for 
 
 the meal his thoughtful little sister had pro- 
 vided. 
 
 " And now," said Dora, sitting down at his 
 knee on a hassock which she had brought 
 down for that purpose — " now you may tell 
 me all." 
 
 Her bright eyes were fastened on bis in 
 eager expectation ; her parted lips expressed 
 the very keenness of desire. 
 
 " Well, imagine a wild landscape with 
 mountains around it, a grassy park with noble 
 trees, the smoke of a waterfall on your right 
 hand, and on your left a little gray lake with 
 a patch of blue sky ; in the distance a plain 
 white house — that is Deenah. When I reached 
 the house an old servant in sober livery showed 
 me into the room where Mr. Courtenay was 
 sitting. I saw a little pale old man, blind of 
 one eye, on whom I should have been afraid 
 to blow, so weak did he seem. He held out 
 his hand, a cold weak hand, and told me in a 
 whisper — ' I am glad to see you ; but I had a 
 wretched night — I woke at two — sleeplessness 
 is constitutional with me. I had a fall three 
 months back, and s'ome nerve got injured, for 
 when the weather changes I feel a great 
 throbbing and cannot sleep." 
 
 " Did he ask after mamma or Aunt Luan ? " 
 " He did not. He could not weary of his 
 sleepless night ! Yet he also spoke on busi- 
 ness. ' You are my heir-at-law,' he said ; 
 ' but I did not get my property from my an- 
 cestors, and what did not come by inheritance 
 need not go by inheritance. I shall leave you 
 and your sister, and John Luan even, five 
 hundred pounds each, which, as I was not on 
 friendly terms with your late father, and will 
 never see my sister again, is handsome. But 
 then to whom shall I leave Deenah and the 
 rest of the property, which is large — to you or 
 to young Templemore ? He was my late wife's 
 nephew, and Mrs. Courtenay brought me a 
 good deal of money; so he, too, has claims, 
 you see.' "
 
 MR. COURTENAY'S CURIOSITIES. 
 
 11 
 
 " Let him share his money between you," 
 promptly said Dora. 
 
 " Tell him to make two halves of his body," 
 replied her brother, smiling. 
 
 "'Well, you shall have the first chance,' 
 said Mr. Courtenay. What that chance was 
 I learned after luncheon. It was too damp 
 for us to visit the grounds, but Mr. Courtenay 
 — my uncle, I should say — showed me over 
 the house. He went gliding about that great 
 lonely place in felt slippers, like the Italian 
 poet's Sleep, and looking more like his own 
 ghost than like a living man. But a very nice 
 ghost Mr. Courtenay made, I must say. He 
 is small and slender, and neat beyond any one 
 I ever knew. His motions are noiseless, quiet, 
 and graceful, like your cat's, Dora. I could 
 not help admiring the perfection of nicety 
 there is about that insignificant old man. He 
 has made his house like himself, a complete 
 thing ; but money has given him the power 
 of acquiring what nature bestows, but never 
 sells, and thence Mr. Courtenay's house is 
 something exquisite. ' You have not seen my 
 curiosities,' he said, 'you must see my curi- 
 osities.' He took me to a sort of gallery, with 
 windows on one side, and glass cases on the 
 other. Between the cases were statues, beau- 
 tiful pieces of furniture, large porcelain or 
 marble vases, and more things than I can tell 
 you of. The evening was coming on, and the 
 room was rather dark. Well, Dora, on that 
 room hangs my fate ; through that room I am 
 to grow rich, or to remain poor. That room 
 and its contents will probably decide whether 
 or not your brother shall ever marry Florence 
 Gale ! " 
 
 Paul looked grave, almost sad. It was plain 
 that he felt by no means sanguine. 
 
 " But how — how so ? " asked Dora, shaking 
 her bright head a little defiantly. 
 
 " Wait and you shall learn. ' This,' said 
 Mr. Courtenay, ' is my hobby, you know. 
 This collection, such as it is, has been valued 
 
 at twenty thousand pounds. It did not cost 
 me twenty hundred. You see taste did not 
 run much this way when I travelled on the 
 Continent forty-five years ago. Look at this 
 saucer — ' he opened one of the glass cases, 
 and took out one of the most hideous objects 
 you ever saw, Dora — a large round dish, with 
 a green speckled serpent, and horrible little 
 lizards filling the centre. ' Do you know, sir,' 
 he continued, ' how much I paid for this treas- 
 ure, genuine Palissy, at a bric-d-brac shop in 
 Paris, forty-five years ago ? Fifty sous, sir. 
 It would be cheap at fifty pounds now. And 
 it is unique — unique ! No other Palissy that 
 I know of has (hat kind of serpent.' I cannot 
 tell you, Dora, how he looked as he spoke. 
 The man was transfigured. His one eye shone, 
 his pale cheek was flushed, his very voice 
 quivered. He took me over all his treasures, 
 and explained them to me one by one in the 
 same mood. And when we came to a low 
 glass shade, he stopped with a sort of awe. 
 ' That,' he whispered, ' is my Henri-deux ware 
 — look ! ' I saw a little pale salt-cellar, with a 
 very fine pattern upon it, a thing for which I 
 would scarcely have given threepence, Dora ; 
 well, it seems it is worth hundreds. And there 
 is a mystery about its manufacture, and I am 
 to find out the mystery, though it has puzzled 
 and still puzzles the learned." 
 
 " Well, but what about the fortune ? " asked 
 Dora. 
 
 " Why, this — that if I can write a good de- 
 scriptive account, a first-rate catalogue of Mr. 
 Courtenay's collection, both collection and 
 fortune are mine." 
 
 " Why, then, you are sure of it," cried 
 Dora, with sparkling eyes. 
 
 " And pray how am I to write such a cata- 
 logue? It would take half a lifetime to ac- 
 quire the knowledge needed for the task, and 
 Mr. Courtenay would detect the least flaw in 
 my erudition. I shall make the attempt, and 
 respond to his kindness in giving me what he
 
 12 
 
 DORA. 
 
 calls the first chance, but I do not reckon on 
 success." 
 
 "But you must succeed, Paul. Mr. Cour- 
 tenay means you to succeed." 
 
 " Mr. Courtenay is a true Courtenay, Dora, 
 honorable and conscientious, and not know- 
 ing how to decide between this young Temple- 
 more's claims and mine, he has hit on this 
 scheme ; but being a true Courtenay, he will 
 abide by the law of his own laying down." 
 
 Dora looked thoughtfully at the decaying fire. 
 
 " Has John any chance ? " she asked. 
 
 "None." 
 
 " Can I help you with the catalogue ? " 
 
 "Very little, unless in the way of taking 
 extracts in Mr. Ryan's library ; but I am not 
 sanguine, Dora. I feel I shall not succeed, 
 and I feel, too, I shall not marry Florence 
 Gale." 
 
 Paul spoke despondently ; he was liable to 
 such fits of depression, and they saved him, 
 perhaps, from the ridicule which might have 
 attached to the quiet but obstinate good opin- 
 ion of himself, and all pertaining to himself, 
 which was his only foible. But the humility 
 of his tone, as he thus gave up all hopes of 
 fortune and Florence, vexed his ambitious lit- 
 tle sister. Moreover, by thus placing Florence 
 as a prize beyond his reach, Paul decidedly 
 proved himself mortal. 
 
 "You must succeed, and you shall marry 
 her ! " she cried, almost impatiently ; " she 
 must wait for you, Paul." 
 
 " How many years, Dora ? "We are not en- 
 gaged, you know. I could not help letting 
 her see that I loved her, dear girl ; but she is 
 not pledged to me. I know she could never 
 marry me unless I got rich, and you know," 
 he added, with his grave smile, " I am not the 
 man to elope with a rich man's daughter ; be- 
 sides, I never could tempt a girl to such a 
 step. It is not in the Courtenay blood." 
 
 " Suppose I run away," demurely suggested 
 Dora. 
 
 " Dora," he said, a little austerely, " never 
 jest so. No sister of mine could do such a 
 thing." 
 
 "Florence Gale would run away with a 
 lord," thought Dora ; " poor Paul, not to know 
 it!" 
 
 Again the sense of her brother's blindness 
 came to Dora unpleasantly, and almost re- 
 morsefully ; for was it not a sort of sin to see 
 it? But then she remembered the heel of 
 Achilles, that type of all heroic weakness, and 
 she was partly comforted. After all, Paul 
 was not bound to be beyond humanity. 
 
 " I say you shall marry her," she said again. 
 " It is your right, and you shall have your 
 right, Paul." 
 
 " To be sure," he good-humoredly replied ; 
 " but it is late, suppose you goto bed. I shall 
 stay here and smoke awhile." 
 
 Dora saw he wished to be alone, and she let 
 him have his way. She got up, filled his pipe, 
 and brought it to him ; then giving him a 
 parting look on the threshold of the kitchen 
 door, she stole up-stairs with a little sigh. 
 Paul looked very grave, not in the least like a 
 man who has had the chance of a handsome 
 fortune just offered to him. 
 
 "He does not expect to get it," thought 
 Dora, as she softly went back to her bed un- 
 heard. " Oh ! if I could but write that cat- 
 alogue for him ! It is not in his way, and it 
 would be in mine." 
 
 Lest this confidence should seem presump- 
 tuous in Miss Courtenay, we may as well men- 
 tion that she had received a solid education, 
 was well read in several languages, and could 
 write very well. From her earliest years she 
 had shared that portion of her brother's 
 studies and pursuits which could interest her. 
 Latin and the law excepted, she knew as much 
 as he did, and some things she knew better 
 than Paul. Their father, a man of rare ac- 
 quirements, had spared nothing to teach them 
 both, and Dora, he would say sometimes, was
 
 FLORENCE GALE. 
 
 13 
 
 the more brilliant scholar of the two. Dora 
 knew it, in a careless sort of way. As a rule 
 she forgot the depth and extent of her infor- 
 mation ; but sometimes, too, she remembered 
 it, and she now wondered if she could not 
 render her little learning usefuLto her brother. 
 She sat up in her bed, thinking of the visit 
 she was going to pay to Mr. Ryan, of the 
 works she must read, of the manner in which 
 she could turn her researches to Paul's advan- 
 tage. 
 
 " He must write that catalogue, and write it 
 well," she thought. "I wish I could see 
 Deenah and the lake, and the gallery, and that 
 wonderful salt-cellar." 
 
 These thoughts followed her in her dreams. 
 She saw a green solitude, and a shining lake, 
 and a white house. She wandered in its 
 rooms, preceded by Mr. Courtenay, who, look- 
 ing on her with his one eye, said in a whisper — 
 
 " Don't be afraid, my dear ; I am dead, and 
 cannot hurt you." 
 
 She followed the noiseless little old man till 
 she came to the gallery, and there she wan- 
 dered alone, for, ghost-like, he had suddenly 
 vanished. She saw every object her brother 
 had described, and especially did she see Mr. 
 Courtenay's specimen of Henri-deux ware. 
 The mystery concerning this rare bit of pot- 
 tery, dreamed Dora, was to be found within 
 one of its recesses ; but unluckily she scarcely 
 had lifted up the glass shade to peep in, when 
 she woke and saw the sun shining in at her 
 window. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 Paul's godfather, Mr. Ryan, had one of the 
 largest private libraries in Dublin, and to him 
 Dora at once applied for books. She was an 
 especial favorite, and was graciously received, 
 so far as books went, but on hearing of the 
 catalogue Mr. Ryan laughed derisively. 
 
 " Paul does not know human nature," he 
 
 said, " or he would never believe such a wild 
 story as this. Let him get the five hundred 
 pounds — if he can — and I shall turn them into 
 thousands ; tell Paul so." 
 
 Mr. Ryan had made a handsome fortune in 
 the Funds, and thought himself an authority 
 in all financial matters. Dora believed in 
 him implicitly, save when he ventured to cen- 
 sure Paul. She did not deny his power of 
 turning five hundred pounds into so many 
 thousands, but she indignantly vindicated her 
 brother's knowledge of human nature, and as- 
 serted his prospects of success. 
 
 " I am sure Paul will have Deenah ! " she 
 said, warmly, " and his catalogue will be a 
 beautiful catalogue ; and I hope, Mr. Ryan, 
 that you will let me read in your library, for I 
 want books, quartos perhaps, or in-folios, 
 which I cannot take home. I am to write 
 out all the extracts, you know." 
 
 " Yes, yes ! you poor little innocent," kindly 
 said Mr. Ryan, patting her on the head, " have 
 your way." 
 
 Thus it came to pass that Dora was very 
 busy in Mr. Ryan's library one bright morn- 
 ing, a week after Paul's visit to Deenah, and 
 that Mr. Ryan was reading with her and gen- 
 tly nodding over his book. Mr. Ryan was a 
 happy man, and sleep came easily to him, as 
 most things did, and rather oftener than was 
 needed. It came now insidious and stealthy. 
 The book was dull, the room rather close, and 
 Mr. Ryan's luncheon had been comfortable. 
 Sleep was having it all his own way, and 
 would have prevailed entirely, if the library 
 door had not opened gently, and a very pretty 
 girlish face peeped in with a merry laugh. 
 Dora looked up, and Mr. Ryan awoke with a 
 start. 
 
 " Napping — napping both of you ! " said the 
 intruder ; " and how is that catalogue to be 
 done, eh ? " 
 
 " I was not napping, Florence," gravely re- 
 plied Dora ; " I was reading."
 
 14 
 
 DORA. 
 
 " Was Mr. Ryan reading too ? " shrewdly 
 asked Miss Gale. 
 
 Mr. Ryan laughed, and looked admiringly at 
 the pretty creature before him. Paul's mis- 
 tress was neither short nor tall, neither plump 
 nor thin. Her figure had every charm which 
 nature can give to youth, nothing too much 
 and nothing too little. She stood before Mr. 
 Ryan, dangling her hat in her hand, and smil- 
 ing down at him in conscious beauty. She 
 was always pretty, but these smiles of hers, 
 which were neither few nor far between, made 
 her enchanting, and she knew it. Seducing 
 is the word that describes her best. Never 
 did softer black eyes beam from beneath more 
 finely-pencilled eyebrows than those of Flor- 
 ence. Her dark hair was glossy and abun- 
 dant ; her teeth were two rows of pearls ; her 
 rosy cheeks "were full of the most fascinating 
 dimples, and though she was by several years 
 Dora's elder, she looked the younger and the 
 
 more childish of the two. 
 
 i 
 
 " Why were you not reading and helping 
 poor Paul ? " she asked, coaxingly, of Paul's 
 godfather ; " and why is not Paul here ? " she 
 added, turning on Dora, and speaking rather 
 pettishly. 
 
 " Paul is not well, Florence." 
 
 Miss Gale threw herself into the nearest 
 arm-chair, and exclaimed, petulantly, 
 
 " I do think Paul does it on purpose, not to 
 be well just because he has that catalogue to 
 do, and the chance of a fortune to get. I sup- 
 pose young Templemore will have it ; and I 
 wish he may," she added, waxing wroth ; " he 
 is my cousin, third or fourth, and I wish he 
 may get Deenah ! I do, since Paul does not 
 care for it, and only coddles himself up." 
 
 Dora looked at her in a silent indignation, 
 which was wholly thrown away on Miss Gale ; 
 while Mr. Ryan remarked gravely, 
 
 " Then I suppose you will marry Mr. Tem- 
 plemore if he gets Deenah ? " 
 
 " Marry him ! " exclaimed Florence, raising 
 
 her arched eyebrows ; " marry him, Mr. 
 Ryan ! " 
 
 " What ! is he so objectionable ? Never 
 mind, Deenah will make him fascinating 
 enough." 
 
 "But he has-got a wife and little girls!" 
 ejaculated Florence. " I told you so the 
 other day — I wish you would not worry, Mr. 
 Ryan." 
 
 " Why, yes, it is tantalizing. The little 
 girls would make no difference ; but the wife 
 is an objection." 
 
 Florence laughed, and Dora, bending over 
 her book, thought with a swelling heart, " It 
 is Deenah she wants. Paul she does not care 
 for. She does not even ask what ails him." 
 But this omission Miss Gale repaired before 
 her departure. After spending half an hour 
 in listening to Mr. Ryan's mingled praise and 
 quizzing — provided she got the one, she had 
 not the least objection to the other — she sud- 
 denly discovered that she was wanted home. 
 
 " I told papa I was going to see aunt," she 
 said, confidentially, to Dora ; " and now I shall 
 have to say that aunt was out. I thought to 
 find Paul here — what ails him ? " 
 
 "He knocked himself up with working too 
 hard." 
 
 " Now, Dora, if you put that into his head, 
 that wretched catalogue will never be done ; 
 so pray don't. Good-morning, Mr. Ryan, a 
 pleasant nap to you." 
 
 And putting on her little hat, after waving 
 it in mock courtesy to Mr. Ryan, Miss Gale 
 danced out of the room without giving him 
 time to follow her, or even ring the bell. 
 
 " The prettiest, emptiest little thing that ever 
 was, ch, Dora ? " 
 
 But, whatever Dora's thoughts might be, 
 she would not grant Paul's mistress to be less 
 than perfect. 
 
 "Florence is too good-natured, Mr. Ryan," 
 she said, indignantly; "she allows you to 
 quiz her ! I would not tolerate it ! "
 
 THE MYSTERIOUS SALT-CELLAR. 
 
 15 
 
 " Nor deserve it," politely said Mr. Ryan ; 
 "no, no, Dora — I know where the shoe 
 pinches. You cannot understand that Paul 
 should be so smitten with that silly little 
 bird, but you will not confess it. Never mind, 
 my dear. Most young men would be no wiser 
 than Paul is. So we will help him all the 
 same with his catalogue, in order that he may 
 get his pretty Florence. For unless Paul has 
 Deenah, or something very like it, Mr. Gale 
 will never give him his daughter, as we all 
 know." 
 
 Dora sighed. Yes, Paul's happiness hung 
 on that catalogue. 
 
 Mr. Courtenay was a pitiless collector. lie 
 had specimens of everythiug, or, to speak 
 more correctly, he had collected in every pos- 
 sible direction. Paul had paid a second visit 
 to Deenah, and come back with a list of ob- 
 jects to be described that would have puzzled 
 a Benedictine monk's learning. Etruscan 
 vases and Dutch hardware, Majolica, Indian 
 carving, mediaeval armor, old laces, illuminated 
 manuscripts, bewildered Dora, and tried Mr. 
 Ryan's library to the utmost. So she worked 
 hard, and without relaxation, till it was time 
 to go and bid Mr. Ryan adieu. 
 
 " I shall go on with that Hydria," he said, 
 " and that antique mask as well. I shall do all 
 the hard work for you, Dora. The rest will 
 be child's play to Paul and you — tell him so." 
 -~ Mr. Ryan had been " going on " with the 
 Hydria and the antique mask for a week. He 
 was one of the many who mistake a kind in- 
 tention for its fulfilment. A promise was so 
 delightfully easy. It gratified both his amia- 
 bility by the prospect of good to be done, and 
 his indolence by its postponement. Dora 
 smiled at his calmly-benevolent tone, and then 
 went her way. 
 
 Mr. Ryan's house — and a handsome, pleas- 
 ant house it was — stood near Phoenix Park. 
 There Dora was to find her brother, who wished 
 to escort her home. He was true to his ap- 
 
 pointment, but as he walked towards her Dora 
 was struck with his pale face, and exclaimed, 
 anxiously, 
 
 " Paul, you have been working ? " 
 
 " I could not help it. Do you know, I think 
 that if it was Mr. Courtenay's object to give 
 me a taste for his curiosities by making me 
 write that catalogue, he has been successful. 
 I could not help looking over my notes, and 
 once I had looked I should write." 
 
 Dora looked at him with growing uneasiness. 
 Paul was very pale, but his dark eyes burned 
 with a feverish light. Surely he was not ill ? 
 surely it was only fatigue that ailed him ? 
 
 " You know I told you that Mr. Courtenay 
 has a salt-cellar of Henri-deux ware ? " re- 
 sumed Paul, " and that, though he does not 
 expect me to solve the great mystery, he 
 nevertheless wishes me to have a theory on 
 the subject. Well, Dora, I do believe I am on 
 the track — yes, and I think, too, my theory is 
 the right one." 
 
 Dora looked at him in great admiration. Of 
 course, if Paul had a theory, it must be the ' 
 right one, and of course a right theory on Mr. 
 Courtenay's salt-cellar of Henri-deux ware 
 meant triumph. She said so with sparkling 
 eyes. Paul laughed, and shook his head. 
 
 " I don't know," he said. " I promised 
 Florence to work hard, and I will." 
 
 " When did you see her ? " 
 
 "This afternoon. Dear girl! she came to 
 tell me her father wants her to marry a Mr. 
 Logan, whom she hates. She was all in tears, 
 but I so promised to work, and be successful, 
 that she was bright again when she left us." 
 
 Dora sighed. What availed it that she did 
 all she could to spare Paul, if Florence came 
 and urged him on ? But with that menace of 
 a rival it was useless to try and check him. 
 Silly though she was, Florence had an art in 
 which even silly women are expert. She knew 
 how to rule the man who loved her, and Dora 
 was too wise to contend acrainst her influence.
 
 16 
 
 DORA. 
 
 "And so," continued Paul, "I worked 
 hard. I did more. I called on Mr. Gale on 
 my way here." 
 
 Dora stood still, and uttered a breathless 
 " Well ? " 
 
 " Well, I got a diplomatic reply. Mr. Gale 
 praised my candor, but, of course, pledged 
 himself to nothing. Only I know and feel 
 this : if I succeed, I am sure of Florence 
 spite all the Logans there may be." 
 
 He seemed so hopeful, that it made Dora 
 happy to look at him. They spent the even- 
 ing in working together, and making use of 
 her notes. They sat in the cottage parlor, 
 with the rest of the family around them. 
 Paul's mind required neither silence nor soli- 
 tude for its exertions. He read and wrote, 
 and Dora either helped her brother, or was 
 wrapped up in him. Though she had no spare 
 time or speech to bestow on John, Mrs. Luan's 
 son did not miss his cousin's teasing. He 
 thought it hard to be excluded from his chance, 
 as he called it, of Mr. Courtenay's fortune, 
 and he had said so bluntly on learning the 
 terms on which Paul was to compete for it. 
 Mrs. Courtenay, good soul, had wondered her 
 brother-in-law did not at once leave the money 
 to Paul, just giving him a few thousands to 
 begin life with ; but of herself, or even of her 
 daughter Dora's claims, she said nothing. 
 Paul was dear to her, as if he had been her own 
 son, and on this evening she was engaged in 
 doing a patience for a wish, which wish was 
 her step-son's success in his undertaking. 
 
 " And it is going on beautifully, Paul," she 
 said, with a beaming face. " This is my great 
 patience, that which Louis the Eighteenth did 
 every evening after his dinner. I really think 
 it will succeed." 
 
 Paul smiled kindly, and Mrs. Luan went on 
 silently with her patchwork. She had made 
 no comment on her brother's decision, and her 
 silence was laid to the fact that they had quar- 
 relled at the time of her marriage, and never 
 
 been reconciled. It was hard to say what 
 passed in her mind. She seemed as dull and as 
 apathetic as ever. On one point she remained 
 firm. Neither Dora's promised five hundred 
 pounds, nor the chance which her brother's 
 aifection would certainly give her, of a hand- 
 some portion, if he inherited Mr. Courtenay's 
 fortune, could make her see John's love for 
 his cousin Dora with anything save detestation. 
 She had no imagination to mislead ker. Mr. 
 Courtenay was not dead, but living. His prom- 
 ise could be revoked, and the fact that Dora 
 was poor remained in all its ugly truth. It 
 may be that this fear was enough for her, her 
 mind not being one which could hold many 
 ideas, or grasp many projects at the same 
 time. At all events, it was the only thought 
 she dwelt upon as she sat and stitched at her 
 patchwork during the long autumn evening, 
 whilst brother and sister toiled, and John 
 looked on with sullen discontent. He thought 
 it hard, and he said so, to be excluded from 
 the competition, since there was one. Who 
 was that Templemore, that he should step in 
 and have a chance when he, John, had none ? 
 Why should not John have attempted a cata- 
 logue, and had his theory on the Henri-deux 
 salt-cellar? So he grumbled, then went to 
 bed, whilst Dora sat up with her brother, car- 
 ing nothing for either labor or vigil, if they 
 but helped him to a fortune and Florence 
 Gale. 
 
 "Dear girl !" he said fondly. "She is so 
 artless, she has already appropriated half the 
 collection. She seems to take it for granted 
 that the poor old gentleman must die off in 
 order to make room for us." 
 
 Dora looked pensive, but did not wonder 
 much ; there was a charm in everything Flor- 
 ence said.
 
 THE CATALOGUE COMPLETED. 
 
 17 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 The catalogue proved a tedious task, and 
 soon absorbed Paul Courtenay completely. 
 He grew to be like a gambler watching the 
 fate of bjs last stake. The law was neglected 
 now, and he remained at home day after day 
 " to work at the catalogue." He had acquired 
 a genuine passion for the curiosities on which 
 his fate hung, and that passion held him fast. 
 
 " There is no such collection as Mr. Courte- 
 nay's," he often said to Dora ; " besides, we 
 alone have got a Henri-deux salt-cellar, you 
 know." 
 
 The whole family, indeed, got excited when 
 the catalogue was mentioned. Mrs. Luan said 
 nothing, but looked almost bright. John for- 
 got his annoyance to wish Paul success ; and 
 Mrs. Courtenay, with a little shrill raising of 
 the voice, " was sure she was that dear Paul 
 must win." 
 
 Dora alone was rather grave. She too felt cer- 
 tain of her brother's success, but then how pale, 
 how worn he looked ! Paul's mother had died 
 young, and Paul was very like the miniature 
 of her in his room. Oh ! what if the cost 6 of 
 success should prove too dear ! This terrible 
 thought came but once, and was banished so 
 angrily that it came no more; but though the 
 doors were closed upon it, the baleful presence 
 had been there, and the uneasiness it had gen- 
 erated remained behind. ' 
 
 At length the catalogue was finished, and 
 Paul, who would not trust the post with it, 
 took it down himself to Deenah. He was full 
 of hope, especially concerning his theory on 
 the Henri-deux ware. 
 
 " There is a G on our salt-cellar," he said to 
 Dora ; " who cm doubt that it was put there 
 for Girolamo della Robbia,the great Italian?" 
 
 How happy and confident he looked, but how 
 
 sunken his eyes were, how hollow his cheeks 
 
 had grown ! The thought haunted her, as, 
 
 after seeing him off, she came home from the 
 
 2 
 
 station and passed through the garden to the 
 house, looking at its last autumn flowers. A few 
 pale and drooping chrysanthemums still braved 
 the night and morning chill, and held on their 
 languid life, ready to perish with the first sharp 
 breath of coming winter. To Dora, in the 
 fulness of her strength and youth, these flowers 
 were ungenial. She looked at them with a 
 sort of pity, but without love. 
 
 " Poor things ! " she thought, as she passed 
 on — "poor things! I wish for their sakes 
 there were a perpetual spring. But would 
 they really like it ? They were born to bloom 
 in autumn and to suffer." 
 
 With this thought came another that passed 
 through her like a quick sharp pang. Why 
 was Paul so sad-looking ? Was he, too, meant 
 to live in sorrow, and die early ? She rebelled 
 at the thought. She would not submit to it. 
 Paul was her hero and her king, endowed with 
 the heroic gift of perpetual youth and every 
 kingly attribute. He should live, he should 
 be strong and happy. He should prevail and 
 be rich, ay, and have Florence Gale too, since 
 he wished for her. 
 
 "It is a folly," thought Dora, looking down 
 at it from the height of her superior wisdom. 
 " I dare say he thinks he cannot help it, as if 
 one could not always help these things ! Poor 
 Florence, it is no fault of hers if she is so 
 much beneath dear Paul ! " 
 
 As she came ' to this charitable conclusion, 
 Dora entered the cottage and found Florence 
 there. The young lady flew at her and gave 
 her a warm hug. 
 
 "Now, darling!" she cried, "do tell me. 
 Is it a good catalogue ? " 
 
 " Yes, a very good one, Florence." 
 
 " And do you think Paul will get Deenah ? " 
 
 " Mr. Courtenay is still living, Florence." 
 
 " Oh ! but he is sure to die. He looks so 
 ill ! " 
 
 " So does Paul." 
 
 Florence pouted, and said a little sulkily,
 
 18 
 
 DORA. 
 
 " That is for me, Dora. ' 
 
 Dora sighed, and said more gently — 
 
 " I do wish you had spared him a little 
 more ; but what is done is done. Let us only 
 hope he will be successful." 
 
 Florence laughed. 
 
 " He must be successful if he means to have 
 me," she said saucily. " But why did he go 
 off to Deenah ? I came to see him, and he is 
 gone ! Why did he not manage to see me ? " 
 
 " He is under a pledge to your father." 
 
 " Pledge fiddlesticks ! " interrupted Flor- 
 ence. " Why does he keep it ? " 
 
 " Because Paul cannot break a promise," 
 was the grave reply. 
 
 " Oh ! dear," ruefully said Miss Gale ; " why, 
 I had to tell such a set of fibs to get here. 
 Firstly, that Mrs. Smith wanted me to take a 
 drive with her — that was to papa ; secondly, 
 to Mrs. Smith, that I wanted to see Mrs. Cour- 
 tenay about a charitable concern ; and third- 
 ly — " here Miss Gale looked bewildered — " I 
 have forgotten the third," she said, " but I 
 know there was one." 
 
 Dora heard her gravely. Paul adored Flor- 
 ence, but she wondered how long such adora- 
 tion would last. 
 
 " We shall soon be going down to Deenah," 
 resumed Florence, who would talk, no matter 
 about what. " I suppose papa wants some 
 shooting, but I think it would be much cheaper 
 to buy game, don't you ? " 
 
 " I suppose so," replied Dora passively. 
 
 "Such a beautiful place as old Courtenay's 
 is," continued Florence enthusiastically ; " I 
 shall like it much, Dora. I have planned all 
 sorts of changes, you know. These mousey 
 old things shall not have the best room. We 
 dined with old Courtenay last year, and oh ! 
 how he did prose ! He had not slept all 
 night, and be said so, also that his nails grew 
 fast, and did I not think it a sign of ill-health ? 
 And I was thinking all the time of his Paschal 
 candelabrum, as he calls it." 
 
 " The finest of its kind, excepting one at 
 Milan," interrupted Dora with sparkling eyes. 
 
 " Is there really an uglier one ? " asked 
 Florence. " Well, I was thinking of it, and 
 that if I had Deenah I should put it in the hall, 
 and now of course I will." 
 
 Dora did not answer. She longed for 
 silence and peace. Belief came ; the door 
 opened, and John Luan entered the room. It 
 so happened that this was the first time Flor- 
 ence saw him, for she was a rare visitor at the 
 cottage. She gave him a half-shy, half-doubts 
 ful look. He looked at her, too, aud rather 
 scornfully Dora watched what followed. Miss 
 Gale could not do without admiration. Paul 
 was not present. She at once took up with 
 John. Mrs. Luan's son, so bashful with Dora, 
 showed sudden brightness. This pretty dark- 
 haired girl, whose face expressed vivacity and 
 languor in a most bewitching degree, rather 
 threw Dora into the shade. Indeed, so far as 
 beauty went, there could be no comparison be- 
 tween these two. Take away her brightness, 
 and a pair of dark-grey eyes from Dora, and 
 there remained little to her save youth and its 
 bloom. Dora was not jealous of John, but 
 what girl likes to be eclipsed ? She resented 
 his faithlessness and Miss Gale's coquetry in 
 equal degree. Besides, how dare she trifle 
 thus with another whilst Paul was away ? So 
 she looked at the pair with an austerity of 
 which John was unconscious, and which filled 
 Miss Gale with mischievous glee. But this 
 pretty pastime did not last. Florence started 
 up with an artless exclamation of — 
 
 " Oh ! dear, poor Mrs. Smith will be mad 
 with me, she will. Good-bye, darling ! " 
 
 And giving Dora a warm hug, and a fond 
 kiss, and dropping John Luan a curtsy, she 
 ran away, thinking, 
 
 " How savage Dora looks, and how sly she 
 is ! but have I not paid her out for it, though ? " 
 
 From which it need not be concluded that 
 Miss Gale meant any particular harm, or that
 
 DEENAH. 
 
 19 
 
 Bhe had designs on penniless John Luan. 
 Only pleasure was her law, and it was very 
 pleasant to be looked at with such sincere ad- 
 miration as that to be read in Mr. Luan's blue 
 eyes. 
 
 " What a sweet girl ! " he could not help 
 saying, and he went to the window to look 
 after the graceful figure lightly running down 
 the road toward the carriage of Mrs. Smith. 
 " Such soft dark eyes, and nice eyebrows ! " 
 
 " Yes," apathetically said Dora, " very ! " 
 
 She, too, looked after Florence, and as she 
 looked she tried to solve a problem which 
 puzzles many women, and the opposite of 
 which, no doubt, perplexes many men. How 
 is it, for instance, that girls like Florence, who 
 have not the better and nobler part of beauty, 
 its grand or its lovely meaning, only the white 
 and red, or the well-shaped eye and arched 
 brow, who have little mind, not much heart, 
 and no more sense than wit, how is it they 
 win, ay, and keep men's hearts ? 
 
 " Paul has never been the same to me since 
 he saw her face," thought Dora, with a swell- 
 ing heart : " and it is well for me I do not care 
 for John, for he swears by her already. How 
 does she do it ? " 
 
 Vexed question. How often the man of 
 sense and sterling merit has tried to solve it, 
 when he has seen himself put by for a coarse 
 or a shallow fool ! But Dora only thought of 
 her own case, and she thought of it as if with 
 a foreshadowing of what the future was to 
 bring forth. She was not surprised, when 
 John left the window, to find that it was to 
 talk of Florence Gale ; but the subject rather 
 wearied her. She was glad when her aunt 
 entered the room, and still better pleased 
 when the evening was over, and she sat up 
 alone waiting for Paul. 
 
 €he looked at the fire, and tried to see 
 Deenah in it. Then she checked herself. 
 What was Deenah to her, or any place where 
 Florence must reiarn ! 
 
 "You are beautiful, Deenah," she said to 
 herself ; " but I must not think of you. 
 Well, no matter, so dear Paul has you and is 
 happy." 
 
 And as dear Paul himself was even then 
 knocking at the door, she rose with joyous 
 eagerness to let him in. 
 
 " Well ? " she said, breathlessly. 
 
 " Well, all right ! " 
 
 He looked radiant, and so did Dora. 
 
 " Did he promise ? " she asked. 
 
 "No, no. Men like him never promise. 
 But he paid me some handsome compliments 
 on my industry." 
 
 " And what about Mr. Templemore ? " 
 
 "Not a word. I never did think that 
 Templemore had the least chance. I suspect 
 it was some promise to his wife. How cold it 
 is!" 
 
 " And now, what will you have ? " 
 
 " Nothing, my dear. I shall just take the 
 cold out of my bones and go to bed." 
 
 " How pale you look, Paul ! " 
 
 " I was rather cold coming down — " 
 
 " Go to bed at once and take something 
 hot." 
 
 But Paul declined the latter part of Dora's 
 invitation. He would go to bed presently, but 
 he would take nothing hot, and as Paul had a 
 will of his own, Dora did not insist. They sat 
 up awhile, and Dora mentioned Florence Gale's 
 visit. His eyes softened, and he laughed when 
 ister told him about Florence's three fibs. 
 
 "Dear girl!" he exclaimed fondly. 
 
 "He must be bewitched," thought Dora; 
 but aloud she said, " Go to bed, Paul, you 
 look quite ill." 
 
 "I don't feel so. I feel very happy, Dora. 
 Happiness lies before me. I think myself sure 
 of the girl. I love, of a handsome fortune and a 
 fine estate, and as I must work on, I hope to 
 these blessings to add those of a position won 
 by my own exertions, and of honorable ' 
 I say it again, happiness lies before me, and
 
 20 
 
 DORA. 
 
 that prospect has not always been mine. And 
 you shall be happy, Dora. A guinea a line will 
 you get for that catalogue, and let me tell you 
 there are not many who get so much." 
 
 "A guinea a line ! " said Dora, clapping her 
 hands, and looking delighted. " Oh ! you gen- 
 erous Paul, you are surely the Prince of 
 Publishers ! " 
 
 " And what will you do with that money ? " 
 
 " Buy aunt and mamma new dresses, take a 
 cottage with a large garden to it ; then I must 
 have an aviary, a conservatory." 
 
 " You will find all these at Deenah ! " he 
 interrupted. 
 
 " But I do not mean to wait till Mr. Courte- 
 nay dies, for them, sir." 
 
 " Quite right, ma'am ; and so good-night." 
 
 "And now I must go back to the law," 
 said Paul, next morning. 
 
 This was more easily said than done. Paul's 
 heart was no longer with his austere mistress. 
 The goal of his ambition had been displaced 
 and the task before him seemed dull, flat, and 
 unprofitable. That catalogue had unsettled 
 them all. And so time passed. Mrs. Courte- 
 nay wondered at her brother-in-law's silence. 
 
 " He ought to know Paul is anxious," she 
 said, " and send him word the catalogue is all 
 right. I believe he quarrelled with my dear 
 husband because I was French ; but all that 
 must be over now, and he might call upon me. 
 And if he objected to Mrs. Luan, he might 
 have asked to know what day she was out ; 
 and, at all events, he ought to send us down a 
 basket of game." 
 
 None of these things, however, did Mr. 
 Courtenay do. 
 
 " But I am not afraid," said Paul to his 
 sister. " I am sure my theory about the Ilenri- 
 deux ware is the right one." 
 
 " Of course it is, Paul." 
 
 "Ah! you are truer to me than Palissy's 
 wife was to him. What a fine fellow he was. 
 
 Dora ! His trials and failures would have 
 sickened any but a true hero. It did me good 
 to read about him yesterday. He had labored 
 nine months, his oven was ready, his vases 
 were ready, his enamel was ready, — fire was 
 to try all. Six days and six nights he spent 
 tending that fire, and at the eleventh hour, 
 when the goal seemed all but won, fuel failed 
 him. Think of that agony ! The man seized 
 all he had at hand — chairs, tables, furniture, 
 the very flooring of his room, and his wife 
 goes distracted, and Palissy's neighbors say 
 he is mad, and that he is setting fire to his 
 house. Well, that madness was his last. He 
 had prevailed ; he knew the Italian secret, and 
 had made it his." 
 
 " And you have written a good catalogue, 
 and found out the secret of the Henri-deux 
 ware, and Deenah is to be yours," replied 
 Dora. 
 
 " And as you have helped me with the cata- 
 logue, you shall have a suite of rooms in 
 Deenah." 
 
 Dora laughed, but there seemed very little 
 likeliness of any such contingency just yet. 
 Time passed, and Mr. Courtenay gave no sign. 
 They all lived in suspense, save Mrs. Luan. 
 She brooded day after day, no longer over the 
 best way of saving candle or sparing fire, but 
 over the means of separating John and Dora. 
 
 " John must go to London," she at length 
 discovered. Unluckily, to go to London 
 money was needed, and neither John nor hi8 
 mother had any. Many a sad mess did Mrs. 
 Luan make with her patchwork about this 
 time. 
 
 At length Mr. Courtenay wrote. It was 
 Dora who received the letter, and with it a 
 large sealed packet from the postman. She 
 came in with it to the parlor, where Paul was 
 putting on his gloves before going out. 
 "Is it Fate ? " he asked gaily. 
 " I believe it is," replied Dora. "It comes 
 from Deeuah."
 
 MR. COURTENAY'S DECISION. 
 
 21 
 
 Mrs. Luan put down her patchwork. 
 
 " Perhaps John had better not go to Lon- 
 don, after all. Suppose Mr. Courtenay were 
 to portion Dora. Say give her two thousand 
 pounds or so." 
 
 Whilst Mrs. Luan was thus calculating, 
 Paul broke the seal of the letter, glanced 
 over it, then said calmly, " I have failed." 
 
 A dead silence fell on them all. 
 
 "My theory on the Henri-deux ware was 
 wrong," resumed Paul, quietly ; " at least, my 
 uncle says so." And he read aloud : " ' The G 
 on my salt-cellar has another origin than that 
 you ascribe to it. In the year 1537, died 
 Madame de Gouffier, wife of the Lord of Oiron. 
 She left some valuable specimens of pottery. 
 Now, Henri-deux ware is the only valuable 
 French pottery of that period. Hence, Mr. 
 Templemore concludes that the G on my salt- 
 cellar is for Gouffier. I agree with him, and 
 shall call my Henri-deux ware 'Pottery of 
 Oiron in Poitou.' " 
 
 The letter concluded with some compliments 
 to Paul's success and industry in other re- 
 spects, enclosed a check for two hundred 
 pounds, to make up for loss of time, and lest 
 he should accuse his uncle of partiality, was 
 accompanied by a printed copy of Mr. Temple- 
 more's catalogue. Paul's voice never faltered, 
 his cheek never blanched, his eye remained 
 firm as he read this letter. Mrs. Courtenay 
 looked blank ; Mrs. Luan bewildered ; and 
 Dora hid her face in her hands and wept. 
 
 " Come," he said cheerfully, " that will 
 mend nothing. Let us look at Mr. Temple- 
 rnore's catalogue." 
 
 Perhaps that was the hardest trial of all — 
 perhaps it was too hard. Dora, who had 
 checked her tears to look at her brother, read 
 with the keenest pain the meaning of his face. 
 Defeated was written there. Ay, Paul Cour- 
 tenay felt doubly defeated, for he felt that 
 his uncle's sentence was just, and Mr.Temple- 
 more's victory complete. He shut the book 
 
 with some emotion, took his gloves, looked 
 for his hat, and saying rather hurriedly, " I 
 shall be late," he left them. They were all 
 silent after he was gone. They all knew — 
 even Mrs. Luan knew it— -that a thunderbolt 
 had fallen, and that this young tree, so green, 
 so fresh a few weeks back, was riven. 
 
 Mrs. Courtenay lamented over the loss of 
 Mr. Courtenay's fortune, as if she had ex- 
 pected Paul to enter into possession of it the 
 next day, and he had been unkindly deprived 
 of it. Mrs. Luan, who never said much, 
 seemed to have grown dumb ; and Dora, the 
 light, gay Dora, was gloomy, and surreptitiously 
 took Mr. Templemore's catalogue, and went 
 up with it to her brother's room, the only 
 place where she knew that she could look at it 
 in peace. She sat by the window, whence she 
 could see, if she chose, the distant bay, with 
 the sea melting away into a soft, gray sky ; 
 but little charm had that grand prospect for 
 Dora now. She, too, for once, wanted to be 
 miserable, and she had her wish. The cata- 
 logue was a wonderful catalogue. It was 
 magnificently printed, and the illustrations 
 were beautiful — mere woodcuts, indee I, but 
 executed by a practised hand, and with a 
 vigor and a spirit which Dora, who drew well, 
 could appreciate. The text, however, was the 
 criterion of Mr. Templemore's work ; and 
 there too, alas ! he far surpassed her brother. 
 Paul's taste for virtu was a fictitious, acquired 
 taste ; Mr. Templemore's was evidently a natu- 
 ral gift, matured by long, careful cultivation. 
 Dora could not tell how far he was right in his 
 theory concerning the Henri-deux ware, but 
 she was obliged to confess that it was infi- 
 nitely more plausible than her brother's. Mr. 
 Templemore's superiority in other matters she 
 also ascertained; but she could not go to the 
 end of the painful task. She threw the book 
 away in a passion of resentment and grief, 
 and burst into a flood of bitter tears. 
 
 Slow and miserable was the rest of this un-
 
 22 
 
 DORA. 
 
 happy clay. Paul came home very late, but 
 he found Dora sitting up for him in the par- 
 lor. He looked scarcely pleased. Perhaps 
 he was in one of those moods when silence 
 and solitude are most acceptable. Yet Dora 
 was not troublesome. She did not intrude ad- 
 vice or consolation. She only looked at him 
 with gentle, loving eyes, until his heart smote 
 him for the coldness of his averted glances, 
 and lie beckoned her to his side. At once she 
 came, and twining her arm around his neck, 
 laid her cheek to his. 
 
 " Poor Dora ! " he said, kindly, " you have 
 all the sorrow, as you had all the trouble. But 
 do not fret for me. I shall do. It is all 
 over ! " 
 
 " You saw her? " 
 
 " No ; but I wrote to her. She had never 
 been pledged to me, but for all that I set her 
 free. I fancy she will marry soon — I trust she 
 will be happy, dear girl ! " 
 
 Dora's eyes flashed. Happy with another ! 
 — oh ! how could Paul say that ? — how could 
 he feel it ? But he did feel it. Perhaps his 
 was the disinterested love which is as rare as 
 true love itself; perhaps it was not very deep 
 love, after all, and could be resigned easily to 
 loss and separation. 
 
 " But you, Paul," she said, " how will you 
 feel ? " 
 
 " Unhappy for a time, then I shall grow 
 comforted, no doubt. But, Dora, I do not 
 think I shall ever marry." 
 
 " Then if you do not, I will not either," she 
 said, impetuously — " never, Paul ! " 
 
 " Never ! — what will John say to that ? " 
 
 "John may say what he pleases — I do not 
 care about him. Besides, I would not marry 
 my cousin." 
 
 " Well, time will show what either of us 
 will do ; and now, Dora, it is late — go to bed, 
 dear." 
 
 " Why should I not sit up here with you ? — 
 we used to sit up for the catalogue, hoping 
 
 and dreaming. Why should we not sit up 
 now, regretting and lamenting together ? " 
 
 " I cannot talk about it," he said, in a. low 
 tone. " I wish I could — it would be better 
 for me — but I cannot." 
 
 " And what will you do about that money, 
 Paul ? " asked Dora, with flashing eyes ; " you 
 will not keep it ? " 
 
 " Yes, Dora, I will. My first impulse was 
 to return it, and if Mr. Courtenay's decision 
 had been an unjust one — not a farthing of it 
 would I touch. But there is the hardship of 
 my case. I cannot think myself an ill-used 
 man ; I had a chance given me, and I lost it. 
 It was fair play, Dora. I should only display 
 a small, silly pride, if I were to refuse this 
 gift of a relative who meant me kindly." 
 
 Dora was silent. She seldom opposed any 
 decision of her brother's. To please and obey 
 him was the law of her life, and when he 
 again said that it was late, she took the hint 
 and left him. Mrs. Courtenay was already 
 fast asleep, but Dora could not go to bed at 
 once. She could not forget Paul, sitting by 
 the lonely hearth below, and mourning over 
 his lost love and lost fortune, both wrecked 
 in the same little tempest — little to the cold 
 world looking on — to him how grievous and 
 how sad ! At length he came up-stairs, but 
 he, too, stayed sitting up. What was he 
 doing ? Dora stole out on the dark landing, 
 and listened at her brother's door. She beard 
 a chair moving slightly. Paul was sitting, 
 then ; yet if he wanted to sit up, might he not 
 have stayed below ? His light was not out, 
 Dora looked in at him through the keyhole, 
 then stole back to her room with a deep sigh : 
 Paul was reading the catalogue. 
 
 That catalogue became the unhappy young 
 man's retrospective torment. He never read 
 it in the presence of the family, yet Dora knew 
 that he studied it night and morning. He 
 gave the day to the law ; the hours which 
 were his he devoted to this morbid brooding
 
 JOHN LUAN'S VISIT TO LONDON. 
 
 23 
 
 over the past. There was no doubt a sort of 
 dreary satisfaction in comparing his own fruit- 
 less attempt with his rival's sure effort, in 
 thinking, " I should have succeeded if I had 
 done this, and I failed just by that hair's- 
 breadth." If Dora had dared, she would have 
 remonstrated with him, but she did not ven- 
 ture to do so. It was Paul's misfortune that 
 he must suffer in silence. 
 
 If anything could have added new bitterness 
 to his regret, it was the sudden decease of Mr. 
 Courtenay. He died at Deenah toward the 
 close of the year. By his will he left the bulk 
 of his property to Mr. Templemore. To Dora, 
 Paul, and John he left five hundred pounds 
 apiece. Neither his sister, Mrs. Luan, nor his 
 sister-in-law, Mrs. Courtenay, was mentioned 
 in Mr. Courtenay's will. 
 
 " A very strange, uncivil man," said Mrs. 
 Courtenay, stiffly. 
 
 Mrs. Luan, who had most reason to com- 
 plain, said nothing, but she thought — 
 
 " John can go to London now." 
 
 How that thought passed from Mrs. Luan's 
 mind to John's no one ever knew, not even 
 John himself; but he entered the cottage one 
 evening overflowing with the project, and find- 
 ing Dora sitting alone by the fire, and looking 
 rather pensive, he came up to her with the 
 question — 
 
 " Anything new, Dora ? " 
 
 "Nothing," she replied, gravely, "only I 
 was thinking about our five hundred pounds. 
 Mr. Ryan says he could double the amount for 
 us in no time." 
 
 " I mean to go to London with mine," said 
 John. 
 
 " To London ! " 
 
 If he had said to Timbuctoo, Dora could 
 scarcely have looked more surprised. 
 
 " Yes, for my profession. It will be such an 
 advantage to me." 
 
 John thrust his fingers through his fair 
 locks, and looked like a man who has five 
 
 hundred pounds, and knows his status in so- 
 ciety. 
 
 "An advantage to leave us," gently replied 
 Dora. 
 
 She only thought of the cousinship, of the 
 old familiarity, of the friendship which had 
 grown with years, and were to be now all put 
 by ; but her gentle voice, and her mild, re- 
 proachful look, said far more than this to 
 John Luan. He turned red and pale, and 
 trembled. 
 
 " Dora," he faltered, " we are too young — 
 you know ? " 
 
 " Too young for what ? " asked Dora, ris- 
 ing, and standing straight before him. 
 
 She spoke so coldly, she looked so lofty, 
 that John was dumb ; but if anything had been 
 needed to urge him to go to London, that look 
 and that question of Dora's would have done 
 it. He sat down without answering her, and 
 looked rather sullen and discomfited. When 
 his mother and Mrs. Courtenay came in, he 
 spoke of his journey as a settled thing. Mrs. 
 Courtenay lifted up her hands in amazement. 
 
 " My dear boy," she said, raising her little 
 shrill voice, " what can take you to London ? " 
 
 " Mr. Courtenay's five hundred pounds, 
 aunt," answered John, rather carelessly. 
 
 " But Mr. Ryan would double it for you," 
 cried Mrs. Courtenay ; " he would treble it, 
 John," she added, with a little scream of de- 
 light at the prospect of such doubling and 
 trebling, which is indeed very delightful whilst 
 it takes place on the increasing and not on the 
 decreasing principle. It is charming to multi- 
 ply your capital by three, but such multiplica- 
 tion sometimes ends by the division of your 
 sum total, and then, alas ! it is grievous 
 enough. Such lamentable results Mrs. Cour- 
 tenay by no means contemplated, and she 
 candidly wondered at John's obstinacy in not 
 letting his five hundred pounds be trebled by 
 Mr. Ryan. 
 
 "Mr. Ryan would not take the trouble,"
 
 24 
 
 DORA. 
 
 replied John, trying to get out of it this 
 way. 
 
 "Oh, yes he will, if I ask him." 
 
 " Well, then, don't ask him, mamma," said 
 Dora, a little tartly. " John wants to go." 
 
 John hung his head and looked sheepish ; 
 but it was true enough, he wanted to go, and 
 he went. 
 
 When it came to the parting Dora forgave 
 him. She could not go with him to the sta- 
 tion, for Mrs. Courtenay was unwell, but she 
 clung to him rather fondly as he bade her 
 adieu at the end of the garden, where the cab 
 stood waiting. 
 
 " Good-by, old Jolmny ! " she said, with a 
 sigh. " I know you will never come back." 
 
 " Yes, I will," lie interrupted. " Good-by, 
 my dear girl ! " 
 
 Tears stood in his eyes as he kissed her. 
 Perhaps, seeing her so kind, John Luan was 
 sorry to be going, after all. 
 
 " You'll be late," said his mother, who did 
 did not like that parting. 
 
 John looked at his watch, kissed his cousin 
 again, and entered the cab with Mrs. Luan. 
 His last words were — 
 
 " I shall come back sooner than you think, 
 Dora." 
 
 " Poor Johnny ! " she thought, as the cab 
 drove away; "he means it, but he will not 
 come back." 
 
 When Mrs. Luan returned from the station 
 she looked flushed and excited. This parting, 
 •the first which had ever taken place between 
 her and her son, had been too much for her. 
 Her mind had not perhaps realized its keen 
 agony until she was called upon to endure it. 
 Dora looked at her with gentle pity, but there 
 was a sort of sternness in Mrs. Luan's eyes as 
 she returned the look. That bright hair and 
 those pink checks had divided her from her 
 darling, and she bated them. There is a 
 Btrange inability in some natures to under- 
 stand other natures. It was then, and was 
 
 ever afterward, impossible to Dora to under- 
 stand this woman, whom she had known all 
 her life. She saw that she was grieving for 
 her son, but she did not understand the na- 
 ture of that grief. 
 
 " Dear aunt," she said, going and sitting 
 down by her, " you must not fret. It is in 
 the nature of young men, I suppose, to leave 
 those whom they love best. I dare say John 
 has been thinking about that a long time, and 
 when he got these five hundred pounds he 
 could not resist the temptation." 
 
 This soothing speech Mrs. Luan did not an- 
 swer, but, to Dora's surprise, she rose, took 
 off her cap, and flung it to the other end of 
 the room, saying, 
 
 " Oh, my head is so hot ! " 
 
 To take off her cap and throw it about 
 became one of Mrs. Luan's habits from that 
 dav forth. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 It may be that Paul Courtenay had hoped 
 to the last, and that his uncle's will was a 
 blow to him. It seemed to Dora that he 
 looked sadder and graver after John's depar- 
 ture than he had ever looked before. She 
 watched him closely, and thought that he was 
 both pale and grave when he came home one 
 evening in the spring that followed Mr. Cour- 
 tenay's death. A book lay open before him, 
 and he never once turned its page?. 
 
 " Something new has happened," thought 
 Dora. 
 
 Mr. Ryan's entrance helped to divert her 
 thoughts. Mr. Ryan often came to see them 
 of an evening now. He had invested their 
 thousand pounds in some wonderful mannet, 
 and the doubling or trebling was going on 
 amazingly. Mrs. Courtenay, who took the 
 deepest interest in that process, could not 
 weary of the subject, and tried many a pa- 
 tience for its sake. She called it " it," and
 
 FLORENCE GALE'S MARRIAGE. 
 
 25 
 
 never specified it by any other term. So al- 
 most her first words to Mr. Ryan this evening 
 were, 
 
 "Well, Mr. Ryan, how is it going on? " 
 
 "Nobly ! " was Mr. Ryan's emphatic reply. 
 
 " Well, but when am I to be rich ? " asked 
 Dora, a little tartly. "I want to sit down, 
 and fold my hands, and be a useless fine lady, 
 Mr. Ryan." 
 
 " Oh ! you girl ! " 
 
 " My dear, did you not hear Mr. Ryan say- 
 ing it was going on nobly ? " remarked her 
 mother, with gentle reproof. " Now, when a 
 thing like that goes on nobly," cried Mrs. 
 Courtenay, raising her voice, and clasping her 
 hands with a sort of childish delight, " I call 
 it beautiful." 
 
 " Paul, what do you say to it ? " whispered 
 Dora. " Are we to be rich ? " 
 
 She bent over his shoulder, and looked in 
 his face. He smiled gravely. 
 
 " Do yon wish to be rich, Dora ? " he asked. 
 
 Dora had had that wish; not that wealth 
 was very dear to her for its own sake, but be- 
 cause she loved her brother. But now that 
 Paul was to be poor, and that Deenah was 
 gone, it seemed to her that money was of little 
 worth. 
 
 " I don't know," she hesitatingly replied, 
 " yet I suppose it must be pleasant." 
 
 " Pleasant ! " a little indignantly remarked 
 Mr. Ryan. He had money, plenty said the 
 world, and he did not like to hear Mammon 
 slighted and called pleasant. 
 
 " You are quite ridiculous, my dear," said 
 Mrs. Courtenay. 
 
 But Dora did not heed them. She had re- 
 turned to her chair, and thence she looked at 
 Paul so grave, so sad, and she felt again, 
 " Something' new has happened." She knew 
 what had happened three days later. On the 
 morning of Mr. Ryan's visit Florence Gale had 
 married a Mr. Logan, very rich, said report, 
 and young and handsome, it added. So it was 
 
 probable that Mrs. Logan had not been made 
 a martyr to filial obedience, after all. Of this 
 Paul said nothing to his sister. He had closed 
 the book of his life at the page where love and 
 hope had each written his sad vixit, and ho 
 opened it again at the page of hard work and 
 lawful ambition. He was grave, and by. no 
 means cheerful, but he was neither nervous 
 nor melancholy. He bore his lot manfully, 
 and Mr. Courtenay's fortune and the catalogue 
 and Florence Gale were soon as things that 
 had never been at Mrs. Courtenay's cottage. 
 
 Seeing him thus, Dora gradually became as 
 bright and as radiant as ever. Joy had return- 
 ed to her, and she would not let the lovely 
 guest be gone. She read, she sang. She woke 
 music from her old spinet, she was house- 
 keeper and a young lady, and she was as 
 happy as the day was long. Early one summer 
 evening Paul came home. He found his sister 
 in the garden watering her flowers. She 
 turned round on hearing him, and became 
 suddenly silent. 
 
 " Paul ! how pale you are ! " she said, a little 
 anxiously. 
 
 " Am I ? " he cheerfully replied, " I feel 
 very well, however. I have just met Mrs. 
 Logan," he added; "she looked both lovely 
 and happy. She came and shook hands with 
 me, and looked as light-hearted as a butter- 
 fly." 
 
 " I never liked her," resentfully cried Dora ; 
 " she was never worthy of you." 
 
 " It was not her fault, Dora, if I was mis- 
 taken in her ; but it was mine." 
 
 " How she lured you on about that cata- 
 logue," continued Dora, " and then bow soon 
 she forsook you t " 
 
 " She was not pledged to me." 
 
 " True love needs no pledges," loftily replied 
 Dora. 
 
 "But suppose some women cannot fool true 
 love," he playMly suggested. "Are you sure 
 of yourself, Dora ? "
 
 26 
 
 DORA. 
 
 "No," she honestly answered, "for I can- 
 not imagiue I shall ever care for any one as I 
 care for you, Paul. And if you do not mar- 
 ry," she added, warmly, " I never shall — 
 never ! " 
 * Paul smiled, but he thought it unlikely that 
 either he or his sister should ever marry. He 
 felt no inclination for wedded life, and Dora 
 was proud and poor, and lived in such seclu- 
 sion that the male sex might well be forgiven 
 if they did not appreciate her merits. 
 
 " Well, little Dora," he said, cheerfully, " we 
 shall be none the more unhappy for it, if it is 
 to be." 
 
 " Unhappy ! I should think not." 
 
 She raised her face for a kiss, which she 
 got, and perhaps, as she received it, Dora felt 
 some little jealous joy at the thought that 
 the day of Florence Gale had gone by, and 
 ber own had come back. 
 
 Paul retired early that evening. He was a 
 little tired, he said, and Dora could not waken 
 him by playing on her " piano," as she and 
 every one at home called it, by one of those 
 convenient fictions in which it is pleasant for 
 the poor to indulge. She sat and sewed by 
 the light of the solitary candle, whilst Mrs. 
 Courtenay tried her patience, and nodded over 
 it, and Mrs. Luan pored over a letter from 
 " poor John." A loud ring at the garden bell 
 startled them all. 
 
 "Light the other candle!" cried Mrs. Cour- 
 tenay, wakening up with an alarmed start ; but 
 before Dora could obey that prudent order, 
 the heedless little servant-girl had admitted 
 Mr. Ryan, who burst in upon them like a tem- 
 pest. 
 
 " Ntaws, news ! " he shouted, waving his hat 
 in the wildest excitement. 
 
 "How is it going on?" cried Mrs. Cour- 
 tenay, breathlessly. 
 
 " Grandly ! Paul and Dora have two hun- 
 dred a year each. It has been coming on 
 these six months. I sold out and invested 
 
 again this very afternoon — two hundred a year 
 each ! " 
 
 A thousand pounds had given them two 
 hundred a year each ! Ignorant as she was of 
 money matters, Dora knew that this was grand 
 trebling indeed. The tidings so bewildered 
 her that she stood still and mute. Mrs. Cour- 
 tenay, on the contrary, uttered three little 
 screams of delight ; whilst Mrs. Luan took off 
 her cap and flung it at Mr. Ryan, on whose 
 head it alighted sideways, giving his red face 
 a waggish and knowing aspect. 
 
 This sobered them all. 
 
 " Is the woman mad ? " asked Mr. Ryan, 
 staring, and taking off Mrs. Luan's cap with 
 some indignation. 
 
 " I beg your pardon," said Mrs. Luan, 
 calmly. " I meant to throw it on the table." 
 
 " Did you, though ! I wonder why it flew 
 up upon me, then ! And pray, ma'am, why 
 did you take off your cap at all and fling it 
 about so ? " 
 
 " My head is so hot," she replied, staring at 
 him, " and you upset me with your two hun- 
 dred a year." 
 
 " Yes, yes; your son John has made ducks 
 and drakes of his money — I know — I know." 
 
 And Mr. Ryan humanely considered that 
 this disappointment was a sufficient explana- 
 tion of the cap affair, as he called it, when he 
 related the incident to his sister, Miss Ryan, 
 who was then on a visit to him. 
 
 " Oh ! how you have trebled ! " cried Mrs. 
 Courtenay, raising her voice and her hands 
 in admiration. " How you have trebled, Mr. 
 Ryan ! " 
 
 " Dear Paul," said Dora, as happy tears 
 stood in her eyes ; " he has been working too 
 hard, but he can rest now." 
 
 " Oh ! you girl ! A young man can never 
 work too hard." 
 
 " And I say that Paul has been working too 
 hard," replied Dora; " but I must go and tell 
 him the news. A fairy tale — a real fairy tale ! " •
 
 PA[JL COURTENAY'S DEATH. 
 
 27 
 
 She lightly ran up-stairs, leaving her mother 
 in ecstasies, and Mrs. Luan settling her cap 
 on, but looking very dull and gray. What 
 had become of John's five hundred pounds by 
 this time ? And why had she sent him away 
 from Dora, who had two hundred a year now 1 
 Was this the end of her planning ? Oh ! if 
 she had but waited ! 
 
 " I shall not waken him if he sleeps," 
 thought Dora ; " but if he is awake, I will tell 
 him with a kiss. Paul, my darling, we are 
 rich now. We can afford not to think any 
 more of Mr. Courtenay's fortune. And with 
 two hundred a year and your profession you 
 can find a wife — a true good wife — not a 
 Florence Gale, who could forget you for a Mr. 
 Logan." 
 
 With a noiseless foot she entered his room. 
 It' was dark, and the light she held fell on the 
 pillow where his calm face lay sleeping. She 
 put the candlestick down and softly stole tow- 
 ard him. When she stood by his side she 
 looked at him with eyes swimming in tears. 
 How altered he was since the day when he 
 had come back from Deenah, full of eager 
 hope ! How pale and thin and worn he looked 
 in his sleep ! And what had he been read- 
 ing ? — that dreadful catalogue again ! • She 
 knelt on the rug. and softly took his hand, 
 which hung loosely outside the bedclothes. 
 But scarcely had she touched it when she 
 started up and uttered a piercing cry. That 
 hand was cold — cold as marble; and, alas! 
 that cry, though it filled the house and brought 
 up its terrified tenants around her, did not 
 waken her brother. Never, never more would 
 Paul draw her to his side and call her his little 
 Dora. Brother and sister, whom nothing was 
 to divide, were parted thus early on their 
 journey ; and whilst one took his rest, having 
 earned his wages, the other was to go on the 
 sad pilgrimage alone and desolate ! 
 
 " My brother, my brother ! " was all she 
 could say. For weeks this was her cry, for 
 
 years it rang in her heart, " My brother ! " In 
 every hour of tribulation the sorrowful words 
 were spoken. 
 
 Every one grieved for this young man. Mrs. 
 Courtenay mourned for him as for a son. Mrs. 
 Luan shed genuine tears, and remembered 
 with a pang that his death gave Dora four 
 hundred a year. Mr. Ryan did not weary of 
 lamenting " the poor boy's untimely fate ; " 
 but of all those who could say, " Thus died 
 Paul Courtenay," none knew that with him 
 died the pride and the ambition of his sister's 
 heart. She had loved him, but she had also 
 hoped in him. He had been, though she 
 knew it not, perhaps, the great stake in her 
 life. All her hopes and her desires had rested 
 upon him, never once upon herself. Through 
 him she was to be honored, in his reflected 
 glory she was to shine. Of her own value and 
 her own part in the great human drama she 
 never thought.- When he went, all went with 
 him. It might be well for both of them that 
 it should be so. He never knew the bitter- 
 ness of disappointment, nor she that of a sud- 
 den wakening. He was her hero now for ever. 
 He was to have been a great orator, the rich 
 man, the pride and stay of his family. How 
 often had the triumphs of Demosthenes, of 
 Chatham and Grattan, made her heart throb ! 
 How often had she sat at twilight, by the open 
 window, or over the smouldering fire, listening 
 to her brother's fervid eloquence, to the mur- 
 murs of applause and the deafening cheers of 
 a senate, whilst her mother chatted prettily or 
 her aunt stitched at her patchwork ! 
 
 All this was over now ; but better perhaps 
 that death had stepped in, silencing the elo- 
 quent lips with an icy hand, than that Time, 
 the great disenchanter, should have shown to 
 Paul and his sister the folly of a long-cherished 
 dream. 
 
 But this Dora never felt, and never was to 
 feel. The object of her adoration was safe 
 from a fate so grievous. Yet perhaps because
 
 28 
 
 DORA. 
 
 she bad loved him so fondly, and hoped in 
 him so fervently, was her grief felt and not 
 spoken. To all seeming, indeed, it was not a 
 deep grief. She mourned, but not with such 
 a sorrow as her impassioned love ought to 
 have called forth. So thought Mr. Ryan, and 
 even her mother. Dora was pale and thin, 
 but she smiled brightly, nay, she laughed — 
 why, she actually sang again, though Paul 
 was in his grave. She sang his songs, too — 
 not plaintive, but merry Irish melodies, which 
 had been dear to him. 
 
 " The Irish are a light-hearted people, Mr. 
 Ryan," solemnly said Mrs. Courtenay to her 
 friend. 
 
 Mr. Ryan did not answer this national ques- 
 tion, but listening to Dora's singing up-stairs 
 in Paul's room, he thought, " That girl puzzles 
 me." He also thought that he would study 
 her, but the opportunity to do so was not 
 granted to Mr. Ryan. 
 
 Paul had not long been dead, when Mrs. 
 Courtenay said to her daughter one after- 
 noon, 
 
 " I am sure it was this dreadful climate that 
 killed my poor boy." 
 
 "But, mamma, Paul's was a heart-com- 
 plaint." 
 
 " Of course it was ; well, the climate killed 
 him — and I am sure I have a heart-complaint 
 too." 
 
 " Dear mamma, I cannot . think that. My 
 dear brother was so pale, and you have a 
 lovely color." 
 
 "But such dreadful palpitations!" sighed 
 Mrs. Courtenay ; " oh ! such dreadful palpi- 
 tations ! " 
 
 Dora put down her work and fell into the 
 saddest dream. Paul had never complained 
 of palpitations, but said he was well to the 
 last. 
 
 "I want a change," pursued Mrs. Cour- 
 tenay; "and I think I shall go to London." 
 
 " To London ! " cried Dora, much startled. 
 
 " Yes, London air always agreed with me.'' 
 
 " But, mamma, London air is surely not 
 good air ? " 
 
 " .Beawtiful air ! " cried Mrs. Courtenay, 
 raising her voice with enthusiasm. 
 
 Dora looked at her aunt. "Was it she who, 
 to be with her son, had suggested so strange a 
 step to her mother; but Mrs. Luan stitched 
 on stolidly at her patchwork, and said, 
 
 " There is no air like Dublin air." 
 
 " Do listen to her ! " compassionately ex- 
 claimed Mrs. Courtenay. " No air like Dublin 
 air ! Poor thing ! " 
 
 " Then aunt had nothing to do with it," 
 thought Dora, in her innocence. 
 
 She tried to oppose Mrs. Courtenay's wish ; 
 Mr. Ryan also interfered, but to no purpose — 
 there was a secret agency at work more potent 
 than they knew of. Mrs. Luan's plan was of 
 the simplest kind. She asked her sister-in- 
 law daily how she was, and if she felt quite 
 well. She put these questions when Dora was 
 not present, and with them, and a few care- 
 less hints, she carried the day, and the London 
 journey was decided upon. The cottage was 
 given up, the furniture was sold off, and on 
 the morning of the day when they were to go 
 to Kingston, thence to sail for Holyhead, Dora, 
 went alone to Glasnevin. 
 
 A plain head-stone marked Paul Courtenay's 
 grave. His name and age, and the word 
 Requiescat, were his only epitaph. Grass and 
 a few flowers already grew over him. As she 
 looked at that narrow space, at these few feet 
 of earth which held all that had been dearest 
 to her, Dora's heart overflowed with other feel- 
 ings than those of sorrow. There came to her 
 in that sad hour a bitterness which she could 
 not restrain. She remembered her uncle, who 
 had tempted Paul in his poverty, and urged 
 him to a task beyond his ability ; she remem- 
 bered Florence Gale, who had spurred him on 
 to labor beyond his strength, then forgotten 
 him ; she remembered Mr. Templemorc, whose
 
 LOSS OF DORA'S INCOME. 
 
 29 
 
 triumph had embittered even Paul Courtenay's 
 last hours ; and to these three she attributed 
 his premature death. " I must forgive them," 
 she thought ; " I must forgive the living as 
 well as the dead ; but to forgive is not to love, 
 and never, never shall therje be kindness be- 
 tween them and Paul's sister! " 
 
 Alas ! was this a spot, was this an hour for 
 thoughts like these ? A lowering gray sky 
 bent over the cemetery, a southwesterly wind 
 moaned amongst the young trees ; it had rained 
 all night, and the sodden earth said how cold 
 and how dreary was the bed of the dead. There 
 they slept around Dora in hundreds, ,in thou- 
 sands. Did they murmur, did they complain ? 
 Life, its fever, its troubles, and its hundred 
 cares were over for them, and was it not well ? 
 If they could have spoken, would not their 
 faint, low voices have risen to reprove the re- 
 sentful girl who brought to their peaceful realm 
 the angry feelings of life ? 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 Mrs. Courtenay had left Dublin a year 
 when Mr. Ryan took a journey to London, and 
 scarcely giving himself time to dine, at once 
 entered a cab, and drove off to see his old 
 friends. 
 
 Mrs. Courtenay lived in a pretty little villa 
 in Bayswater ; a white nest, with young green 
 trees around it. Mr. Ryan gave the place a 
 gratified look as he alighted and saw it in the 
 clear moonlight of a cold spring evening. 
 " Dora's bower," thought Mr.Ryan. A neat little 
 parlor-maid opened the door and admitted 
 him. " That's right," thought Mr. Ryan; " no 
 page in buttons — no fourth-rate man-servant, 
 but an irreproachable young woman. Dora is 
 a sensible girl." The crimson staircase carpet, 
 with its brass rods; the spacious landing, 
 adorned with pretty flower-stands, confirmed 
 this favorable impression ; and the drawing- 
 
 room added to it. A very charming drawing- 
 room it was, not luxurious, though graceful 
 and elegant. " Dora's kingdom," thought Mr. 
 Ryan ; and when the folding-doors opened, and 
 Dora entered the room, robed in white silk, 
 with roses blushing on her bosom, and wreathed 
 in her bright hair, she appeared in Mr. Ryan's 
 eyes as the fair queen of that little realm. Mr. 
 JStyan looked at her and at the drawing-room, 
 and at Mrs. Courtenay's black satin dress — 
 nay, even at Mrs. Luan's stylish cap, with ad- 
 miring eyes. Por were not all these luxuries 
 aud tokens of prosperity the result of the four 
 hundred a year his skilful management had se- 
 cured to Dora Courtenay ? 
 
 " Ah ! ha ! you were going off to a party ? " 
 he cried, gayly ; " why, even that rascal, John 
 Luan, has white kid gloves on. You did not 
 expect me, did' you, now ? " 
 
 " No, indeed, Mr. Ryan," replied Mrs. Cour- 
 tenay, in a most dolorous tone. 
 
 She sank down on a chair with a heavy sigh. 
 Mrs. Luan took a low seat, and sat straight 
 and motionless upon it. John Luan threw 
 himself on the sofa and looked deeply sulky. 
 Dora alone remained standing, and she greeted 
 her old friend very kindly ; but something 
 . ailed her too, for there was a deep flush on her 
 cheek, very different from its pure clear bloom. 
 
 " Why, what has happened ? " cried Mr. 
 Ryan, staring around him in amazement. 
 
 " Oh ! we are not going to the party," re- 
 plied Mrs. Courtenay. "Professor Gray has 
 just called to tell us that Brown aud Co. have 
 stopped payment, and that Mr. Brown is off 
 somewhere or other with poor Dora's four hun- 
 dred a year, and other people's thousands." 
 
 This was news indeed ! And, though Mr. 
 Ryan burst forth into incredulous exclama- 
 tions, very certain news, unfortunately. Dora's 
 money had vanished for ever in the gulf of 
 Brown and Co.'s difficulties, though, luckily 
 for them all, the little income of -Mrs. Courte- 
 nay and Mrs. Luan was still safe.
 
 30 
 
 DORA. 
 
 " And we were going to such a nice party," 
 plaintively said Mrs. Courtenay. " I almost 
 wish Professor Gray had kept his news till to- 
 morrow." 
 
 " Professor Gray takes a strong interest in 
 Dora," ironically remarked John. " Did you 
 not see, aunt, how he changed color when she 
 told him she was penniless, and how crestfallen 
 he looked as he left us ? " 
 
 " Yes," innocently i-eplied Mrs. Courtenay, 
 " he is one of Dora's admirers, you know. And 
 so was Mr. Brown. The last time she wore that 
 dress and these roses, he said they were set in 
 gold." 
 
 " Brown is a scoundrel ! " angrily said 
 John. 
 
 Poor John Luan ! For the last year he, too, 
 had sighed at Dora's feet! He, too, had 
 thought she looked lovely in her white silk 
 dress, and with the roses in her hair, and he 
 had burned with jealous wrath whenever Pro- 
 . fcssor Gray or the delinquent Brown looked at 
 her. Of one rival he was rid, and the other 
 he suspected he need not fear ; but what 
 availed it ? Dora was penniless, and John 
 Luan as poor as ever. He had come to take 
 his aunt and cousin to the party, and to wor- 
 ship and admire Dora, and feel wronged be- 
 cause others did as much ; instead of which he 
 had the doubtful satisfaction of calling Brown 
 a scoundrel, and of knowing that he could by 
 no means afford to marry a poor girl and keep 
 a wife. 
 
 " Poor John ! " thought Dora. " I like him, 
 I admire Professor Gray, and that cool, fair- 
 looking Mr. Brown was very pleasing in his 
 way ; but the thought of becoming Mrs. Luan, 
 Mrs. Gray^ or Mrs. Brown always made me 
 shudder. I wish I could tell him so." . 
 
 " Dear, dear, that is sad ! " exclaimed Mr. 
 Ryan, shaking his head at Dora. " That is 
 sad, my poor girl ! " 
 
 "Yes," she replied, "my little prosperity 
 came like a fairy gift, and like a fairy gift it 
 
 went away. But I was born poor, you know, 
 and can go back to poverty very easily." 
 
 John gazed admiringly at this young stoic, 
 who looked so serene — and so pretty — with 
 the roses in her hair, and he said, with. sudden 
 animation, 
 
 "It was only yesterday Thompson said I 
 was sure of that appointment. I shall cer- 
 tainly go down to Oxfordshire to-morrow." 
 
 Mrs. Luan heard him, and looked at him 
 and Dora with the sullen look of yore. For 
 the last year she had, as it were, wooed Dora 
 for John, after her own awkward fashion. 
 And now her labor was worse than vain, and 
 she once more saw John and Dora in a poor 
 cottage, with babies around them, whilst in 
 the background appeared a vision of Mr. 
 Brown in an express train, with Dora's four 
 hundred a year in his carpet-bag. 
 
 " If she had taken John at once," resent- 
 fully thought Mrs. Luan, " her money would 
 be all right ; and if he had not taken a fancy 
 to her his money would not be almost all 
 gone." 
 
 " Dear! dear ! " again said Mr. Ryan, "it is 
 very dreadful ! Four hundred a year, such a 
 nice little income ; and all gone — all gone ! " 
 
 Yes, it was all gone, indeed, and with it 
 had departed the new life which had been so 
 pleasant — the admirers, the parties, the intel- 
 lectual society, the little luxuries, the many 
 comforts. All these were gone, and Mr. Byan 
 no longer wielded that magic wand of capital 
 which would conjure them back again. With 
 a heavy heart he left his friends, and he spent 
 the night in maturing plans for their benefit. 
 
 But when he called the next day Mr. Ryan 
 found that everything had already been settled 
 without the help of his advice. 
 
 " It is no use fretting, you know, Mr. Ryan," 
 said Mrs. Courtenay, with airy fortitude; 
 " staying in London is out of the question, 
 and Dublin air disagrees with me, so we shall 
 go to France."
 
 THE FAMILY'S REMOVAL TO FRANCE. 
 
 31 
 
 " To France ! — why, who put that into your 
 head, Mrs. Courtenay ? " 
 
 " No one," tartly replied that lady ; " but I 
 am sure my native air is the very thing for 
 me." 
 
 Mr. Ryan stared. Mrs. Luan was looking 
 at the wall, and Dora's eyes were downcast. 
 John was not present. 
 
 " And what does John Luan say to that ? " 
 he asked. 
 
 "John knows nothing about it," was the 
 supercilious reply. " He went off to Oxford- 
 shire by the first train, and it was only five 
 minutes ago I made up my mind that Rouen 
 was to be our future residence. But now, Mr. 
 Ryan, I have a great favor to ask of you. 
 Mrs. Luan and I will go off at once, and settle 
 our new home. Will you kindly take care of 
 Dora here, and help her to dispose of the fur- 
 niture ? " 
 
 Mr. Ryan tried to remonstrate, but opposi- 
 tion only confirmed Mrs. Courtenay in her 
 purpose. Seeing her so determined, Mr, Ryan 
 desisted. After all, going to France might not 
 be so bad a plan. France was cheaper then 
 than it is now, and economy must be once 
 more the law of Mrs. Courtenay's life. 
 
 It is always sad to break up a home, and so 
 Dora now found it, spite her stoicism. When 
 it bad been ascertained beyond doubt that not 
 a farthing of her money could be recovered, 
 Mrs. Courtenay and Mrs. Luan proceeded to- 
 gether to France. Once more John Luan's 
 mother consented to leave him, in order to 
 separate him from Dora. She knew that the 
 best way to keep Mrs. Courtenay and Dora in 
 their new home was to accompany them. In- 
 deed, she had a strong presentiment that her 
 volatile little sister-in-law, if not watched, 
 might escape back again to England. Rather 
 than run so great a risk, Mrs. Luan would 
 forego even bidding adieu to her son, who was 
 still down in Oxfordshire, huDting for his ap- 
 pointment. 
 
 A letter soon came from Rouen, informine 
 Dora that Mrs. Courtenay had discovered the 
 most delightful lodging, with the dearest old 
 creature, and that all she wanted to be per- 
 fectly happy was her dear Dora's presence. 
 
 The furniture was disposed of to a broker, 
 so that on receiving this letter Dora had but 
 to pack up her trunk and leave the house 
 where she had spent some pleasant, if not 
 happy hours. She went over it alone, sighing 
 gently at the loss of her four hundred a year. 
 She looked wistfully at' the deserted drawing- 
 room, which she had. taken such pleasure in 
 adorning. Never more should Dora Courtenay 
 see pleasant, genial faces gathered there ; no 
 more should she hear intellectual and witty 
 talk within its walls. A few letters from Mr. 
 Ryan to a few clever people in London, a few 
 parties, and Dora's bright happy face had soon 
 made Mrs. Courtenay's little villa an attractive 
 rendezvous. 
 
 " But all that is over now," thought Dora, 
 as she closed the door, and went up to her own 
 room ; " we must return to the old life. Ah I 
 if we had but dear Paul, how welcome it would 
 be!" 
 
 That was the thought that ever came back. 
 Deep within her heart slept the remembrance 
 of her great sorrow, but every now and (hen 
 it woke again to cruel and bitter life. That 
 was the thought, too, which had kept Dora's 
 heart free. No man seemed able to waken 
 within her even a far echo of that passionate 
 love which she had once bestowed on her 
 brother Paul. When she looked at his por- 
 trait, the keen eye, the intellectual brow, the 
 manly look, all seemed to say, " Find the like 
 of us if you can." Who, indeed, could com- 
 pare with the lost hero of her young worship ? 
 
 " Yes, all would be well if I had you," she 
 now thought, glancing toward the miniature, 
 which hung between the firep I her nar- 
 
 row bed. "Oh! my brother! my broth 
 she exclaimed, as she clasped her hands in
 
 32 
 
 DORA. 
 
 sudden sorrow, and could not see that adored 
 image for blinding tears. " Why did I lose 
 you, my brother ? " 
 
 Yain appeal to the inexorable grave ! Yet 
 how often will that pitiful cry, " My brother ! " 
 be heard like a wail in the life of Dora Cour- 
 tenay ! She had sunk on a chair in her grief, 
 when her room door opened, and Mrs. Luan 
 came in. 
 
 "Aunt," exclaimed Dora, much amazed, 
 " what has happened ? " 
 
 " Nothing. What ase you crying for ? " 
 
 Dora did not answer. She never could 
 speak of her grief. Mrs. Luan took her bon- 
 net off and threw it on a chair. 
 
 " You want to stay," she said, angrily 
 
 "Aunt, I do not." 
 
 " Then you want to go back to Dublin." 
 
 " Oh ! no," sadly replied Dora. 
 
 The thought of returning to her lost home 
 was exquisitely painful to her. What was 
 that home without Paul's dear presence to 
 cheer it, or fill it with bright hopes and fond 
 illusions ? Moreover, in Dublin she must meet 
 Florence, or see Mr. Templemore. She did 
 not hate them, but they had so filled her 
 brother's heart with grief, that this proud and 
 silent heart had broken, and the spot that held 
 them became to her as the fatal gulf, or the 
 pitiless rock where some loved being has per- 
 ished, to be shunned for evermore. But Mrs. 
 Luan still looked at her mistrustfully. She 
 had come back to fetch her niece and take her 
 away, actuated by one of those wonderful 
 maternal presentiments which fail so rarely, 
 and she had found John Luan below with Mr. 
 Ryan. He had just arrived from Oxfordshire, 
 rather sulky and crestfallen at having failed 
 completely in his object, and very indignant 
 with Mrs. Courtenay for taking her daughter 
 off to a strange country. Thus he spoke to 
 his mother with the unconscious selfishness of 
 the young. She looked at him sullenly. Why 
 did he not think of her going ? Why did he 
 
 not want her to stay with him ? Why was 
 it all about parting with Dora, and nothing 
 for the separation between himself and his 
 mother? In this jealous mood Mrs. Luan 
 went up to Dora's room, and seeing her tears, 
 gave them but one meaning. Dora was cry- 
 ing at parting from John Luan ! From that 
 moment forward Mrs. Luan no longer left 
 Dora's side. She allowed Mr. Ryan to settle 
 with the brokers, she suffered the furniture to 
 be removed and money to be wasted and 
 squandered at a terrible rate, according to her 
 economical principles, and still she stuck to 
 Dora ; whilst John stalked about the house 
 with gloomy and sullen looks, and thought of 
 his lonely rooms in Howland Street. 
 
 In one respect Mrs. Luan's caution was not 
 needed. John had no intention of making 
 open love to Dora. He had not done so when 
 she had four hundred a year, and he would 
 not do so now that she had not a shilling. 
 Indeed, all Dora's admirers, with Professor 
 Gray at their head, had vanished. Report ex- 
 aggerated her losses, and the thought of mar- 
 rying a whole family daunts most men. 
 
 " It is well for me I cared for none of them," 
 thought Dora, rather stung to find how sud- 
 denly her value had fallen. 
 
 And now all was ready, and Dora and Mrs. 
 Luan had but to depart. John and Mr. Ryan 
 saw them to the station. 
 
 " Good-by, dear girl," said Mr. Ryan, kind- 
 ly ; "I shall keep my eye on Mr. Brown, you 
 know, and if anything turns up, why you may 
 rely upon me." 
 
 Dora could scarcely repress a smile. Mr. 
 Ryan's eye in London, or even in Dublin, did 
 not seem to her very likely to affect Mr. Brown 
 in America, and she had not the faintest hope 
 of anything turning up in the shape of money. 
 John was silent, but he was rather pale, and 
 Dora saw that this parting affected him. 
 " Poor John," thought Dora, kindly ; "he has 
 fancied himself so long in love with me, that
 
 THE RESIDENCE AT ROUEN*. 
 
 
 he believes it. I dare say he will go on so to 
 the end." 
 
 But she ^ent up to him and said a few kind 
 words about better times that were coming for 
 them all, and his getting that appointment in 
 the end. 
 
 "And if I do get it," began John, rather 
 eagerly ; but he ceased abruptly on seeing 
 his mother behind him. He had a vague 
 consciousness that Dora's altered circum- 
 stances had also altered his mother's feelings 
 and wishes. 
 
 "Time to go, John," said Mr. Ryan. 
 
 Yes, it was time, and spite Mrs. Luan's 
 watchful eye, John took Dora in his arms and 
 kissed her. 
 
 " Tell aunt I shall go and see her in Rouen," 
 he whispered. 
 
 "What is it? What did John say?" 
 eagerly asked Mrs. Luan, when the two gen- 
 tlemen were gone, and she and Dora sat in 
 the railway carriage. 
 
 "John says he will come and see us in 
 Rouen," simply replied Dor,a. 
 
 Railway and steamboat travelling has no 
 romance now. It is swift and convenient — we 
 must not ask it to be eventful. After an easy 
 passage, and a rapid journey through a green 
 landscape, Dora and her aunt reached Rouen 
 in the evening. Narrow streets and church- 
 spires rising through the darkness, seemed to 
 Dora the chief characteristics of Rouen as 
 they drove through it. 
 
 "Oh, such a dear old place," said Mrs. 
 Courtenay, whom they had found at the sta- 
 tion ; " I am sure you will like our apart- 
 ments, Dora, and that dear old thing, Madame 
 Bertrand." 
 
 Dora asked no better than to be pleased 
 with everything. But when she reached their 
 new home, and saw a dingy old house, a dark 
 and narrow staircase, a clean little old land- 
 lady in a cotton apron and white cap, and 
 some very poorly-furnished rooms on the first 
 3 
 
 floor, she tried not to sigh as she remembered 
 the pretty villa in Bayswater. 
 
 , CHAPTER Vm. 
 
 The often-boasted charm of novelty was not 
 felt by Dora when she awoke the next morn- 
 ing and looked around her. The little room, 
 with its dingy, old-fashioned furniture, not one 
 article of which was endeared by familiarity, 
 seemed both cheerless and unpleasant. The 
 ceiling was low and depressing. The few 
 sounds which arose from the street had no 
 old homely meaning in them. A certain 
 quaintness there was, indeed, in the aspect of 
 the place, but even Dora was obliged to con- 
 fess that there was no more. 
 
 " And yet I shall be happy here in spite of 
 you, you poor little room ! " she thought, as 
 she rose and dressed herself. " I never had 
 such bed-curtains before. I shall remember 
 that when I feel dull, and be thankful." 
 
 Those curtains were certainly peculiar, more 
 peculiar than beautiful. Dora sat down on 
 the edge of the bed to look at them. They 
 were of a dull lilac tint, which many a wash- 
 ing had faded, and they represented the for- 
 tunes of the fair and much-tried Griselidis. 
 Dora saw her standing at her father's door in 
 humble, shepherdess attire ; then came the 
 noble wooer and his suite to bear the new 
 marchioness away. Now Grisclidis sits on a 
 throne in state, and with rank and dignity 
 begin her sorrows. Her children are taken 
 from her, her husband grows unkind, and 
 finally repudiates his too patient wife. Dora, 
 who had raised the curtain to follow the 
 story to its happy end, dropped it with some 
 scorn as the last print showed her the Mar- 
 quis of Saluces embracing his forgiving spouse. 
 
 " How I should have hated that man ! " she 
 thought, her bright eyes flashing. " Some 
 sour old bachelor certainly had these curtains
 
 34 
 
 DORA. 
 
 first. What woman would choose such a sub- 
 ject for night or morning contemplation ? " 
 
 She was dressed by this, and opened the 
 window a little impatiently. Stranger still 
 than within did everything without look to her 
 unaccustomed eye. On the opposite side of 
 the narrow street stood an old church, at the 
 corner of a dark alley. It had long been dis- 
 used for worship, and was now the storehouse 
 of a large foundery. Through the open door 
 Dora could see heaps of grapeshot and mus- 
 ket-balls lying on the dusty floor. The cold 
 gray walls were stripped of all their ecclesias- 
 tical pageantry. The painted glass windows 
 had long been shattered and walled up. Al- 
 tar, pictures, flowers, and golden candlesticks 
 were all gone, but high up near the roof Dora 
 could still read the half-effaced words, " Gloire 
 a Dieu." 
 
 Above the gate stood a stone bishop in his 
 mitre. The figure, though sadly mutilated, 
 still stretched out a benignant hand to bestow 
 the pastoral blessing. But the staff, emblem 
 of authority, was broken in the other hand, 
 which grasped but a useless fragment. Very 
 brown and gray was the carved front of this 
 dilapidated edifice. And yet the sad old ruin 
 had a charm which struck Dora as being both 
 quaint and graceful. The keeper of this place 
 probably had a taste for flowers, for he had 
 made himself a garden high up among the 
 buttresses. A sort of terrace he had fash- 
 ioned there ; he had brought mould to it, and 
 then filled it with stocks and lilies. Tall, 
 white, and spotless rose the virgin flowers, 
 looking very fair and pure against that som- 
 bre background. A vine, too, there was, that 
 scattered its green arms about and hung over 
 the street in festoons, which the ligh't breath 
 of the morning stirred gently. 
 
 The street itself was narrow, steep, and very 
 old. It had been of some note in the days 
 gone by. Presidents and members of the 
 Parliament of Rouen had dwelt in those large 
 
 hotels, with quiet grass-grown courts in front 
 and broad gardens behind. They were now 
 the abode of manufacturers and of retired 
 legal practitioners, who kept them in repair, 
 but who cared to do no more. Everything 
 was tranquil and silent. One house, more 
 poorly inhabited than the rest, showed a few 
 tokens of life. A green sign-board dangled 
 from one of the second-floor windows, and in- 
 formed the passers-by that Professor Didier 
 lived within. A pale, thin old woman looked 
 out for a few moments, then shut the window. 
 A rosy boy appeared at another window on 
 the third floor, and stared at Dora, but he too 
 vanished, and the house became as silent and 
 as quiet as its neighbors. In the street Dora 
 saw two children lazily going to school, then 
 a servant-girl in clattering sabots, who came 
 back with a pail of water from a fountain that 
 was almost underneath her window ; but when 
 the children had gone by, and the servant-girl 
 had passed beneath a dark archway in the al- 
 ley, not a soul was to be seen in the whole 
 street, and not a sound was to be heard save 
 the little flow and plash of the invisible wa- 
 ter. Dora tried to see it, and leaned out, 
 but she only caught sight of some stone carv- 
 ing with a green fern growing on the top of 
 it, high out of the reach of rude hands. 
 
 " It will be very quiet," she thought. 
 
 Already a sort of torpor, the forerunner of 
 the life she was to lead, stole over her. She 
 looked down the street, *and at its narrow 
 close she saw the green hazy river, with a 
 black boat gliding down ; and thus looking 
 and leaning on her window-sill, Dora fell into 
 a vague yet not unpleasant reverie. The clear 
 foreign sky, the strange city, and the quiet 
 street, with its picturesque memorials of by- 
 gone days, lulled thought to rest, and drove 
 care away. The loss of some money seemed 
 an event of little magnitude when compared 
 with these impressive tokens of ruin and de- 
 cay. Besides, Dora was still young, and as a
 
 MADAME BERTRAM). 
 
 85 
 
 rule gold is neither youth's hope nor its de- 
 sire. Other wishes, other longings than the 
 sordid are they which haunt the heart of twen- 
 ty-three. 
 
 " Well, my dear," said her mother's voice 
 behind her, " how do you like this ? " 
 Dora turned round, smiling brightly. 
 " It is very picturesque and peculiar," she 
 replied. 
 
 " Picturesque and peculiar ! " exclaimed 
 Mrs. Courtenay, with that little shrill raising 
 of the voice by which she expressed astonish- 
 ment. " My dear, it is simply enchanting. I 
 have not felt so happy for years as I have felt 
 since I came here ; and Madame Bertrand is 
 the most delightful old creature you ever saw ! " 
 " Is she old ? " demurely asked Dora. 
 " Is she old ! " exclaimed Mrs. Courtenay, 
 with the little shrill raising of the voice again. 
 " Old as the hills, but so good ; only I suspect, 
 my love, that she is a little touchy. She has been 
 better off, you see, and feels it hard to have to 
 wait upon us now. She made it a stipulation 
 that she was to be called Madame Bertrand, 
 and I came in to tell you so — I was afraid you 
 might hurt her feelings inadvertently." 
 
 Dora promised to be careful, but expressed 
 some wonder that Madame Bertrand should 
 have undertaken to be their servant-of-all- 
 work. Upon which it turned out that Madame 
 Bertrand had undertaken no such thing ; but 
 had volunteered her services with restrictions 
 so numerous that Dora was amused to hear 
 them recapitulated by her- mother. She prom- 
 ised, however, to attend to all this touchy lady's 
 regulations. Mrs. Courtenay nodded, and at 
 once resumed Madame Bertrand's praises. 
 That lady, it seemed, had had a succession of 
 lodgers. 
 
 "And they all adored her, save one," said 
 Mrs. Courtenay. " He was a Monsieur Theo- 
 dore, and after behaving abominably, coming 
 in and going out at all hours, and calling her 
 ' Bertrand,' quite short, as if she were a man, 
 
 he ran away without paying the poor old 
 soul." 
 
 Dora laughed merrily. 
 
 "Do they do that in France too?" she 
 asked. 
 
 " My dear, how can you be so simple ! They 
 do it everywhere. But it is a shame to impose 
 on that poor old thing, who, from all she has 
 told me about herself, must be one of the best 
 creatures who ever breathed ! " 
 
 Dora did not attempt to answer this. She 
 knew it was her mother's habit to take her 
 opinion of people from their own account of 
 themselves. So she listened to Madame Ber- 
 trand's praises with an amused smile, but with- 
 out other contradiction than the demure re- 
 mark — 
 
 " I wonder if Monsieur Theodore made love 
 to her." 
 
 " My dear, I tell you she is old — old ! " re- 
 monstrated her mother; and in the same 
 breath she informed her that breakfast was 
 ready, Madame Bertrand having condescended 
 so far as to prepare it. 
 
 Dora cast a quick, keen look around their 
 sitting-room, as she sat down to breakfast. 
 It was a clean, cold, and poor-looking apart- 
 ment enough. 
 
 "But you shall have another look before 
 the day is out," said Dora aloud. " I am talk- 
 ing to the room, aunt," she added, smiling at 
 Mrs. Luan's startled face. 
 
 " Don't spend, Dora ! " exclaimed Mrs. Luan, 
 putting down her cup in alarm. 
 
 "Oh! I must; but it shall not be beyond 
 pence. I know that shillings are forbidden 
 now." 
 
 Mrs. Luan still looked uneasy, but did not 
 venture on further remonstrance When 
 breakfast was over, Dora entered her room, 
 unpacked her trunk, and took out some of 
 those little toys which are the delight of a 
 woman's heart. She had saved them from 
 the wreck of her fortunes, not merely bee
 
 36 
 
 DORA. 
 
 habit had endeared them to her, but because, 
 though valuable of their kind, they would only 
 have been swallowed in the great catastrophe, 
 and would have brought in little or nothing at 
 a sale. "Within an hour the room, as Dora 
 had told it, had another look. She had hung 
 up a few water-color drawings on the walls, 
 put up two brackets with the bronze heads of 
 Shakespeare and Dante upon them, and for 
 the dingy, common French porcelain vases, 
 with artificial flowers in them, under glass 
 globes, which adorned Madame Bertrand's 
 black marble mantel-piece, Dora substituted 
 two white and blue vases of genuine china, 
 which she filled with fresh wall-flowers, bought 
 from a woman in the street. This, and a 
 work-basket on the table, a few books on a 
 shelf, and here and there a little feminine 
 trifle, so altered the aspect of the place, that 
 when Mrs. Courtenay came out of her own 
 room, and saw it again, she uttered a little 
 scream of delight. 
 
 " Tou are a fairy ! " she cried, clasping ber 
 hands in admiration. 
 
 " Twopence for nails, and twopence for 
 flowers," triumphantly said Dora, looking at 
 her aunt ; " total, fourpence !'" 
 
 Mrs. Luan was mute ; but, if she had dared, 
 she would have said that the fourpence were 
 ill-spent. 
 
 The day had been a busy one for Dora, and 
 toward the close she entered her room and sat 
 down to rest by her open window. She looked 
 at the old church, at the lilies, at the house 
 where the professor lived, and she found them 
 
 ft 
 
 all quiet and silent as in the morning. The 
 little rosy boy, whom she had already seen, 
 was peeping at her from behind a window cur- 
 tain, but when he saw her smiling face he dis- 
 
 i 
 
 . , peared. A glimpse of the professor's wife 
 she also had, but it was a brief one. Madame 
 Didier was looking out at her husband, a 
 lame, infirm man, who walked down the street 
 leaning heavily on his stick. She watched 
 
 him till he turned the corner of the street, 
 then she shut her window, and was seen no 
 more. Dora leaned back in her chair, with a 
 book lying unopened on her lap. She could 
 imagine from this day what her life would be. 
 She would not have pictures to hang or 
 brackets to put up daily, but daily she might, 
 if she pleased, sit by her window and read, or 
 sew, or look at the old church. Mrs. Cour- 
 tenay was too delicate to take long walks, 
 Mrs. Luan too indifferent, and tbey could not 
 afford to hire carriages. She had been out 
 for an hour alone, and she had caught a 
 glimpse of Rouen. It looked a dull, grave, 
 commercial city, with magnificent Gothic 
 churches, but it also looked very dreary. 
 Little light or cheerfulness was there in those 
 ancient streets, over which huge mediaeval 
 piles shed their gloom. 
 
 "And we do not, know a soul here," she 
 thought ; " and if we stay years in Rouen, as 
 we may, I shall spend those years in compara- 
 tive solitude." 
 
 There was something almost appalling to 
 Dora in the thought, and the evening of that 
 first day was not calculated to contradict it. 
 
 It was a spring evening, hot as summer, yet 
 they remained within, for whither should they 
 have gone ? Mrs. Luan, who never felt dull, 
 perhaps because she never felt merry ; was 
 busy with her patchwork. Mrs. Courtenay at 
 first talked in a very lively strain, and was 
 enthusiastic about the pleasures of this new 
 life, but gently fell asleep in the end. Dora 
 looked at a flower-pot on the window-ledge, in 
 which a weak shoot was attempting to send 
 forth a pair of leaves. 
 
 " I suppose I shall have to take some in- 
 terest in you," she thought ; " but you are not 
 animate enough for me. I wish one could 
 make slips of living creatures, and watch them 
 growing. It would be pleasant to see the tips 
 of a pair of brown, furry cars shooting up, 
 then bright eyes, then a round head, then the
 
 REMEMBRANCES OF OTHER DATS. 
 
 37 
 
 rest of the creature; but the ears would be 
 the really pretty part of it. I should like to 
 have a kitten so, or a pup ; but where is the 
 use of liking anything more ? I, who could 
 not see a bird fly but I longed for it, must 
 now learn to be as sober and demure as any 
 nun." 
 
 In this austere mood, Dora took up a book 
 and tried to read, but reading seemed to have 
 lost its charm. 
 
 "I must study," she thought — "nothing 
 else will do." So she went and fetched 
 Dante, and did her best to fathom one of the 
 most obscure of his difficult passages. But 
 neither would that answer. Study cannot be 
 taken up as a foil against passing tediousness. 
 She is an austere mistress, and requires undi- 
 vided worship. Besides, there rose sounds 
 from below which disturbed Dora. Madame 
 Bertrand had friends who spent the evening 
 with her. Their loud talking and louder 
 laughter came up to Dora as a sorrowful com- 
 ment on the present, and a no less sorrowful 
 remembrance of the past. She remembered 
 joyous young days in Ireland, pleasant even- 
 ings between her brother Paul and her cousin, 
 John Luan. She remembered evenings when 
 she had conversed with the gifted and the 
 wise during thd>brief year of her prosperity. 
 That, too, had its charm, colder than that of 
 her youth, but happy because intellectual. 
 And now, how had it ended ? She had lost the 
 two friends of her girlhood ; she had lost the 
 intercourse which is so dear to an inquiring 
 and cultivated mind, and she was the denizen 
 of a strange city, thrown on her own resources, 
 bound to live without a purpose or a task in life 
 other than that of fife itself— a dull and a hard 
 prospect at twenty-three. But we do not all 
 feel alike on these subjects. Madame Ber- 
 trand and her friends talked so loud, that Mrs. 
 Courtenay awoke, and looked startled. 
 
 " Dear me ! " she said, innocently, " I 
 thought I was at one of our parties, and that 
 
 I had fallen asleep whilst Mr. Gray was telling 
 me of a scientific experiment. It is such a re- 
 lief to find it a dream ! Poor Mr. Gray ! — how 
 he used to prose ! " 
 
 " Thank Heaven, she regrets nothing ! " 
 thought Dora, with a smile. 
 
 " Do listen to these people laughing," good- 
 humoredly continued Mrs. Courtenay. " You 
 have no idea how cheerful my country-people 
 are, Dora." 
 
 She spoke airily. It was plain that she ap- 
 propriated the cheerfulness of Madame Ber- 
 trand and her friends, and made it her own 
 for the time being. 
 
 " And so will I," resolutely thought Dora, 
 with a little defiant shake of her bright head. 
 " So will I." 
 
 Alas ! it was very easily said — more easily 
 said than done. When Dora went back to 
 her room that evening, and looked at the prim 
 and patient Griselidis, she wondered if < 
 had ever been amongst the trials of that lady's 
 lot. 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 A brave heart will go through more than 
 Dora had to bear. After all, her lot was not 
 so hard. She had the shelter of a roof, daily 
 bread, raiment, all the things that thousands 
 struggle for so wearily, and can so seldom win. 
 She had these, and with them leisure, a few 
 books, the companionship of two beings who 
 loved her, and a happy, sunny temper, to 
 make all good. If she sometimes heaved a 
 little regretful sigh, it was because she was 
 still young, you see, and did not know the 
 wonderful blessings of peace. Give her a few 
 years more, and let her go forth and be i 
 in some lonely boat on the waves of life, and 
 how she will look back to this safe haven, 
 and pine for its sweet shelter ! Happy girl ! 
 Xeither passion which is Fasting, nor sorrow 
 which is cruel, nor care which is remor
 
 38 
 
 DORA. 
 
 is with you now. So this is still your golden 
 time, and these are still your halcyon days, 
 though Rouen is rather a gloomy city to live 
 iD. 
 
 But though Dpra, more through tempera- 
 ment than from any philosophical apprecia- 
 tion of the blessings which remained to her, 
 was happy and contented ; though Madame 
 Bertrand said it did one good to see the de- 
 moiselle's bright face, and grew poetic with 
 her neighbors when she once broached that 
 theme ; though everything, in short, seemed 
 as it should be, still Dora heaved that little 
 regretful sigh we have spoken of. It came 
 probably because no human life can be free 
 from it. We may be sure that on the day 
 when Napoleon was crowned in Notre Dame 
 he heaved a sigh for Corsican hills, or for 
 having eaten cherries with a pretty girl in an 
 orchard when he was sub-lieutenant — for any 
 thing, in short, which he had no more. It is 
 the mortal lot to repine. Saints fret over 
 their sins, and sinners lament their lost follies, 
 and every one has suffered some deprivation 
 or other. Dora's was money, and with money 
 the loss of comforts, and pleasures, and en- 
 joyments, which that modern lamp of Aladdin 
 summons forth at its bidding from the dark 
 recesses of life, where they sleep so soundly, 
 so far as the needy are concerned. The cruel 
 enchanter Brown had taken her lamp away ; 
 the spell was gone, and some trouble was the 
 result. On most days she defied her fate, and 
 forbade it to vex her ; and on other days, as 
 we said, she sighed. 
 
 Her mother and her aunt, who shared her 
 loss, did not deny its existence, but they were 
 not prepared to sympathize with Dora when 
 she felt dull now and then. The sound of her 
 native language had not yet lost its charm for 
 Mrs. Courtenay, and Mrs. Luan professed her- 
 self delighted with the cheapness of Rouen. 
 
 So Dora behaved like a true stoic. She en- 
 
 k 
 
 dured and did not complain. 
 
 Rouen is a picturesque city, and Dora liked 
 the picturesque, and found and made herself 
 pleasures out of it. The solemn gloom of 
 Notre Dame and Saint Ouen, the glorious 
 painted glass in Saint Vincent and Saint 
 Patrice, the wonderful facade of Saint Maclou, 
 or the exquisite court of the Palais de Justice, 
 gave her many a 'delightful hour. But one 
 cannot live upon architecture, and Dora often 
 felt restless, and scarcely happy, even though 
 these magnificent memorials of the past were 
 daily within her view. She missed something 
 — something which Athens itself, and the 
 Acropolis, which glimpses of Olympus and 
 Mount Athos could not have supplied. The 
 open space and border of heath, the view of a 
 gleaming or stormy sea, which she had had 
 from her mother's cottage in Ireland, often 
 came back to her with a sort of passion. Oh ! 
 that sad memory did not stand between her 
 and that past ! For a year back again in the 
 old country, with the bracing sea air, and with 
 it the breath of liberty, far, far away from 
 those grand frowning Gothic heaps of stone. 
 
 Rouen has few attractions as a modern city 
 — and they were fewer then than they are 
 now — and these Dora quickly exhausted. The 
 theatres she did not visit, her mother did not 
 care for excursions, and theAminine delight 
 of looking in at shop windows Bbe seldom in- 
 dulged in. She was still young, and not in- 
 sensible to the charms of elegant and costly 
 attire. So it was rather hard to see velvet 
 and silks which she must now never wear, or 
 jewels that could no longer be hoped for as a 
 good yet to come. The gate of all luxurious 
 enjoyment was closed upon her ; and if Dora 
 was not wise enough to scorn such vanities, 
 she was too proud to indulge in weak and use- 
 less regret. 
 
 To stay very much within was therefore one 
 of the features of her lot, and such tranquillity 
 is utterly obnoxious to youth. She sometimes 
 longed for motion with a feverish restlessness.
 
 DORA AND A POOR OLD WOMAN. 
 
 39 
 
 She did her best to conquer the unquiet mood, 
 and she tried to make herself home pleasures, 
 but this was no easy matter. Madame Ber- 
 trand's cat did indeed steal up to her, but she 
 only slept and purred. So Dora made friends 
 with a host of sparrows, whose nests were in 
 the old church. She bribed them with crumbs, 
 and soon so tamed them that they would come 
 and flutter past her open window, and, if she 
 sat very still, peck on the ledge whilst she 
 looked on. She also opened a flirtation with 
 the little rosy boy in the opposite house, and 
 she seldom appeared at her window but . he 
 was to be seen at his, laughing and nodding to 
 her. A silent interest she likewise took in 
 the doings of the lame professor and his pale 
 wife ; and altogether she made the best of her 
 lot, but, as we have said, she could not help 
 feeling restless now and then. 
 
 That unquiet mood had been very strong 
 upon her on a bright day in summer, when, in 
 the afternoon, Mrs. Courtenay suddenly ex- 
 pressed the wish to partake of some Fromage 
 de Brie. 
 
 " I should like it, oh ! of all things," she 
 exclaimed, raising her voice in her little shrill 
 tone. 
 
 Dora looked up from her work, and sup- 
 posed the wish was one her mother could 
 gratify. 
 
 "Oh! no," was the slightly plaintive reply, 
 " I would not touch one of the cheeses they 
 sell about here; and Madame Bertrand's 
 woman lives miles away, at the other end of 
 Rouen — miles away ! " 
 
 " I shall go and fetch you a cheese, mam- 
 ma," quickly said Dora, throwing down her 
 work. 
 
 " My dear, it is ever so far away. Oh ! so 
 far — miles ! " 
 
 "Then it is the very thing for me," gayly 
 said Dora. " I feel just now as if I should 
 like to go to the edge of the world and look 
 over." 
 
 " My dear ! " expostulated her mother. 
 
 " I should ! " wilfully said Dora. " Oh ! for 
 one good peep out of this world, and to see 
 the stars spinning ! " 
 
 The journey to fetch the cheese Mrs. Cour- 
 tenay longed for promised no such prospect, 
 and was described by Madame Bertrand as 
 something formidable ; but Dora was bent on 
 going, and she went. 
 
 She had not walked ten steps when, as she 
 passed the house where the lame teacher lived, 
 she heard a groan of distress coming from be- 
 neath the archway. The gate, as is usually 
 the case on the Continent, stood wide open, 
 and Dora put her head in and saw a lamenta- 
 ble picture. A little woman, very old, and 
 very poorly dressed, was sitting on the last 
 step of the stone staircase, staring at half-a- 
 dozen of broken eggs and some spilt milk. 
 An earthen bowl and a plate also lay in frag- 
 ments near her. 
 
 " Can I help you ? " asked Dora. 
 
 " Can you pick up milk," was the sharp re- 
 tort, " or mend broken eggs ? " 
 
 " Yes," good-humoredly replied Dora, " I 
 think I can do both." 
 
 " I had not tasted a drop of milk, or seen 
 the yolk of an egg, since I lost my five-franc 
 piece," groaned the old woman, without heed- 
 ing her ; " and now that I had saved and saved 
 till I could have an egg again, I stumbled, and 
 there they are, dish and all — dish and all ! 
 There they are ! " 
 
 Dora stooped and carefully picked up two 
 of the eggs, which had escaped with a gentle 
 crack. 
 
 " These will do," she said, softly laying them 
 on a fragment of the plate ; " and for the other 
 four and the milk here is a cure." 
 
 She put her hand in her pocket and took 
 out a few pence; but the old woman ahook 
 her head. 
 
 " Have eggs and milk got feet ? " she asked. 
 "Will they come? I cannot go and fV'.ch
 
 40 
 
 DORA. 
 
 them — no, I cannot, I am too tired,'' she add- 
 ed, as if Dora were attempting to persuade 
 her. 
 
 " You are but a cross old fairy," thought 
 Dora ; " but still you shall have your way, 
 and I will see if I canuot make you happy." 
 
 So she took back the money which she had 
 put in the old woman's lap, and she went 
 away. 
 
 The little old woman remained sitting on the 
 step of the staircase groaning over the broken 
 eggs and the spilt milk, and addressing them 
 with impotent wrath. 
 
 " You did it on purpose," she said, shaking 
 her head at them, " you know you did ! " 
 
 " Did they, though ? " said some one, 
 coming in from the street. "That was too 
 bad of them." 
 
 " Go your way," was her angry reply. " Go 
 to your old frippery, and let me be quiet. 
 Don't touch them," she almost screamed, as, 
 in going up the staircase, the stranger seemed 
 likely to tread on the two eggs which Dora 
 had put on the broken plate. " She is bring- 
 ing me more ; but I will have these too." 
 
 Even as she spoke Dora appeared under- 
 neath the archway, followed by a child with a 
 cup full of milk, and four eggs on a plate. 
 
 " There," she said, gayly, " they did come to 
 you, after all ; and they are all yours, the cup, 
 the plate, the milk, and the eggs," she added, 
 taking them from the child's hand to present 
 them to her. 
 
 " The cup too ? " screamed the old woman. 
 
 "Yes, yes, the cup too," replied Dora, 
 gravely. " Are you glad ? " 
 
 "Ravished!" was the ardent reply; "en- 
 chanted ! Oh ! the beautiful cup ! Why, who 
 are you?" she suddenly exclaimed, glancing 
 from the gifts to the giver, and shading her 
 eyes with her hand to seo her better. 
 
 Dora stood before her bright aud smilin« 
 with her little donations in her hands. She 
 saw that her prolcylx was dazzled with her 
 
 blooming, radiant face, and it amused her. 
 To charm animals, allure children, and con- 
 quer ill-tempered people, was her gift; she 
 knew it, and she liked it. "I thought I 
 should prevail over you," was her triumphant, 
 though unspoken boast, as the old woman still 
 stared like one confused. 
 
 "Good-by," she said, aloud; "the child 
 shall carry these up for yon," and handing 
 both milk and eggs to the little girl who had 
 brought them, Dora nodded and went her 
 way. 
 
 " Who is she, eh ? " asked the receiver of 
 the milk and eggs. 
 
 "She lives opposite," replied the child, 
 glibly ; " and she sits at her window. Such a 
 beautiful demoiselle ! " 
 
 Unconscious of her double triumph, Dora 
 went on her way. The distance was great, 
 but it was reached at last. Dora bought the 
 cheese, and with the precious dainty carefully 
 wrapped up, so that no untoward accident 
 should cause it to break, she turned home- 
 ward. The cheesemonger lived very far away, 
 and the sun was now near its setting. As 
 Dora went down a steep street, she saw all 
 Rouen beneath her. It wa*s a picture ! Many 
 a poor, struggling artist, living in a dull, smoky 
 city, would give a year of his life to have the 
 chance of painting such a one. The gleaming 
 river, now dark purple, now flowing gold, 
 wound through the old town, and passed be- 
 neath the bridges ; church towers and spires 
 rose above the dark sea of roofs, and appeared 
 in fine clear lines on a sky of pale azure; 
 luxuriant verdure and rounded hills framed 
 the magic picture over which, spread a haze 
 both soft and bright. It was beautiful, won- 
 derfully beautiful, and Dora stopped and gazed 
 in deep admiration. But neither that nor the 
 long walk which had tired her could quell the 
 restlessness within her. She had brought it 
 out, and she was taking it back. Her life was 
 a dull life, and Dora had tasted another life
 
 THE BOOK-STALL. 
 
 41 
 
 than this. She had had a life full of fervor 
 and hope with her lost brother in Ireland ; she 
 had had a life of intellectual pursuits and so- 
 cial pleasures in London, and now she was 
 lingering the last bright years of youth away 
 in a French provincial town. In short, Dora 
 felt not merely restless, but dull. 
 
 It is sad to say it, but more than one-half of 
 the human species, womankind, is sorely trou- 
 bled with that modern complaint of dulness. 
 After all, there was some good in the olden 
 time, when men fought and strove, and women 
 sat at home and spun wool, and both liked it. 
 Yes, there was a philosophy in the spindle 
 and distaff, or in the silk and worsted, no 
 doubt about it. When Matilda and her maid- 
 ens sat down to their tapestry and worked in 
 tent-stitch the history of the Norman Con- 
 quest, they were thus saved many a trouble 
 and many a weary hour. Of course there was 
 sorrow in these days, and there was love too, 
 easy, natural love, which came and went like 
 a gentle epidemic ; but we doubt if these me- 
 diaeval women were haunted with the ideal, 
 or if they made theis moan because they 
 failed to secure variety. Peace, which we 
 prize so little, was one of their blessings. A 
 calm and tranquil life they led in the main. 
 Strong walls were raised, and men wore heavy 
 armor, that these ladies might sit in quiet and 
 work on canvas strange warriors on gaunt 
 horses, or quaint trees, with birds never 
 known out of fable perched on the boughs. 
 We have improved all that, to be sure ; but 
 then let us not complain if we are called upon 
 to pay the penalty of the improvement. 
 
 Vain admonition ! Dora had a warm, genial 
 nature; she loved her mother and she liked 
 her aunt, but she longed for a life in which 
 there should be some other purpose than to 
 make the two ends of a narrow income meet. 
 
 That longing was strong upon her as she 
 stood and looked at dusk gathering over the 
 city below her. With a sigh at its useless- 
 
 ness, she roused herself from her reverie, and 
 went down the street at a quick pace. To 
 reach home sooner she took a short cut 
 through one of the narrow lanes that were 
 to be found within the shadow of Notre Dame 
 A gray twilight still reigned there. As she 
 passed by one of the low shops, with beetling 
 first-floors over them, Dora saw some books 
 on a stall outside. Had she ever seen them 
 there before? It seemed not to her. The 
 shop was not a mere second-hand bookseller's 
 shop ; many wares were sold within it. There 
 were portfolios of drawings in stands inside 
 near the door ; in a corner she saw some old 
 portraits, with fixed eyes staring through the 
 gloom. A few plates of old Rouen ware, a 
 worm-eaten bos of carved wood, a shattered 
 Etruscan vase, and a heap of ancient tapes- 
 try, appeared in the window above the book- 
 stall. At once Dora's thoughts flew back to 
 the days when her brother and she were en- 
 gaged in the catalogue. She paused and 
 looked at that old bric-d-brac shop with a sad, 
 troubled eye. Oh, ye days gone by, how you 
 can haunt us ! It was a pain to linger there, 
 and yet Dora could not bear to go. A light 
 burned in the shop ; its rays fell on the stall 
 outside. She took up a book to stay and look 
 a little longer. The book itself woke kindred 
 recollections. She remembered how she had 
 once provoked her brother Paul with a piece 
 of girlish folly, and how he had answered her 
 with a " Read Epictetus — read Epictetus " — a 
 tantalizing injunction, since he read it in the 
 classic original. Now the book Dora had 
 taken up was an old French translation of 
 Epictetus. Her heart beat as she opened its 
 pages ; then, as she glanced over them, and 
 read a few maxims, the calm and divine 
 wisdom of the Phrygian slave won on her by 
 its beauty. 
 
 " I wonder if the book is a dear one ? " she 
 thought. 
 
 She hesitated a while, then ventured into
 
 42 
 
 DORA. 
 
 the shop with the volume in her hand. The 
 dealer was not alone. There was a customer 
 with him, a slender, dark man, for whom he 
 held a candle in a dingy iron candlestick. 
 
 " Pray how much may this book cost ? " 
 asked Dora. 
 
 The man turned round, and said, civilly, 
 
 " What book, mademoiselle, if you please ? " 
 
 " Epictetus," she answered. 
 
 The customer, who was gazing intently at 
 an old engraving, now looked up as he heard 
 this girlish voice uttering the name of the stoic 
 philosopher, and there was just a touch of 
 perplexity in his glance as he saw Dora. You 
 would scarcely have connected philosophy un- 
 der any shape with her open, genial face. 
 Thus, bright, hopeful, and young might have 
 looked a Psyche before her sorrows. 
 
 " Ten francs," was the dealer's reply. 
 
 Dora had made up her mind to give so much 
 as one franc for the volume, but ten made her 
 blush with confusion at having entered the 
 shop at all. 
 
 " I did not think it was so expensive," she 
 said, apologetically. 
 
 He saw her embarrassment, and replied, 
 good-naturedly, that the edition was a rare 
 one. Dora, who was reluctantly putting the 
 book by, brightened up. Had he got a 
 cheaper edition ? 
 
 " No," and he shook his head, " he had 
 not ; and what was more, Epictetus was 
 rather a scarce book. Few people cared 
 about it.'' 
 
 Dora apologized for having troubled him, 
 and left the shop. The dealer looked after 
 her and chuckled. 
 
 " Whenever an out-of-the-way book is asked 
 of me," he said, turning to his customer, " it 
 is by your country-folk, Doctor Richard, and 
 especially by your countrywomen. To think 
 of a little chicken like that wanting to peck 
 at Epictetus ! " 
 
 "Who is she?" asked Doctor Richard; 
 
 and he made good his claim to be Dora's 
 countryman by a moderate yet unmistakable 
 accent. 
 
 " I do not know her name, but I often see 
 her about Notre Dame. A pretty girl, eh, 
 Doctor Richard ? " 
 
 "Not very pretty," dryly replied Doctor 
 Richard, " but very bright. She lit up your 
 shop, Monsieur Merand." 
 
 "Come, you shall have another candle," 
 said Monsieur Merand, taking the hint. " Ton 
 must see that engraving well in order to ap- 
 preciate it." 
 
 He entered the dark parlor behind his 
 shop. Doctor Richard remained alone, and 
 he wondered. 
 
 "Where can I have seen this girl, who 
 wants to buy Epictetus, with that joyous 
 face ? It was she who was giving milk and 
 eggs to the cross old witch on the staircase, 
 but I knew then that I had already seen her. 
 When and where was it ? " 
 
 Doctor Richard's memory was one tenacious 
 of faces, and it never deceived him. Yes, he 
 had certainly seen and been struck with that 
 bright face, " with eyes so fair," like Collins's 
 Hope, before this day. Suddenly the remem- 
 brance flashed across his mind. He had seen 
 her at a concert six months ago, a bright, 
 happy, and admired girl. He remembered 
 her looks, and her smiles, and her bouquet of 
 rare roses on her lap — rare for the season of 
 the year. He remembered, too, some un- 
 known lady's comment, "Miss Courtenay is 
 the most extravagant girl. Now, these roses 
 cost a guinea, at least." And now Epictetus 
 was too dear at ten francs. And the milk and 
 eggs, moreover, suggested a strange contrast 
 between the present and the past. The story 
 of her losses Doctor Richard had also heard, 
 and thinking over it, he fell into a fit of mus- 
 ing, whence Monsieur Merand, returning at 
 length with the candle, roused him. But 
 the engraving, on being seen more closely,
 
 MONSIEUR MERAND. 
 
 43 
 
 proved what Doctor Richard was pleased to 
 call "an impostor." He put it down with a 
 great show of contempt, and looked for his 
 hat, 
 
 " "Well, then, hare ' Epictetus,' " said 
 Monsieur Merand, thrusting the book toward 
 him. 
 
 "Not I," curtly replied Doctor Richard. 
 " Good-night, Monsieur Merand ; you must 
 keep better wares if you want my custom." 
 
 "He will come for it to-morrow," said 
 Monsieur Merand, composedly, putting the 
 engraving aside ; " and I dare say he will take 
 Epictetus as well. I saw him looking at it." 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 Mrs. Courtenay was getting uneasy when 
 her daughter came home. 
 
 " My dear, how long you were ! " she said, 
 with a sigh of relief. 
 
 "It is very far away. But the cheese is 
 perfect, and — " here Dora paused in dismay. 
 The cheese might be a first-rate one, and was 
 so, no doubt, but it was no longer in her pos- 
 session. She had probably left it at the bric- 
 d-brac shop. 
 
 " I looked at a book-stall near Notre Dame," 
 she said, feeling Mrs. Luan's reproving eye 
 upon her, " and I must have forgotten it there. 
 I shall go back for it at once. Pray don't wait 
 tea for me." 
 
 She was gone before Mrs. Courtenay could 
 remonstrate. Within a few minutes Dora had 
 reached Monsieur Merand's shop. She entered 
 it after first casting a look at the book-stall, 
 and ascertaining that neither Epictetus nor the 
 cheese was there. 
 
 " You come for Epictetus ? " he said, recog- 
 nizing her at once. 
 
 " No, sir, I come for a parcel which I for- 
 got." 
 
 " There is no parcel. Take Epictetus for 
 nine francs, eh ? " 
 
 " It is still too dear at that price, thank 
 you. I am sure I left my parcel here." 
 
 She looked for it, but without assisting her 
 Monsieur Merand went on: 
 
 " Let us make an exchange, mademoiselle. 
 Have you got an old engraving ? I am very 
 fond of an old engraving. Look, here is a 
 stock of them ! " 
 
 He opened a portfolio, so that Dora could 
 not help seeing its contents. 
 
 "The3e are not engravings," she said; 
 " these are crayon drawings — and very bad 
 ones too," she added, shutting up the port- 
 folio, and again looking for her missing 
 cheese. 
 
 " Bad ! " exclaimed Monsieur Merand, throw- 
 ing the portfolio open once more — " you call 
 these bad ! Then, mademoiselle," he added, 
 taking off his hat to her with a mock polite- 
 ness, which was not impertinent, " I will make 
 you a present of Epictetus if you can do me 
 a head like this." 
 
 Dora smiled a little scornfully. She drew 
 tolerably well, and she knew it ; but not choos- 
 ing to enter into an argument with Monsieur 
 Merand, she quietly remarked that as he had 
 not got her parcel she would trouble him no 
 longer. 
 
 " Is this your parcel ? " he asked, taking it 
 from the chair on which it had lain concealed 
 all the time; " why," he added, smelling it and 
 looking at her, " it is cheese ! " 
 
 Dora began to think that this Monsieur Me- 
 rand was a very odd man ; but he looked both 
 good-humored and good-natured, spite his 
 oddity, and she could not help laughing. 
 
 " It is cheese," she said ; " but pray give it 
 to me, sir, I am in a hurry." 
 
 " This is a particularly good cheese," he con- 
 tinued in a pensive tone. " Now," he added] 
 giving it up to her and putting his hands be- 
 hind his back, " it is a pity you cannot draw ;
 
 44 
 
 DORA. 
 
 I would have let you have Epictetus for a 
 crayon sketch like this ; " and he took and 
 flourished one before her eyes. 
 
 " I wonder if the man is jesting, or if he 
 would really buy my drawings ? " thought 
 Dora, suddenly fluttered at the golden vision 
 thus opened to her. 
 
 " I suppose, sir, you are in earnest ? " she 
 remarked doubtfully. 
 
 " To be sure I am ; but can you draw ? " 
 
 He already seemed to hesitate and draw 
 back. 
 
 "I have one or two things by me," said 
 Dora, still doubting his sincerity ; " shall I 
 show them to you to-morrow ? " 
 
 " Perhaps you had better not," kindly re- 
 plied Monsieur Merand. "I am a severe crit- 
 ic, and — and we all know how young ladies 
 draw." 
 
 " I care nothing about criticism," emphati- 
 cally declared Dora ; " besides, I can keep to 
 my own opinion, you know, which is, that I 
 can produce something much better than this." 
 
 Monsieur Merand's breath seemed gone at 
 the audacious confession ; but Dora, without 
 waiting for him to recover and utter some 
 other discouraging speech, bade him a good- 
 evening, took up- her cheese, and walked out 
 of the shop. 
 
 Even Mrs. Luan noticed how bright and ex- 
 cited Dora looked when she came back. 
 
 " Did you get it ? " cried Mrs. Courtenay. 
 
 " Here it is," replied Dora, gayly ; " and 
 what is more," she added, tossing off her bon- 
 net and shaking her bright head, " I think I 
 am going to earn cheeses by the dozen ! " She 
 laughed at their amazed looks, and related to 
 them what had passed, adding saucily, " And 
 my drawings are a great deal better than his. 
 It would not take me more than two days to 
 draw such a head as he showed me. Now, 
 suppose he gave me ten francs a head, that 
 would be a hundred and fifty francs a month, 
 or eighteen hundred francs a year. Nay, as 
 
 to that, I could produce a drawing a day, 
 which would make three thousand francs a 
 year." 
 
 Mrs. Luan put down her patchwork and 
 stared ; whilst Mrs. Courtenay said innocently, 
 
 " Three hundred and sixty-five drawings a 
 year ! " 
 
 Dora looked bewildered at this unexpected 
 calculation, then she remarked in a much more 
 sober tone : 
 
 " "Well, I suppose Monsieur Merand would 
 scarcely take a drawing a day. No, nor yet 
 one every other day. But then, he may give 
 me more than ten francs a drawing, you see. I 
 shall certainly try him to-morrow," she added, 
 sitting down to take her tea with the com- 
 posure of an old woman of business. 
 
 They were all three rather elated at this un- 
 expected prospect. Epictetus, who had led to 
 this, could afford to despise money, five in a 
 garret, sleep on a straw mattress, and never 
 lock his door; but Dora had not yet reached 
 these sublime heights of philosophy. Money 
 was much to her. Money meant a little of 
 that pleasure and relaxation which was the 
 grievous want of her new life ; money, too, in 
 this case meant exertion, and a motive for it ; 
 no wonder then that Dora looked once more 
 as bright as sunshine, and spent a restless, 
 hopeful night, full of projects and dreams, 
 some sleeping and some waking. 
 
 Nevertheless, Miss Courtenay felt in no great 
 hurry to try her fortunes when the next day 
 came round. She took out her portfolio, se- 
 lected the best drawing in it, and looked ac it 
 in doubt. Was it, after all, so good as she 
 had thought it to be ? Mrs. Courtenay, who 
 felt very impatient to know Monsieur Merand's 
 opinion of her daughter's production, urged 
 her to go to his shop early ; but, Dora pru- 
 dently said, " It would not be dignified," and 
 she lingered until she suddenly discovered that 
 if she did not go at once, it would be too late 
 to go at all. So she slipped her portfolio under
 
 HIS BARGAIN WITH DORA. 
 
 45 
 
 her arm, and went out alone, though Mrs. 
 Courtenay first, then Mrs. Luan afterward, 
 offered to accompany her. 
 
 " No," decisively said Dora ; " I will not 
 undertake Monsieur Merand in company." 
 
 She went, and her mother, and even her 
 aunt, looked out of the window after her. Dora 
 saw them, and nodded and smiled and looked 
 very brave, though her heart beat a little. She 
 walked briskly whilst she was within view, but 
 slackened her pace when once she had turned 
 the coiner of the street. To say the truth, she 
 felt au arrant coward. " I wonder what takes 
 rue to that Monsieur Merand," she thought ; 
 "I could do without Epictetus, and live with- 
 out that odd man's money. Perhaps he was 
 only laughing at me yesterday, and that I shall 
 have had a sleepless night and a useless walk 
 for my pains." 
 
 " The milk and eggs were very good, made- 
 moiselle," said a cracked voice ; " very good ; 
 and the cup is beautiful ! " 
 
 Dora raised her eyes, which were bent on 
 the earth, and saw the little old woman whose 
 distress she had relieved the day before. 
 
 "I am glad of it," she replied, with a smile. 
 
 " And what is your name, mademoiselle ? " 
 promptly asked the old woman, leaning her 
 head toward her right shoulder, and looking 
 up at Dora with a keen, brown eye, that bore 
 no token of age. 
 
 " I cannot tell it you," mysteriously an- 
 swered Dora ; "lam a princess in disguise, 
 and it is a great secret ; but," she good- 
 humoredly added, noticing the old woman's 
 blank look, " I know where you live, and I 
 shall go and see you." 
 
 " Do ! " cried the old woman, brightening. 
 " The third door on the right hand on the 
 fourth floor." 
 
 " You poor little fairy," thought Dora, look- 
 ing after her, as the little old woman passed 
 beneath the archway, and entered the house 
 where she had seen her yesterday, " you have 
 
 seen better days, I am sure. And I wish you 
 were a fairy indeed, for then you would give 
 me wonderful luck in exchange for my milk 
 and eggs. Whereas I do believe I am only 
 going to get a humiliating rebuff." 
 
 She had half a mind to turn back as she en- 
 tered Monsieur Merand's street. But it was 
 too late to do so. Monsieur Merand stood at 
 his door, he had seen her, and nodded recog- 
 nition in a half-friendly, half-ironical fashion. 
 At least, so thought Dora. 
 
 " Oh ! you have brought the drawing," he 
 said, as she approached. 
 
 He glanced at the portfolio under her arm. 
 
 " Yes,'-? carelessly replied Dora, entering 
 the shop. " I hope you did not sell Epic- 
 tetus," she added, composedly, perhaps to im- 
 press the dealer with the fact that Epictetus 
 was the summit of her ambition. 
 
 Monsieur Merand shook his head compas- 
 sionately, and Dora understood his meaning 
 quite well. Of course he had not sold Epic- 
 tetus, but of course he did not expect to part 
 with it to her in exchange for her labor. She 
 began to feel annoyed at his impertinent skep- 
 ticism, and somewhat defiantly she opened 
 her portfolio and handed him the sketch. 
 
 " Oh ! that is it, is it ? " said Monsieur Me- 
 rand, taking it from her hand, and moving to 
 the door, in order to have as much light as 
 the street afforded full on the drawing. Dora 
 remained in the gloomy background, and looked 
 at him with a beating heart. 
 
 Her drawing was taken from a cast of 
 Michael Augelo's famous " Night." The weary 
 goddess hung her head, heavy with sleep, and 
 seemed to forget the cares, the sorrows, and 
 the sins of life, in those deep slumbers. A re- 
 pose, which was not that of death, for there 
 was suffering in it still, wrapped the whole 
 figure, and was well expressed in the bowed 
 head. Monsieur Merand looked long and at- 
 tentively, then he put the drawing down, went 
 to the other end of his shop, and came back
 
 46 
 
 DORA. 
 
 with a book, which he silently placed in 
 Dora's hands. She looked at it, though she 
 truly had no need to look. It was Epictetus. 
 
 There are delightful moments in life, mo- 
 ments of boasting and triumph, which we 
 never forget. Dora had a genial, happy na- 
 ture, keenly susceptible of emotion, as all 
 such natures are. Her heart beat with joy at 
 this little success ; her eyes sparkled, and, 
 alas ! for stoic philosophy, old Epictetus shook 
 a little in her hands. It was not vanity, it was 
 not pride, it was the knowledge that she had 
 prevailed, that she, too, possessed a gift, and 
 that this gift was worth something. She could 
 not speak, she could not trust herself to say 
 one word — her stammering tongue might have 
 betrayed her. Monsieur Merand addressed 
 her first. 
 
 " Of course," he said, " the professor 
 touched up that drawing — but it is no busi- 
 ness of mine. The drawing is a good one, 
 and a bargain is a bargain." 
 
 This gave Dora her tongue back again. 
 
 " Indeed, sir," she replied, a little saucily, 
 " I thought you were too good a judge not to 
 know when a drawing had been ' touched up,' 
 or not. This drawing never underwent such 
 treatment." 
 
 " It is yours — all yours ? " exclaimed Mon- 
 sieur Merand, in the tone of a question. 
 
 " I do not say that," replied Dora, not un- 
 willing to mystify him ; " but I say that it is 
 the work of one hand." 
 
 Monsieur Merand's face fell. 
 
 " Then you have no more such ? " he said, 
 seeming rather annoyed. 
 
 " I did not say that either," retorted Dora, 
 much amused. " Do you really wish for 
 more ? " 
 
 " Let us deal openly," suggested Monsieur 
 Merand, putting on a look of great candor. " I 
 care not who does these drawings, but will 
 you let me have more by the same hand — say 
 two to begin with ? " 
 
 " But not for ten francs a piece," suggested 
 Dora, looking grave. 
 
 " No, this and the others shall be twenty. 
 Epictetus and fifty francs for the three." 
 
 "Very well," replied Dora, after a pause, 
 seemingly given to deliberation, but really af- 
 forded to joy. " Are you in a hurry ? " 
 
 " I should like them this week. To-day is 
 Tuesday — say by Saturday, eh ? " 
 
 "Very well," again answered Miss Cour- 
 tenay, doing her best to look careless and 
 business-like. " Good-morning, sir." 
 
 She gave Monsieur Merand a pretty, conde- 
 scending nod ; " for he must be in my power, 
 and not I in his," she thought, as she leisurely 
 walked down the street, till she reached a 
 side-door of Notre Dame, which she entered. 
 
 Dora felt happy, and happiness with her at 
 once found its way into prayer and thanks-' 
 giving. The grand old church, with its mighty 
 columns and gorgeous windows, could not awe 
 her, or turn her joy into other channels. Yes, 
 life is brief, and ettrnity awaits us all ; but 
 life is sweet, too, and its joys are keen, and 
 gladness, also, is a form of worship. So Dora 
 felt ; but a sunbeam stealing in, fighting up 
 the aisle, and falling on a grave-stone, whence 
 the word "Requiescat" suddenly seemed to 
 flash forth, turnefl Dora's joy to chill and sad 
 regret. Requiescat! The word was written 
 on Paul's grave, in Glasnevin. She triumphed, 
 she had her little joy and her little boast, and 
 he had been denied his. He had gone down 
 to his premature rest, and he slept too early 
 a sleep because of that disappointment. 
 
 " Oh ! my brother ! — my brother ! " thought 
 Dora, her tears flowing at the thought, " how 
 can I be happy and forget you ? " 
 
 But did she really forget him ? Was not 
 his remembrance ever in her heart, ready to 
 rise at the first whisper ? Did she not remem- 
 ber him in joy, because he did not share it ; 
 in sorrow, because he would have borne it 
 with her ; in every thing of weal or woe, which
 
 THE PICTURE-GALLERY. 
 
 47 
 
 stirred her heart or passed through her life. 
 If she now lingered in that ancient church, 
 was it not to think in peace of him ? "When 
 she roused herself with a "I must go in," it 
 was with a sort of pain; so dear was that 
 thought, so hard it was to bid it once more 
 return to those depths of her heart where it 
 slumbered, indeed, but ever ready to waken ! 
 
 " Well ! " cried Mrs. Courtenay, from the 
 window. 
 
 Dora looked up, and saw her mother's face 
 looking down at her. She laughed saucily, 
 showed her the book, and sprang up-stairs. 
 No sunbeam was brighter than Dora when she 
 broke in upon her mother and her aunt. 
 
 " Victory, victory ! " she cried, clapping her 
 hands, after throwing poor Epictetus on the 
 nearest chair. " Monsieur Merand gives me 
 twenty francs a drawing, and wants two more 
 by Saturday. We shall be quite rich now, 
 and Pactolus — is it Pactolus ? — is going to 
 flow in the room." 
 
 " That is delightful ! " cried Mrs. Courte- 
 nay, with her little shrill raising of the voice. 
 " Oh ! quite delightful ! " 
 
 Mrs. Luan, who looked a little flushed and 
 excited, stared hard at Dora, and said, 
 
 " Where is the money ? " 
 
 " I have not got. it yet, aunt. By next 
 Saturday I hope to show you two Napoleons 
 and a half. I wonder what drawings I ought 
 to let him have." 
 
 She brought out her portfolio, and the three 
 looked over its contents. Dora selected a 
 Niobe and a Dying Gladiator, Mrs. Courtenay 
 opined for a Sleeping Ariadne and a Cupid, 
 and Mrs. Luan reckoned up Dora's drawings, 
 and valuing each at twenty francs apiece, 
 made up, mentally of course, a goodly sum. 
 
 " The Ariadne is much better than the Niobe, 
 my dear," said Mrs. Courtenay, nodding her 
 cap emphatically. 
 
 Dora looked at the two as only artists can 
 look at their own work. She liked them both, 
 
 and now that she had a market for them, she 
 regretted parting with them. She remem- 
 bered how that sleeping woman, unconscious 
 of abandonment, had charmed her ; how the 
 meaning of that fine antique had stolen upon 
 her, the more she studied it. And then the 
 Niobe ! The immortal sorrow in those up- 
 raised eyes, and in those parted lips ! 
 
 " Let them both go," she said, with a little 
 sigh, and putting them away as she spoke. 
 " I shall keep the Cupid and the Dying Gladi- 
 ator — for another time, if, as I hope, Monsieur 
 Merand will want them. And now, mamma, 
 s*ince I am getting rich again, we shall take 
 drives in the country, and you and aunt must 
 get a silk dress each, and I shall try books, 
 and hire a piano." 
 
 Mrs. Luan's patchwork fell from her hands 
 on her lap, and she stared at Dora with un- 
 mitigated astonishment. Had the girl gone 
 crazy, for how could she expect to achieve all 
 this with fifty francs ? 
 
 Dora laughed a clear, ringing laugh. 
 
 " I will do all that, aunt," she said wilfully, 
 " and a great deal more. I wonder what old 
 Epictetus has to say on the subject ? " 
 
 She took up the volume, and sitting with it 
 on her lap by the open window, she soon be- 
 came absorbed and grave. Epictetus' spoke 
 of virtue, of heroism, endurance, and self-de- 
 nial, but said not one word of drives in the 
 country, silk dresses, or musical instruments 
 of any kind. 
 
 CHAPTER XJ. 
 
 The event proved Dora to have been in her 
 senses when she foretold the golden results 
 which were to accrue from her connection with 
 Monsieur Merand. He took the Niobe and 
 the Ariadne without hesitation, and asked for 
 more. 
 
 "I have got a Cupid and a Dying Gladi-
 
 48 
 
 DORA. 
 
 ator," replied Dora, with a gentle thrill of 
 emotion. 
 
 " Will you let me see them ? " asked Mon- 
 sieur Merand, rather eagerly. 
 
 " Yes, to-morrow," she answered, quietly. 
 
 She brought them the next morning. Mon- 
 sieur Merand purchased them at once, put 
 them away very carefully in a portfolio, then 
 said, gravely : 
 
 " Mademoiselle, could you copy in crayons 
 a few heads from a painting in our gallery 
 here ? " 
 
 " I can try." 
 
 " Then you are not sure ? " 
 
 " I can try," said Dora again ; and her 
 bright smile expressed the certainty of suc- 
 cess. 
 
 "Well, then, here is the catalogue; this is 
 the picture — Hemmeling's. The heads are 
 marked ; size of the* original. Take your 
 time, mademoiselle. I am in no hurry, and 
 should like the drawings to be good." 
 
 " I shall do my best," answered Dora, with 
 a wistful look, for she already felt less confi- 
 fident of success. Instead of going home, she 
 went straight to the Musce. With a beating 
 heart she passed by the majestic front of Saint 
 Ouen, and turning round the edifice, found 
 herself in its deep shadow, facing the narrow 
 door which leads to the picture-gallery. Sight- 
 seers were scarce that day; Dora met none. 
 She went up the broad stone staircase alone, 
 and went in the mood of one going to meet 
 her fate. These pictures, which she had often 
 looked at with a calm critical eye, now seemed 
 to her like so many judges waiting for her, the 
 future culprit. t The door of the library was 
 open ; within, a broad cool room, Dora could 
 see a few gentlemen reading. She remem- 
 bered the days of Mr. Ryan's library, and Paul's 
 eager labors and sad failure, and she quailed 
 to think that she, too, perhaps, was bent on a 
 task beyond her strength. 
 
 She looked around her for comfort, and 
 
 found none. The statues which adorn the 
 hall, the severe Augustus, the writhing Lao- 
 coon, the cold Pudicitia, had little sympathy 
 with a girl's trouble or with her fears. What 
 did the Roman emperor care for the triumph 
 or defeat of her little ambition ? What was 
 it to the victim of Apollo's revenge that she 
 failed or succeeded? As for Pudicitia, «he 
 would surely have said, if consulted by Miss 
 Courtenay, " Stay at home and spin wool." 
 
 " What is there between these Greeks and 
 Romans that they should meet us at every 
 path ? " thought Dora, a little resentfully ; 
 " They can soothe no grief, raise no hope, 
 dispel no trouble. Why have we not, then, 
 the images of our own flesh and blood, of our 
 own heroes around us, like the painter below 
 with his pallet in his marble hand ? It would 
 be cheering to sec a Bernard de Palissy there 
 instead of that Laocoon and his heathen ser 
 pents. Poor and little as I am, that obstinate 
 Bernard, who fought so hard a battle, is kith 
 and kin to me, arid these are nothing — oh ! 
 surely nothing ! " and still she stood with the 
 catalogue in her hand, hesitating to enter the 
 rooms, within which, in her present mood "at 
 least, her fate seemed to lie. True, failure 
 would not be ruin, but it would be humilia- 
 tion, and that surely has its bitterness. 
 
 But when Dora entered the sunlit rooms, 
 and wandered through them, looking at the 
 quaint old pictures with their stiff, staring 
 faces, she felt hopeful once more. It did not 
 seem so very hard to prevail and get the better 
 of these grim personages. Yet how fine, when 
 you looked into them, were some, and how 
 correct was Monsieur Merand's taste ! Every 
 head he had chosen had its character and its 
 beauty. 
 
 ■ " If he is so good a judge," thought Dora, 
 "I shall get afraid of him." 
 
 But fear is not a logical feeling. Dora, as 
 she looked over Monsieur Merand's selection, 
 felt cheerful, and not despondent. Her buoy-
 
 NANETTE AND TliE PORTRAIT. 
 
 49 
 
 ant nature rose with the magnitude of the 
 task laid upon her. ThaJ would be a tame 
 journey of adventure indeed which should 
 have no patli beset with perils. The toil that 
 has no difficulties surely has no charm. 
 
 On her way home, Dora resolved to go and 
 see the old fairy, as she mentally called her. 
 The poor woman's real name was Nanette — 
 so Dora had learned ; also, that Nanette bore 
 an unexceptionable character for everything 
 save temper. 
 
 " I am sure she is lucky," thought Dora, 
 climbing up the dingy staircase that led to 
 Nanette's room. " The eggs I gave her are 
 fast turning into gold, and as for the milk, we 
 all know it is the symbol of abundance." 
 
 Nanette's door was open, so Dora had no 
 trouble in finding her. Nanette lived in a room 
 which was about the size of a large cupboard, 
 but which was exquisitely clean and neat, and 
 Nanette, being as small and as neat and as 
 clean as her room, looked more than ever like 
 a fairy, in Dora's opinion. A cross fairy she 
 was just then, scolding a charcoal fire, which 
 would not kindle. 
 
 " Ah ! you will not, eh ? " she said, angrily, 
 and vainly using a bellows beyond her strength 
 — " you know I am old, you do ! " 
 
 " Let me try," said Dora, looking in. 
 
 She took the bellows from Nanette's hand, 
 and lo ! in a trice the fire was bright. 
 
 " Yes, you are young," said Nanette, with a 
 wistful look, " and you can work. I cannot ! — I 
 cannot ! I am seventy-three, and I cannot 
 work, and have to live on charity," she added, 
 with an angry flash in her brown eye. 
 
 Dora tried to soothe her, but Nanette would 
 admit of no consolation. Her temper was 
 roused again. Dora wanted her to have more 
 milk and eggs, but Nanette scorned the offer. 
 " She took charity, but she was not a beggar," 
 she said, loftily. " An accident was an acci- 
 dent, but she did not want milk and eggs daily." 
 
 Dora suggested bacon, but greatly imperilled 
 4 
 
 her power of fascination by doing so. Na- 
 nette's brown eye burned like a live coal. It 
 turned out that bacon was her particular aver- 
 sion. 
 
 " Yes, you are a cross fairy," thought Dora, 
 " but for all that, I shall prevail over you once 
 more." So she made no further offers, but 
 gently drew out Nanette. She learned how 
 Nanette had been rich — quite rich. She had 
 earned as much as seventy francs in one month 
 by lace-mending, but now her eyesight was 
 gone, and her hand was unsteady, and there 
 were days when Nanette could not get up, she 
 was so weak, and then she lay sleepless all 
 night. " When the moon shone in at her win- 
 dow, and lit up her room, it was well and good ; 
 but when the night was dark, and the room 
 was black, it was very dreary, you see." 
 
 Dora's bright eyes flashed with triumph. 
 
 " I shall give you a pound of candles," she 
 said. 
 
 Nanette was fairly conquered. Candles, 
 were the secret desire of her heart. Even 
 pride and ill-temper could not reject such a 
 boon. She put her withered hand on Dora's, 
 and looked up in her face. 
 
 "I shall show it to you," she said. "Doctor 
 Richard wants it, but I would not let him see 
 it — not I ; but you shall see it ! " 
 
 She unlocked a square box on the floor, 
 fumbled in it, then drew out a velvet case, 
 which she opened, but jealously kept in her 
 hand. Dora might look, but by no means 
 touch. This treasure, which was a treasure 
 indeed, was an ancient and exqjysite enamel 
 portrait. It showed Dora a young girl in all 
 the bloom and radiance of youth, and with 
 hair of a golden brown. 
 
 " Yes," said Nanette, as Dora gave a little 
 start, " it is like you ; you have the same hair 
 — I saw that at once. And she was a grr.it, 
 great lady, and my great-great-grandmother, 
 too," added Nanette, " and no one shall have 
 it!" she angrily continued, shutting up the
 
 50 
 
 DORA. 
 
 case, and putting away the portrait hurriedly ; 
 " and he shall not even see it ! " she said, with 
 a sort of scream, meant for Doctor Richard. 
 
 " My poor old fairy ! " thought Dora, as she 
 left Nanette, and went down the staircase, " I 
 fear your luck is all for me, and that you can 
 keep none for yourself. Are you indeed the 
 descendant of that bright-looking lady in rich 
 blue velvet ? You may have mended the ex- 
 quisite point your great-great-grandmother, as 
 you call her, wore round her white neck, and 
 been -paid for your labor by the great-great- 
 grand-daughter of her chambermaid. And 
 that lady's face and mine are not unlike. I 
 never was so pretty, but still there is a sort of 
 national likeness. Who knows but the origi- 
 nal was the daughter of some Irish Jacobite 
 who came over with James Stuart ? I may be 
 Nanette's seventeenth cousin, for all I can tell. 
 And Nanette shall have milk, and eggs, and 
 butter, since bacon will not do, and candles, 
 by all means, for the sake of the grand rela- 
 tionship we all have in Father Adam." 
 
 She sent in her gifts at once, and that same 
 evening, looking up to Nanette's window, she 
 saw a light burning in it. The night was black 
 and sultry ; neither moon nor stars were out, 
 but it did Dora good to see that light, and to 
 know that the lonely old woman need not fret 
 her poor heart away in the darkness. When 
 she turned back from the window the smile on 
 her face was so bright, that it puzzled Mrs. 
 Courtenay. 
 
 " My dear, you look very happy," she said. 
 
 " Yes, I aja happy," replied Dora ; but she 
 said nothing about Nanette and the candles. 
 She would have told her mother, if Mrs. Cour- 
 tenay could have kept a secret from Mrs. 
 Luan, but that was impossible. And as it 
 would have been cruel to make poor Mrs. 
 Luan wretched by letting her know Dora's ex- 
 travagance, her niece kept her own counsel. 
 
 " And you look happy, too, mamma," con- 
 tinued Dora, approaching the table, and look- 
 
 ing over her shoulder at the cards spread upon 
 it. " I see you ha?e been successful." 
 
 " So successful ! " exclaimed Mrs. Cour- 
 tenay ; " all the cards came out. And as I 
 luckily did it for a wish, I am quite sure you 
 will get on with Monsieur Merand." 
 
 Dora laughed, and said there could be no 
 doubt about it. 
 
 Having procured the requisite permission, 
 Dora began her task the next day. The Mu- 
 see was a quiet place — two or three old gen- 
 tlemen, who had been painting there for the 
 last twenty years, were her only companions. 
 They looked as antique, and they were as si- 
 lent as the pictures they copied ; but for the 
 bright sun shining in the place below, and the 
 sound of carriages rolling on its stones, Dora 
 might have fancied herself- in some enchanted 
 palace. She liked this tranquillity. She liked 
 her task too ; and as it progressed, and she 
 felt that she was successful, she loved it. 
 With a cheerful heart she left home in the 
 morning ; with a sense of happiness she went 
 up the stone staircase and entered the rooms 
 where her silent friends and companions, the 
 pictures, were waiting for her. . With a fatigue 
 which was welcome, for it meant labor, suc- 
 cess, and money, she put by her drawing 
 when the day was over, and the keeper gave 
 out the summons to depart. Happy are the 
 women who have to toil for their bread in 
 some loved vocation. The curse of labor is 
 lightened for them, and sweetened into a bless- 
 ing. Happy they before whom the fair fields 
 of art lie open. Small though the harvest may 
 be — not unto all are plenteous crops given — it 
 is pure wheat, pure and good. Happy, there- 
 fore, was now Dora Courtenay. Monsieur Me- 
 rand praised the first samples of her skill, and 
 Dora's ta?te and judgment confirmed his ap- 
 proval. The results of her labor were satis- 
 factory in every seuse. Ere long she was in 
 the receipt of an income varying from ten to 
 fifteen pounds a month. Thanks to this un-
 
 THE DUBOIS FAMILY. 
 
 51 
 
 expected piece of good fortune, comfort under 
 many shapes crept into their home. Mrs. 
 Courtenay and Mrs. Luan had their promised 
 silk dresses ; now and then a carriage drew 
 up at Madame Bertrand's door, and took her 
 lodgers away for the day in the lovely environs 
 of Rouen ; and every evening the sounds of a 
 piano stole out of Dora's window, and filled 
 the dull old street with brilliant music. The 
 change made her very happy. It was not 
 merely the money, though that was welcome, 
 it was also and especially the sense of leading 
 a useful and active life, which charmed her. 
 She had been poor, and she had been, if not 
 rich, at least in easy circumstances, but never 
 before this time had she earned money, never 
 had she felt independent, and one in the great 
 scheme of social life. It was a delightful feel- 
 ing, and the more delightful that habit and 
 time had not yet deadened its enjoyments and 
 destroyed its freshness. And thus the happy 
 summer stole away. 
 
 On a bright afternoon in September, Dora, 
 on leaving the picture-gallery, went to the 
 house of a poor gilder out of work, from whom 
 she had ordered a frame a month back for a 
 drawing she had undertaken on her own ac- 
 count. J^eeries of misfortunes had prevented 
 Dubois from keeping his promise. Dora had 
 been patient and forbearing, and generous 
 even, but now her patience was out, and she 
 entered the dark lane at the end of which 
 Dubois lived, prepared to bestow nothing upon 
 him save a severe scolding. " I shall not be 
 a.t all good-natured," she thought ; " but very 
 firm and dignified." As she came to this 
 austere resolve, Dora reached the gilder's 
 door, but when a dirty child admitted her 
 within, and she once more saw the poverty- 
 stricken aspect of the place, her heart re- 
 lented. 
 
 There is a terrible resemblance between all 
 poor homes. Place them in what latitude, 
 under what sky you will, they are akin in 
 
 three essential characteristics — darkness, dirt, 
 and dinginess ; we do not speak of exceptions, 
 but of the general rule. Some features, too, 
 they have in common to a singular degree. 
 Why, for instance, must the poor be every- 
 where so fond of poultry ? The Dubois had 
 three children, but they also found room -for 
 a white hen, which went scratching and cack- 
 ling about their two rooms. Dora had often 
 looked at that hen with a secret shudder, in- 
 spired by the thought that it might possibly 
 be killed, taken to market, and there pur- 
 chased by Mrs. Luan for home consumption. 
 " It must be such a fowl as this that she 
 brought home last week," thought Dora, now 
 watching the wretched bird as it wandered 
 under an old bedstead, and looked ghost-like 
 in that gloomy refuge ; " one should really 
 know more about the creatures one eats, and 
 what their rearing has been, for instance." 
 
 " Mademoiselle is looking at the white hen," 
 said Madame Dubois, a dirty young woman. 
 " Catch it, Joseph, and let Mademoiselle feel 
 how fat it is getting." 
 
 In vain Mademoiselle protested. Joseph was 
 already on his knees groping under the bed- 
 stead ; but just as he stretched out his hand 
 to seize her, the white hen artfully slipped 
 under a chest of drawers. 
 
 " Shall I get a stick and poke her out ? " 
 asked Joseph, coming out from under the bed 
 very red in the face, and much the worse for 
 the dust he had found there. On hearing this 
 suggestion, the white hen cackled a feeble 
 protest, and Madame Dubois angrily promised 
 Joseph the best slap he had ever had in his 
 life if he made the attempt. Dora now ex- 
 pounded her errand. Madame Dubois clasped 
 her hands and looked piteous. 
 
 They were the most unfortunate people. 
 Poor Dubois had hurt his hand, his right hand, 
 and was gone to the chemist's to gel it dre 
 That was their luck. 
 
 '; Well, you are unlucky," kindly said Dora.
 
 52 
 
 DORA. 
 
 " But where is the frame ? I want to see that 
 it is of the right size." 
 
 Madame Dubois looked despondent. They 
 were so unlucky that she had not liked to tell 
 Mademoiselle, but just as the frame was ready 
 to be gilt, Joseph and the hen had combined 
 against it, and broken it that very morning. 
 Dora nearly lost patience, but again pity pre- 
 vailed, and with a few kind, comforting words, 
 and a little donation, she left this abode of ill- 
 luck. The sight of continued misfortune is 
 oppressive, and Dora breathed a little sigh of 
 relief as she got out again into the free and 
 open air. 
 
 " I never knew such unlucky people," she 
 thought. "It is simply dreadful ; and if these 
 were the days of witchcraft, I should say that 
 the white hen was at the bottom of it. And 
 who knows but she is? Who knows that 
 sorcery has really gone by with the Middle 
 Ages ? What are all these grim old Gothic 
 monuments which have remained, but stone 
 legends? Why may not goblins and evil 
 spirits abide in their walls, as they are said to 
 live in waste places? Suppose one of the 
 frightful stone chimeras that peep down at 
 you from the water-spouts and buttresses, 
 should take a fancy to be alive, and suiting 
 itself to modern ideas and habits, should as- 
 sume a more sober shape than it received from 
 its Gothic carver ? Suppose, too — " 
 
 HeretDora's fancies received a sudden check. 
 She stood at Monsieur Merand's door, and as 
 she had a drawing for him in her portfolio, she 
 was recalled from the world in which stone be- 
 comes animate, to that in which drawings are 
 exchanged for coined gold and silver. With 
 a cheerful sense of labor, and reward, and use- 
 fuluess upon her, Miss Courtenay entered the 
 shop. 
 
 Monsieur Merand was not alone. That 
 Doctor Richard, whom we have already seen 
 there, was with him. He looked for his cane 
 as if to go, but Monsieur Merand said eagerly, 
 
 " Not without taking that engraving, Doctor 
 Richard — you must have it." 
 
 Dora was struck, and amused, too, at Doc- 
 tor Richard's look. It was both shrewd and 
 boyish — a school-boy look. Doctor Richard 
 was past thirty, yet there was fun and mis- 
 chief in his swarthy face, and in his dark eyes. 
 
 "I should not care to have that Doctor 
 Richard attending on me if I were ill," thought 
 Dora. " I am sure he laughs at all his patients. 
 Has he patients ? " she mentally added, seeing 
 that his clothes, though scrupulously neat and 
 clean, had seen some wear. 
 
 " Come, have it," urged Monsieur Merand. 
 
 " Not on those terms. Did I not tell you I 
 was a ruined man ? " 
 
 " Come, Doctor Richard, those mines did not 
 take all your money." 
 
 " They plucked some good feathers from my 
 wing, I can tell you." 
 
 " Mines ! has he lost in mines ? " thought 
 Dora. " Not our mines, I hope." For the 
 slender provision remaining to her mother and 
 aunt was invested in tin-mines in the west of 
 England. 
 
 Some more arguing ensued between the 
 dealer and his customer, but the latter prov- 
 ing obdurate, Monsieur Merand pu^away the 
 engraving, and Doctor Richard walked out of 
 the shop without seeming to see Dora. She 
 looked after him with a vague fear at her 
 heart. How she would have questioned him 
 concerning his losses if she had dared ! Mon- 
 sieur Merand saw her look, and he tapped his 
 forehead. 
 
 " A good gentleman," he said, " a very good, 
 humane gentleman — attends on half the poor 
 in Rouen for nothing — but not right there, you 
 know." 
 
 " He has had losses," remarked Dora. 
 
 " Yes, the news came this afternoon. I am 
 sorry for him, poor fellow ! " 
 
 Dora was untying the strings of her port- 
 folio. Her hands shook a little.
 
 DR. RICHARD COMMUNICATES BAD NEWS. 
 
 53 
 
 " Pray where are those mines ? " she asked, 
 trying to speak carelessly. 
 
 Monsieur Merand thrust his hands in his 
 pockets, raised his eyebrows, and shook his 
 head. His answer was a doubtful one. The 
 mines were in England, then in Wales, then 
 in Cornwall. Dora, who had breathed a re- 
 lieved sigh, felt faint and sick again. 
 
 "I hope — I trust they are not those of 
 which my mother holds some shares," she 
 said. 
 
 Some, alas ! she might have said all that 
 Mrs. Courtenay possessed was thus invested. 
 The anxiety and distress on her countenance 
 struck Monsieur Merand. 
 
 " Shall I ask Doctor Richard ? " he said. 
 
 " Yes, Monsieur Merand, do, pray. It will 
 oblige me. It is very foolish of me to think 
 anything of the kind ; but we have had losses 
 already, and that makes me timorous." 
 
 " I shall be sure to see him this evening, or 
 to-morrow at the latest," continued Monsieur 
 Merand, " and then — why, here he is ! " he 
 added, breaking off as Doctor Richard re- 
 entered the shop. 
 
 Something in their two faces showed Doctor 
 Richard that they were talking of him. He 
 bent his full black eyes on either alternately, 
 and his countenance assumed a sudden look 
 of mistrust, not unmingled with defiance. 
 Monsieur Merand stood on ceremony with no 
 one. In a few words he exposed Miss Cour- 
 tenay's anxiety, and her purpose in inquiring. 
 No kind and courteous periphrasis marked 
 Doctor Richard's answer. He was a quick 
 and sure surgeon, and did not prolong Dora's 
 agony. 
 
 " The Redmore Mines," was his brief reply. 
 
 Dora turned pale ; but uttered not one word 
 at first. They both looked at her anxiously 
 and gravely. 
 
 " These are the mines," she said, at length. 
 After a while she added, looking at Doctor 
 Richard, "Will there be nothing left ? " 
 
 "Scarcely a sixpence in the pound, 1 
 lieve ; but no \>ne can tell yet." 
 
 It was ruin. A second ruin, deeper, fulk-r 
 than the first. 
 
 " God's will be done," said Dora, after an- 
 other pause. "Here is your drawing, Mon- 
 sieur Merand ! " 
 
 She gave it to him as she spoke. 
 
 "I shall want another soon," he said, 
 quickly. 
 
 She nodded assent, bowed to Doctor Rich- 
 ard, and left the shop without uttering an- 
 other word. She could not speak, her heart 
 was full, and her brain as yet felt too dizzy 
 for thought. 
 
 There is a terrible kind of poverty ; the 
 poverty of the millions, who, being used to it 
 from their birth, luckily do not see it in all its 
 horrors ; the poverty which the narrowest 
 plank, which the frailest barrier divides from 
 the deep, dark gulf of want. That poverty 
 Dora had never known. She had been reared 
 on a slender income ; but she ever felt safe in 
 her little cage, and had no conception of the 
 life led by such as have to shift in the wilder- 
 ness, and are not sure, when they go to bed 
 at night, that there shall be bread for them 
 on the morrow. To, lose the nine-tenths of 
 her income was nothing, whilst the tenth, 
 which was strictly sufficient, remained unto 
 her. But to lose that, to have to face a 
 second poverty, grim and bare as the first, 
 and far more pitiless than it had ever been, 
 filled her with a sort of horror — not for her 
 own sake merely, but for that of the beings 
 whom she loved. 
 
 " My poor mother ! My poor aunt ! " she 
 
 thought when she could think. 
 
 i 
 
 She was standing on the place, with the 
 massive gloom of Notre Dame hanging over 
 her. She entered the grand old church. She 
 wanted to be calm ere she faced them at 
 home; the dim light, the cool atmosphere, 
 the faint breath of incense, the vastness
 
 54 
 
 DORA. 
 
 the seclusion of this Christian home of souls, 
 lulled the brief storm of her soul to rest. 
 After all, she could work, she could earn ; 
 she was young, and had energy. She was 
 thrown on Providence, and Providence was 
 thereby bound to take care of her, and those 
 who were dear to her. She was now like one 
 of those birds of the air whose fleetness and 
 freedom she had so often envied. There was 
 nothing in store for her ; like them she was to 
 live in boundless trust, neither hoping nor 
 despairing. 
 
 Dora's heart beat as she came to this con- 
 clusion. She was a brave girl, and now that 
 the first shock was over, she could meet her 
 new lot, and look it in the face. Besides, 
 there was consolation in all its bitterness. 
 Her eyes sought the gravestone with its Re- 
 quiescat. It was too dark to read it ; but she 
 knew it was there, and her heart was full as 
 she thought — 
 
 " Poor Paul ! he is best at rest, after all ! 
 Best in Glasnevin, away from all these trou- 
 bles, which would have bowed him down so 
 heavily. He need fear no care, no burden 
 now. Toil is over for bim. He has got his 
 wages. That is the meaning of the old Latin 
 word Requiescat ! May he rest ! Is life such 
 a trouble and a toil, that repose must needs 
 be man's dearest wish to the dead ? And now 
 I must go in and tell them, poor things, and 
 see tears, and hear lamentations." 
 
 She left the church and went home, and 
 never, if the truth must be confessed, never 
 had she felt so arrant a coward as when she 
 went lip the staircase. She heard them talk- 
 ing within. Mrs. Courtenay's tones had their 
 usual airy cheerfulness, and even Mrs. Luan's 
 husky voice told Dora, by it3 briskness, that 
 her aunt was in a good humor. 
 
 " I dare say they have "had a letter from 
 John," thought Dora, with a sigh ; and, feel- 
 ing like a culprit, she entered the room. She 
 did not delay one second — she could not. 
 
 " I have had such strange news," she said? 
 looking at them wistfully ; " not good news, I 
 confess, but I hope you will take it well, and 
 remember that I am young and can work, and 
 that Monsieur Merand means to go on employ- 
 ing me." 
 
 " News ! — what news ? " asked Mrs. Courte- 
 nay, amazed. 
 
 " Our shares in the Redmore Mines are 
 worthless," answered Dora, in a low voice; 
 and she gave them the few particulars of the 
 catastrophe which she knew. 
 
 Dora bad been prepared for her mother's 
 grief and her aunt's consternation, but she had 
 not expected to fiud them both incredulous. 
 Yet so they were. Mrs. Luan said, with some 
 excitement : 
 
 " It is not true — the mines are good ! " And 
 she took up and put down her patchwork in 
 evident emotion. 
 
 Mrs. Courtenay was still more positive. 
 
 " My dear," she said, good-humoredly, " if 
 this were true, we should know it ,as well as 
 that Doctor Dick—" 
 
 " Doctor Richard," interrupted Dora. 
 
 " Doctor Richard," placidly resumed Mrs. 
 Courtenay, " can scarcely have means of in- 
 formation denied to us. Besides, I dare say 
 he was entertaining himself at your expense, 
 child." 
 
 Dora looked very earnestly at her mother. 
 
 " If you had seeu him and heard him speak, 
 mamma," she said, "you could scarcely con- 
 nect the idea of a foolish jest with that man ; 
 still less would you think it likely that he 
 should or could be mistaken about a thing he 
 asserts so positively as this." 
 
 Mrs. Courtenay looked slightly disturbed. 
 
 " Why, what is he like ? " she asked. 
 
 "A gentleman — a real gentleman, I mean. 
 Yes, truly, a real gentleman ; though almost 
 shabbily dressed." 
 
 " I don't believe him- — he is a liar ! " excit 
 cdly said Mrs. Luan.
 
 SAD THOUGHTS. 
 
 55 
 
 " He looks one straight in the face, aunt." 
 
 " But, my dear, you know nothing about 
 him," urged her mother. 
 
 "I have seen him, mamma, and both his 
 appearance and manner are remarkable." 
 
 " Is he handsome ? " 
 
 " Not at all. Indeed, he is dark and rather 
 plain. I feel pretty sure that he comes from 
 the south." 
 
 " Then he is an Irishman ! " 
 
 " Yes — at least I think so." 
 
 " I don't believe it," again put in Mrs. 
 Luan ; " Richard is not an Irish name — he is 
 a liar ! " 
 
 But Dora noticed that her hand shook so 
 that she could not thread her needle. 
 
 " I am not sure he is Irish," she resumed, 
 " but his countenance makes me think he is. 
 Whatever his country may be, his face is that 
 of a generous, warm-hearted man, and, I will 
 add, of an upright one." 
 
 Mrs. Courtenay said innocently : 
 
 " My dear, how you must have looked at 
 him to see all that in his face ! " 
 
 " I did indeed look at him," replied Dora, 
 gravely. " When he uttered this terrible 
 news, I looked at him as I seldom look at peo- 
 ple, mamma. But you see it was Destiny, our 
 Fate, that was speaking. He seemed sorry, 
 very sorry for me, but he softened and miti- 
 gated nothing. I do not think he could do so 
 even if he wished it — the truth is too strong 
 for him." 
 
 They both looked at her with some sur- 
 prise. She was pale, but grave and collected. 
 The blow had fallen on her, but it had not 
 crushed her ; and though she felt it still, she 
 was already rallying from its effects. They 
 exchanged alarmed looks. Was it, could it 
 be true ? 
 
 " But if the money is lost, what shall we 
 do ? " exclaimed Mrs. Courtenay, raising her 
 voice, and clasping her hands in terror. 
 
 " Monsieur Merand asks me for another 
 
 drawing," said Dora; "besides, I shall try 
 and get some teaching." 
 
 " I shall write to Mr. Dcrring at once ! " 
 cried Mrs. Courtenay, much agitated. "As 
 my solicitor, he must know the truth." 
 
 " It is too late for the post to-day, mamma. 
 I dare say we shall know the truth to-mor- 
 row." 
 
 But it was very plain that concerning that 
 truth Dora herself felt no doubt. The dreary 
 certainty had entered her soul in Monsieur 
 Merand's shop, and could leave it no more. 
 
 They spent a melancholy evening. Mrs. 
 Courtenay took out her cards, and tried the 
 favorite patience of His Majesty Louis Dix- 
 huit, but she changed color ere she had gone 
 half through it. She had placed an omen 
 upon it, and whether the cards would not 
 come right, or whether — what was just as 
 likely — Mrs. Courtenay's disturbed mind would 
 not let her take advantage of the chances of 
 the game, it was plain that the residt would 
 have been a cruel " no " to her secret hopes. 
 So she would not trust fate, but mixed up the 
 cards hurriedly, and put them away with a 
 frightened look that went to Dora's heart. It 
 was a relief to her when she retired to her 
 room for the night. As she closed her win 
 dow, which had remained open, she looked up 
 to Nanette's, where a light was burning. 
 
 " My poor little fairy," she thought, " that 
 light of yours has often cheered me, and done 
 me good, for poor though I am, it showed me 
 I was not powerless. And now, must I bid 
 you be careful and sparing of your poor rush- 
 light, or, saddest of all, give up my little 
 bounty because I can afford it no longer ! " 
 
 These were not cheerful thoughts, and Dora 
 felt depressed as she sat on the edge of her 
 bed, and looked at the story of the patient 
 Griselidis on the'faded curtains. 
 
 "She worked for her living, to 1"' Bure," 
 thought Dora, as she examined the prim figure 
 standing with its spindle and distaff by the
 
 56 
 
 DORA. 
 
 cottage door, " but did she ever know the 
 cruel doubt and fear which are upon me now ? 
 She had always wool to spin, I suppose, that 
 patient Griselidis. Was there a time when 
 she thought of sitting empty-handed, with 
 nothing to do, and therefore nothing to earn ? 
 God help us ! If those shares are really lost, 
 are we three to be dependent on my drawings, 
 and on Monsieur Merand ? John will do 
 something for his mother, poor fellow ! — but 
 what can he do? Oh! how weak and un- 
 grateful I was all this time, complaining that 
 I led a dull life, forsooth, and not appreciating 
 the inestimable blessing of security and inde- 
 pendence, mean and humble though both 
 were ! I fear no labor, no drudgery ; but 
 what if these should fail me, and with them 
 honest livelihood ! If I had been sinking at 
 sea, or shut in by flames from all help, that 
 Doctor Eichard could scarcely have looked 
 more compassionate than he did. He seemed 
 struck with pity. I dare say my face told him 
 it was ruin ! ruin ! — cruel ruin ! — irrevocable 
 ruin ! God help me ! what shall we do ? " 
 
 Once more a sort of despair filled her heart, 
 but it soon passed away. Hope and a natu- 
 rally brave spirit chased the cowardly feeling, 
 and bade it begone. 
 
 " I will be brave — I will be strong ! " thought 
 Dora, proudly, " and, with God's help, we shall 
 have the needful." 
 
 She went to bed and slept — slept soundly, 
 even. But Mrs. Courtenay's slumbers were 
 agitated and broken, and Mrs. Luan's eyes did 
 not close once through the whole of that long 
 night. 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 TnE two elder ladies were anxiously waiting 
 for post-time. Dora was calm. She needed 
 no confirmation to her knowledge of the 
 worst. " We must bear it," she thought, re- 
 
 ducing into practice the lessons of Epictetus. 
 " The rest matters little." 
 
 That " rest," which she thus dismissed, was 
 much to the two elder women. They denied 
 its existence, yet waited for its coming with 
 fear and trembling. What if those Redmore 
 Mines should indeed prove as treacherous as 
 Dora's four hundred a year ! We all know 
 that sorrows come not singj^. These dark 
 sisters are in a league against man, and when 
 one has done with him, she calls another to 
 fill her vacant place by the stricken hearth. 
 Well may people in trouble be gloomy. They 
 know that, though one misfortune is gone, the 
 other is surely coming. But it is hard to feel 
 a butt for Fate, so against that knowledge 
 Mrs. Courtenay and Mrs. Luan both rebelled. 
 
 " I am sure the postman has gone by," 
 triumphantly said Mrs. Courtenay. 
 
 She had been looking out of the window for 
 the postman during the last hour. She now 
 looked again, and to her dismay saw him 
 turning the corner of the street. At once she 
 drew in her frightened face, and sat down, 
 pale and expectant. Mrs. Luan looked scared, 
 and turned rather yellow. Dora put down 
 her sewing, and waited patiently. A ring was 
 heard at the door below. 
 
 "It is the baker," murmured Mrs. Cour- 
 tenay. 
 
 A step came up the stairs — a discreet tap at 
 their door followed. 
 
 " Come in," faintly said Mrs. Courtenay. 
 
 The door opened, and Madame Bertrand 
 entered the room, with a blue foolscap letter, 
 an English letter, in her hand. She came in 
 smiling and nodding. English letters were 
 always welcome to her lodgers. 
 
 " Here it is," she said, still nodding. " ' How 
 pleased the ladies will be,' I said to the post- 
 man ; ' they have not had one for such a time.' 
 1 Well, then,' he replied, ' they will not mind 
 paying the extra postage; it is written on 
 thick paper, and overweight, you see.' So I
 
 ILLNESS OF MES. COURTENAY. 
 
 57 
 
 paid him the twenty-four sous," continued 
 Madame Bertrand. 
 
 Dora put her hand in her pocket, paid the 
 money, and took the letter. Madame Bertrand 
 withdrew, unconscious of the desolation she 
 had left behind her. 
 
 " Read it, Dora — I cannot," said poor Mrs. 
 Courtenay. 
 
 Dora obeyed and read. They heard her in 
 death-like silence, Their little all was gone, 
 their little hoard had been swallowed in the 
 great wreck ; they were left, two white-haired 
 helpless women, dependent on a girl. Dora's 
 tears flowed at the sight of their silent grief. 
 
 " Dear mamma, dear aunt," she said, look- 
 ing from one to the other, " I am young, and 
 I can work. It is Providence that sent me to 
 Monsieur Merand's shop. And I like draw- 
 ing — I did it for pleasure as much as for 
 money ; if he will but continue and take my 
 sketches, we can live on my earnings. Be- 
 sides, can I not teach English or music, or do 
 a hundred things? As to that, can I not 
 sew ? " 
 
 But age has not the elasticity of youth. 
 Ruin was before Mrs. Courtenay and her 
 sister-in-law, and they could see nothing else. 
 Dora's voice fell on their ear without a note 
 of hope or comfort in it. It sounded idle, far 
 away and dull, and left the bitter truth in all 
 its bitterness. In vain she tried to console 
 them — she failed, and each rejected her well- 
 meant efforts after her own fashion. Mrs. 
 Luan by a silent, moody motion of her hand, 
 and heavy, averted looks ; Mrs. Courtenay by 
 pitiful lamentations, ending in sobs and tears. 
 
 There is something very grievous in the de- 
 spair of age. Childhood and youth have their 
 passionate griefs, but we know that the Siren 
 Hope keeps many a sweet lure in store for 
 either. The old she deserts without pity; let 
 them suffer, their troubles at the best will be 
 brief, and there is a cure for all sorrows be- 
 neath the green sod. Rest is there, and 
 
 silence, and with both a balm to every earthly 
 grief; is it worth while for that bright, fair- 
 haired Hope to take thought of them? To 
 Dora she was prodigal of promises in this sad 
 hour. A national gallery would scarcely have 
 held all the drawings she held up to her view. 
 Bags full of silver five- franc pieces, rouleaux 
 of gold, blue bank-notes, this gay young god- 
 dess held in either of her white hands. Dora's 
 courage was but the fast belief in future good 
 rising out of this present woe. Of work and 
 money she felt sure ; but she vainly tried to 
 impart her certainty to her mother. 
 
 "No, no," despondently said Mrs. Courte- 
 nay ; " I dare say Monsieur Merand will be like 
 the Redmore Mines, and we shall all starve ! — 
 all starve !" she added, rocking herself to and 
 fro in her chair. 
 
 Dora thought at first that as her mother's 
 grief was loud, it would be soon over — sooner, 
 perhaps, than that of Mrs. Luan, who sat silent 
 and moody, like a yellow statue of despair ; 
 but it was not so. Mrs. Luan rallied a little, 
 and grew less torpid as the day passed; whilst 
 Mrs. Courtenay became more and more ex- 
 citable. She had borne, with great resigna- 
 tion, with a sort' of cheerfulness, indeed, the 
 loss of Dora's four hundred a year, but noth- 
 ing a year threw her into a sort of distraction 
 over which Dora found that she was power- 
 less. Mrs. Courtenay cried the whole day, re- 
 fused to eaf, and when she at lengfb. went to 
 bed, it was not to sleep, but to fret and moan. 
 Dora became uneasy, and that uneasiness rose 
 to alarm when, on entering her mother's room 
 to see if she was sleeping, she found Mrs. 
 Courtenay sitting up in her bed, talking aloud 
 and at random. 
 
 It had not seemed to Dora before this that 
 grief in one of her mother's excitable tempera- 
 ment might be dangerous. But now the con- 
 viction that it could be so rushed to her mind 
 with terrible force, and conquered her equa- 
 nimity.
 
 58 
 
 DORA. 
 
 " Aunt ! " she cried, going back to Mrs. 
 Luan in their little sitting-room, "stay with 
 mamma ; I must go for a doctor." 
 
 She hastily put on her bonnet and ran down- 
 stairs to Madame Bertrand. She found her in 
 her chair snoring comfortably, -whilst the gray 
 Angola cat, gathered up in a demure attitude 
 on the table by her mistress, was purring in 
 unison. The lamp burned unused, for though 
 Madame Bertrand's spectacles were on her 
 nose, and a half-mended stocking was on her 
 left hand, the good lady was, as we said, fast 
 asleep. It was but a little Dutch picture of 
 domestic comfort ; yet that homely woman in 
 the homely room, with the brown old furniture 
 and the ancient clock ticking behind the door, 
 gave Dora a brief, sharp pang. Oh ! to be so 
 once more, with health and humble comfort, 
 and the sweetest of human blessings, a bless- 
 ing, indeed, which is more of Heaven than of 
 earth — dear, happy peace ! 
 
 Madame Bertrand was not very fast asleep — 
 only dozing, as she said when on awakening 
 she saw Dora standing before her; and she 
 good-humoredly asked to know her young 
 lodger's pleasure. 
 
 " My mother is ill," replied Dora, " and I 
 want a doctor." 
 
 Madame Bertrand stared. 
 
 "111! "she exclaimed, amazed. "Then we 
 must have the English doctor — Dr. Richard." 
 
 Dora could not help giving a little start. She 
 did not want Doctor Richard ; she herself could 
 not have said why. 
 
 " Is he a good doctor ? " she asked doubt- 
 fully — " a very good one, I mean ? " 
 
 " Good ! " screamed Madame Bertrand ; 
 " why, did he not save Madame Bernard's 
 cbilil that was black in the face ! And when 
 poor Monsieur Lcgrand had that brain fever, 
 did lie not get him through — only is he within 
 now? He would be the greatest doctor in 
 Rouen if he were not always nobody knows 
 where." 
 
 " Then let us go for some one else," hur- 
 riedly said Dora ; " I must lose no time." 
 
 " I shall go with you to Doctor Richard's," 
 Madame Bertrand good-naturedly proposed ; 
 " and if he is not within, we can only go to 
 Doctor Merson — but I have no great faith in 
 Mm," she added, with an ominous shake of the 
 head. 
 
 They went out together. The night was fine, 
 but cool. The chill air did Dora good, and 
 helped to calm her. 
 
 " I dare say it is only a little natural excite- 
 ment," she thought, already rallying from her 
 fears ; " still, I shall be glad to have advice. 
 I hope that Doctor Richard is a good doctor ? " 
 
 And she asked if he lived far away. 
 
 " This is the house," answered Madame Ber- 
 trand, stopping before a low and very old man- 
 sion. Dora knew that house well. It stood 
 next to that in which Nanette lived. She 
 passed it daily on her way to the Musee. She 
 knew that gray facade, that low arched door, 
 those grated windows on the ground-floor. 
 Once she had seen the door open, and caught 
 a glimpse of a green court with mildewed walls, 
 an old shattered fountain, and a heap of sculp- 
 tured rubbish ; but Doctor Richard, or indeed 
 any one, she had never seen about the 
 place. 
 
 " He is within," said Madame Bertrand ; she 
 looked up at the first-floor windows as she 
 spoke — they were curtainless. Dora saw a 
 light passing from room to room, but she could 
 not see who carried it. 
 
 " Does Doctor Richard live here ? " she in- 
 quired, as her companion rang the bell, which 
 gave a loud dismal peal in the empty rooms 
 within. 
 
 "Not always; but, poor gentleman! he' 
 spends all his money in buying old things, and 
 he stows them away here, you see." 
 
 The light vanished from the windows above, 
 a step was heard coming down the staircase, 
 and presently the door opened, and Dora saw
 
 THE DOCTOR'S VISIT. 
 
 59 
 
 Doctor Richard with his hat on and a light in 
 his hand. She saw him, but he did not see 
 her. He only saw Madame Bertrand, behind 
 whom she stood, in the darkness of the street. 
 
 " Well ! " he said, with good-humored as- 
 peiity. "Who is ill? Who is dying now, 
 just to vex me and keep me in Rouen to- 
 night ? " 
 
 " No one is dying, I hope, Monsieur Rich- 
 ard," replied Madame Bertrand, curtsying ; 
 " but Mademoiselle's mamma is very poorly, 
 so we came for you." 
 
 Doctor Richard moved bis 1 light till it fell on 
 Dora's face; bis look showed that he recog- 
 nized her, but he betrayed no other token of 
 previous acquaintance. He extinguished the 
 candle, put it away on the last step of the 
 staircase, then walked out, locking' the door 
 behind him. It was plain he lived alone in 
 that dreary old mansion. 
 
 " How strange and sharp he looks," thought 
 Dora to whom that night aspect of Doctor 
 Richard's dark face gave a very different im- 
 pression from that which she had received in 
 Monsieur Merand's shop! "I hope he is a 
 good doctor. I fear he is a wilful one." 
 
 At first Doctor Richard walked up the street 
 before them. Then suddenly slackening his 
 pace, he stayed by Dora's side, and began 
 questioning her. How long had her mother 
 been ill, and what were the symptoms ? 
 
 " She got bad news this morning," replied 
 Dora ; " news which agitated her, and she is 
 slightly delirious now. It is this that frightens 
 me." 
 
 " There is probably no cause for alarm," he 
 composedly replied, "though there may be 
 6onie for care." 
 
 He spoke no more, and when they reached 
 the house he followed her up-stairs to her 
 mother's room, without uttering a word. 
 
 " Mamma, I have brought Doctor Richard to 
 see you," said Dora, going up to her mother. 
 " My dear, we cannot afford doctors now," 
 
 answered Mrs. Courtenay, excitedly. " They 
 are expensive, you know. Besides, that is not 
 Doctor Richard." 
 
 " Yes, it is ! " he good-humoredly replied in 
 English, and at the same time sitting down by 
 her, and taking her hand to feel her pulse, " I 
 am not merely Doctor Richard, but your close 
 neighbor, don't you know that ? " 
 
 The sick lady gave him a puzzled look, and 
 then, with a wearied sigh, she let her upraised 
 head sink back on her pillow. Doctor Richard 
 looked at her very attentively ; he leaned back 
 in his chair at the foot of the bed, and scanned 
 her features with the closest scrutiny, seeming 
 in no hurry either to speak or to move. Mrs. 
 Luan stared at him amazed, whilst Dora 
 watched him with breathless suspense. At 
 length he rose and looked for his hat. 
 
 " Is there nothing to be done, sir ? " asked 
 Dora. 
 
 "Not yet," he replied, "but you may as 
 well sit up with her. I shall call again in an 
 hour or so, and then I shall know better how 
 to act." 
 
 Dora followed him out of the room. 
 
 " There is no cause for alarm, sir, is there ? " 
 she asked, detaining him at the head of the 
 staircase. 
 
 " Not that I know of; but, to tell you the 
 truth, I do not know what is the matter with 
 this lady, and I do not wish to prescribe until 
 I have such knowledge. I shall call round in 
 an hour or so." 
 
 " But my mother canno,t be very ill ! " urged 
 Dora. " She was so well this morning." 
 
 " I do not think she is very ill," he answered, 
 quietly ; " but it is to feel sure of it that I 
 shall come again." 
 
 He left her, and Dora, much relieved, re- 
 turned to her mother's room. But the relief 
 was only momentary. As she sal and listened 
 to Mrs. Courtenay's gentle wanderings, and 
 looked at her flushed face, a subtle bat sicken- 
 ing fear crept to her heart. What if the blow
 
 60 
 
 DORA. 
 
 had been too severe ? What if the terror of 
 poverty had irremediably shaken a mind of 
 no great strength ? For it was a cruel — a 
 very cruel blow. She need only look at Mrs. 
 Loan's dull, heavy face, at her vacant eyes, 
 and hands idly clasped on her lap, and see 
 bow that blow had told on her. She tried to 
 rouse her a little. 
 
 " Do not look so, aunt," she said, going to 
 her chair and bending over it, " take your 
 patchwork and cheer up. Mamma will get 
 well, and John will help us, and I shall draw 
 for Mons. Merand, and all will be right again." 
 
 " We shall give a party next week," here 
 said Mrs. Courtenay, "and your aunt shall 
 wear a yellow dress, Dora." 
 
 Mrs. Luan smiled grimly. 
 
 " She thinks me foolish ! " she said, " does 
 she ? Eh ? " 
 
 She was evidently triumphing in her superior 
 wisdom. Dora's eyes grew dim as she looked 
 toward the bed. 
 
 " Some people look wise and are silly," con- 
 tinued Mrs. Luan, with a nod. " Oh ! dear, 
 how hot my head is ! " 
 
 She took off her cap as she spoke, and flung 
 it to the other end of the room. 
 
 There was no comfort to receive there, no 
 comfort, either, to administer. Dora returned 
 to her mother's bedside. 
 
 " It is a party, a beautiful party," resumed 
 Mrs. Courtenay : " only where is Paul ? You 
 must dance with Paul, Dora. Pity you are 
 brother and sister — I should have liked you 
 to marry Paul. So accomplished — such a gen- 
 tleman ! " 
 
 "Do listen to her!" scornfully said Mrs. 
 Luan, still seeming to triumph in her superi- 
 ority. Then she gave a start, and added ab- 
 ruptly, " That's the death-watch ! " 
 
 Dora felt almost angry. 
 
 "That is Madame Bertrand's great clock 
 ticking," she replied, warmly. " I wonder at 
 you, aunt ! " 
 
 Mrs. Luan stared at her without replying. 
 Then she rose, picked up her cap, put it on, 
 after shaking it, and, to Dora's relief, went to 
 her own room. She remained alone with her 
 mother, looking at her, listening to her in 
 troubled silence. The evening, the house, the 
 street, all seemed preternaturally still, but Ma- 
 dame Bertrand's clock was awfully distinct. 
 
 " How cruel of aunt to say that ! " thought 
 Dora ; " but, poor thing, she knows no better. 
 Why do I listen to that foolish old clock ? It 
 is a hundred years old, at least, and is in its 
 dotage — why, then, do I mind it ? " 
 
 Why is superstition, latent in the human 
 heart, ready to start forth at the first call of 
 sorrow ? Oh ! what a relief it was when a 
 ring was heard below, when the street-door 
 opened, and Doctor Eichard's step came up 
 the staircase ! A relief, yet Dora's heart beat 
 so with sudden fear, that she could scarcely 
 rise to receive him when he entered the room. 
 Without speaking he went and took the chair 
 she had left vacant. He sat down again, and 
 he looked at Mrs. Courtenay with the closest 
 attention. Dora stood at the head of the bed, 
 looking at him with an intent gaze. Years 
 afterward she could have drawn his face from 
 memory as she saw it on this evening, so keen, 
 so watchful was the look she bent upon him 
 then. Doctor Richard was not very young, 
 and he was not at all handsome. He was still 
 in the prime and strength of life, but he was 
 plain and dark. He had a broad, massive fore- 
 head, strongly-marked eyebrows, and fine but 
 very piercing eyes. Some sternness there was 
 in the upper portion of his face, but a hand- 
 some, genial mouth redeemed it from any- 
 thing like coldness. With all this his was a 
 perplexing countenance, perhaps, because it 
 was one of many contrasts, and, therefore, not 
 easily read. Intellect it expressed and power 
 tempered by good-humor ; but with these at- 
 tractive«gifts there were others which qualified 
 them. Doctor Richard looked like a man of
 
 HIS FRIENDSHIP. 
 
 Gl 
 
 strong passions, and especially like one with 
 whom anger is both quick and vehement. He 
 might be, and probably he was, warm-hearted, 
 but he was certainly very warm-tempered. 
 
 Dora looked, not to observe all this, though 
 many a time later she remembered and con- 
 strued every one of these signs, but to read 
 in that dark, expressive face the fate of her 
 sick mother. Doctor Richard remained long 
 silent. "When he spoke at length, it was to say, 
 
 "lam just as much puzzled as before." 
 
 He spoke with a candor rare in medical 
 men. They cannot afford it. Their patients 
 expect them to be endowed with Godlike in- 
 fallibility, and woe be to them if by word'or 
 look they disappoint the preposterous expec- 
 tation ! But Doctor Richard did not seem to 
 care much for the reputation of his profes- 
 sional skill. For without giving Dora time to 
 reply, he continued, " I cannot tell yet. Will 
 you let me sit an hour here and wait ? " 
 
 " Certainly ; but it is robbing you of a 
 night's sleep, sir." 
 
 " Not it. I can read, you know." 
 
 He took a book out of his pocket as he 
 spoke, and was soon intent upon its contents. 
 The door of the inner room opened ere long, 
 and Mrs. Luan came forth ; but Doctor Richard 
 only 'turned a page without looking round. 
 Mrs. Luan sat dowD not far from him, and 
 still Doctor Richard was, or seemed to be, un- 
 conscious of her presence. Thus all three sat 
 in painful silence, whilst Mrs. Courtenay ut- 
 tered some flighty remark every now and 
 then. 
 
 "Dora," she once exclaimed, eagerly, "is 
 everything safe ? " 
 
 " Yes, mamma, quite safe." 
 "I mean the money. Because, you see, 
 Mr. Brown is in the room." 
 
 She looked significantly at Doctor Richard, 
 who raised his eyes, gave a little start of sur- 
 prise, and even colored sligh tly. Dorj blushed 
 and explained hastily : 
 
 " Mr. Brown was our banker, and we unfor- 
 tunately lost some money through him," she 
 said ; " so — " 
 
 " Mrs. Courtenay connects me with him," 
 said Doctor Richard, without letting her go on ; 
 " pray do not apologize." 
 
 " Mr. Brown was a rogue ! " remarked Mrs. 
 Luan, staring at Doctor Richard, who returned 
 the look with interest. 
 
 Dora, much perplexed and confused, said 
 nothing. Doctor Richard preserved the great- 
 est composure, and resumed his reading. A 
 book lay on the table — Dora took it up. It 
 was " Epictetus." Never, alas ! had her mind 
 felt less inclined to receive the stoic's teaching 
 than it felt then. How hard, how cold, how 
 heartless it all seemed ! She compelled her- 
 self to read, indeed, but half the time she found 
 no meaning in the words before her. Ever and 
 anon her eyes wandered from the page to Doc- 
 tor Richard, and every time they did so, they 
 found, on their way, the face of Mrs. Luan, 
 sitting in the gloomy part of the room, and 
 staring at the stranger with that fixed stare 
 which one sometimes sees in animals when a 
 guest toward whom they feel but half friendly 
 is present. That look, of which Doctor Rich- 
 ard was, or chose to seem, unconscious, added 
 to Dora's nervousness. She could read no 
 more — her anxiety was too great ; and still 
 time passed, and still Doctor Richard read on, 
 and showed no inclination to go. 
 
 Suddenly a church clock struck the hour — 
 two of the morning ; then a few minutes later 
 another clock took up the tale, and another 
 again — for a whole quarter of an hour it was 
 two. Dora sat no longer reading, but, with 
 her cheek resting on the palm of her hand, and 
 her elbow on the table. " Will be never go? 
 — will he never speak ? " she thoughl ; and she 
 looked toward him almost entreatingly. 
 
 This time Doctor Richard saw her. He had 
 half closed his book on his knee, and bending 
 a little forward, he was looking at her keenly
 
 G2 
 
 DORA. 
 
 and intently. If she bad b'een a picture or a 
 statue, bis gaze could not have been a more 
 fixed one than it" was. 
 
 " How is she ? — What is it ? " whispered 
 Dora, rising, and going up to him, for such a 
 look, she thought, could have but one mean- 
 ing. 
 
 Mrs. Courtenay had fallen into a gentle 
 sleep. Dora's expressive eyes asked : " Is this 
 good ? " And Doctor Richard nodded and 
 smiled, put his book in his pocket, and rose to 
 go. He was silent, and Dora, taking the bint, 
 let him out without speaking. 
 
 " Well, sir ? " she said eagerly, as soon as 
 the door was closed upon them, and they stood 
 on the landing. 
 
 "Well," he replied, "I know all about it 
 
 now, and Mrs. Courtenay sleeps without an 
 
 opiate, which I did not dare to give her. I 
 
 believe she will be well in a few days ; but if, 
 
 ♦ 
 as I fear, mental uneasiness be at the root of 
 
 her disease, pray do all you can to compose 
 
 her." 
 
 Poor Dora! this threw her back on her al- 
 most forgotten trouble. Doctor Richard saw 
 her eyes grow dim, and her lips quiver. But 
 he could do or say nothing, and be merely bade 
 her a good-night. 
 
 " Good-night, sir," said Dora, following him 
 down ; " I thank you much, very much — will 
 you come again?" 
 
 He seemed surprised at the suggestion. 
 
 " Of course I shall," lie said — " there, do not 
 come down any further — I can let myself out ; 
 the night air is keen." 
 
 But Dora would follow him to the street 
 door, and even bold the light for him down 
 the street. He walked away a few steps, then 
 came back. 
 
 '• You Heed not sit up with Mrs. Courtenay," 
 he said. " I feel quite sure of her now. Good- 
 night." 
 
 ne held out his hand. Dora gave him«hers, 
 and thanked him again. He pressed her hand, 
 
 and that with so cordial, so friendly a grasp, 
 that as he walked away and Dora closed the 
 door upon him, she thought, with some emo- 
 tion, " I am sure Doctor Richard is a friend." 
 And so he was — a fast, true friend to her. 
 Such a friend as life grants to few. 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 When Dora softly entered her mother's 
 room the next morning, she found Mrs. Cour- 
 tenay still sleeping. Her head lay on her pil- 
 low, her bands were clasped, and in the sub- 
 dued light, which stole in horizontal rays 
 through the closed shutters, she looked so 
 cahn, so peaceful, that Dora's last apprehen- 
 sions vanished as by enchantment. Her face 
 was radiant when she went forth into the lit- 
 tle sitting-room, and there found Madame Ber- 
 tram!, who brought the intimation that Mon- 
 sieur Merand was below. 
 
 "Ask him to come up," whispered Dora, 
 " but tell him my mother has been ill and that 
 Ave must speak low." * 
 
 Presently Monsieur Merand came up on 
 tip-toe, and with many whispered apologies for 
 troubling mademoiselle, be told bis errand. 
 
 In her distress at the unexpected catas- 
 trophe of the Redmore Mines, Dora had left 
 her portfolio behind her. This Monsieur Me- 
 rand now brought back, but not without hav- 
 ing, as he confessed, first inspected its con- 
 tents. His own drawing he bad found, also 
 Dora's copy of Keyser's music-lesson, and 
 concerning this he now ventured to speak. 
 With an air of diffident yet injured candor, he 
 asked to know if Dora had been working for 
 any other dealer. Her freedom to do so Mon- 
 sieur Merand never questioned, but then he 
 could assure her that she would find him as 
 liberal as any other member of the trade. 
 
 "Now, with regard to that drawing of 
 Keyser's," be added, in his most insinuating
 
 M. MERAND AND THE DRAWING. 
 
 03 
 
 tone, " I should like it much if it were not 
 secured." 
 
 " It is not," honestly replied Dora, and in 
 the fulness of her heart she was going to add 
 that Monsieur Merand was welcome to it, when 
 the door opened and Doctor Richard entered 
 the room. Dora forgot the dealer and the 
 drawing in a moment. 
 
 " Mamma is sleeping," she said, eagerly — 
 " is that a good sign, Doctor Richard ? " 
 
 " A very good sign," he answered, smiling. 
 
 " I believe, however, she will soon waken." 
 
 " Then I shall wait till she does." 
 
 He took a chair, and put down his hat. He 
 evidently did not think that Dora's business 
 with Monsieur Merand could be of a private 
 nature. The portfolio lay open on the table, 
 the drawing was displayed to Doctor Richard's 
 view, and he unceremoniously bent forward to 
 see it better. 
 
 " What a fine drawing ! " he exclaimed — " is 
 that yours, Miss Courtenay ? " 
 
 " It is," she replied, blushing a little, " and 
 Monsieur Merand wants to purchase it from 
 me." 
 
 But either Doctor Richard's entrance, or his 
 praise of Dora's performance, had changed 
 Monsieur Merand's mood, for he looked super- 
 ciliously at the drawing, put forth his nether 
 lip, afid said, curtly: 
 
 " Yes, I want a drawing that size ; but this 
 is not one of your best efforts, mademoi- 
 selle?" 
 
 Dora changed color. Was Monsieur Me- 
 rand going to turn critical in the hour when 
 she most needed his admiration ? 
 
 " Nonsense, Monsieur Merand ! " put in Doc- 
 tor Richard — " that is a first-rate drawing." 
 
 "Not in my opinion," dryly said Monsieur 
 Merand, thrusting his hands into his pockets, 
 and looking rather defiantly at his customer. 
 
 " I cannot do better," said Dora, with a 
 wistful look. 
 
 Monsieur Merand looked at the drawing 
 
 again, and grumbled something about being in 
 a hurry, and not being able to help himself. 
 Dora felt mortified, but necessity is a hard 
 mistress, and this was not the time to revolt 
 against Monsieur Merand's criticism, however 
 harsh and unpleasant it might be. 
 
 " And what do you expect for this ? " he 
 asked, after a while. 
 
 Dora hesitated. 
 
 " Say two hundred francs," suggested Mon- 
 sieur Merand, cavalierly. 
 
 Before Dora could answer, Doctor Richard 
 interfered. 
 
 " I suppose you mean four hundred," he 
 said, very coolly. 
 
 "Doctor Richard," hotly answered Monsieur 
 Merand, " do I meddle in your business ? — do 
 I go and prescribe for your patients ? " 
 
 " My dear sir, would my patients follow 
 your prescriptions ? " was the amused reply. 
 
 "Well, then, I decline to submit to your 
 interference, Doctor Richard ! I will give 
 mademoiselle two hundred francs — that and 
 no more." 
 
 " And I will engage, by sending that draw- 
 ing to a house I know in London, to get her, 
 if not four hundred francs for it, at least thiee 
 hundred and fifty." 
 
 Doctor Richard spoke confidently ; Monsieur 
 Merand looked blank. 
 
 " I cannot help myself," he said at length, 
 and speaking very sullenly. "I will give 
 mademoiselle the three hundred and fifty 
 francs. I do not gain a franc by the transac- 
 tion — not one," he added, with an injured 
 look. 
 
 Doctor Richard chuckled, and seemed exces- 
 sively amused. 
 
 " I declare it is better than a play to hear 
 you!" he said, good-humoredly. "Only to 
 think of your wanting to pass off these tricks 
 upon me, Monsieur Merand '. " 
 
 Monsieur Merand looked as if he did not 
 know whether to be entertained or angry at
 
 64 
 
 DORA. 
 
 the cool tone in which his customer addressed 
 him. He took the wisest course, however, and, 
 not deigning to answer him, be turned to 
 Dora> to whom he said, very civilly — " When 
 may I have the drawing, mademoiselle ? " 
 
 " I should like to give it a few last touches ; 
 and if my mother is so far well that I can 
 leave her, I shall work at it to-day, Monsieur 
 Merand." 
 
 " Then I hope she will be well," he said, 
 a little crossly. " Good-morning ;" and with 
 the look of a conquered man, he left the 
 room. 
 
 Dora turned toward Doctor Richard. Her 
 beaming face expressed her thanks before they 
 were spoken. He gave her no time to utter a 
 word. 
 
 " Do not," he said, quickly. " You would 
 not have had me stand by and see you robbed ? 
 Why, your drawing is worth more than the 
 sum I have stated." 
 
 " I cannot understand it," replied Dora, 
 looking perplexed ; " I never knew I was so 
 clever ; but however that may be, I do cor- 
 dially thank you. "Money is invaluable to me 
 just now,. Doctor Richard." 
 
 He nodded gravely, as much as to say, 
 "Ah! yes, I know — the Redmore Mines;" 
 and as he heard Mrs. Courtenay talking to 
 Mrs. Luan within, he asked if he could not 
 see her. Dora went in before him, then came 
 back and signed him to follow her. 
 
 Mrs. Courtenay was sitting up in her bed. 
 She looked calm and collected ; and, indeed, 
 was so far recovered, that Doctor Richard's 
 presence startled and surprised her. At 
 once she looked to her daughter for explana- 
 tion. 
 
 "You have been quite unwell, mamma," 
 said Dora, smiling, " and Doctor Richard, who 
 is our neighbor, called in to see you. And 
 what do you think mamma, Monsieur Merand 
 came a quarter of an hour ago to ask me for a 
 drawing from one of the pictures in 'the Gal- 
 
 lery. And he is in a desperate hurry for it. 
 So do make haste and get well." 
 
 " And the Redmore Mines," said Mrs. Cour- 
 tenay, plaintively ; " I did not dream that, did 
 I, Dora?" 
 
 " No, indeed, you did not. But the Red- 
 more Mines are here now," she added, gayly, 
 showing her little right hand. " You must 
 know, mamma, that I am quite clever. Doc- 
 tor Richard has been looking at my last draw- 
 ing whilst you slept, and he thinks that Mon- 
 sieur Merand scarcely pays me enough. He 
 advises me to raise my terms, and," continued 
 Dora, suddenly dropping the present for the 
 past tense, " I have done it ; for he spoke op- 
 posite Monsieur Merand himself, who could 
 not deny it, and gave me nearly a hundred 
 per cent, more at once. So what do you think 
 of all that ? " 
 
 Mrs. Courtenay, scarcely able to think at 
 all, looked both confused and happy. She also 
 looked grateful, and her mild blue eyes were 
 raised to Doctor Richard's face, with an ex- 
 pression he could not mistake. He smiled 
 kindly, and sitting down by her bedside, en- 
 tered into conversation with her. He attacked 
 the Redmore Mines at once, and put the mat- 
 ter in a cheerful and airy point of view, which 
 happened to be particularly suited to Mrs. 
 Courtenay's turn of mind. 
 
 " Such catastrophes," said Doctor Richard, 
 " are like the railway accidents and steamboat 
 collisions, the only variety of modern life. The 
 ups and downs formerly were of another na- 
 ture. Beautiful ladies were not safe for a 
 moment, especially when they were wealthy, 
 but were the lawful prey of the king, his fa- 
 vorites, and his powerful subjects. As to 
 men, the strong hand was the right sort of 
 hand then. Themis had not merely her 
 eyes bandaged, but fast closed in sleep. Every 
 man had to be his own policeman, and, as a 
 natural consequence, his own judge and jury. 
 This variety of occupations must, to say the
 
 THE DISHONEST GILDER. 
 
 65 
 
 least of it, have made a gentleman irritable, 
 and accounts for many little peculiarities of 
 those days which would otherwise be inexpli- 
 cable to our modem ideas. And now, you see, 
 all that is done, for lovers do not kidnap heir- 
 esses, but companies wheedle them out of 
 their gold. Robin Hood or Claude Duval 
 
 « 
 
 neither put bishops to ransom, nor dance min- 
 uets with fine ladies on the highway ; but for 
 all that, money flies out of our pockets by a 
 magical process called high interest. Sad,- 
 very sad, Mrs. Courtenay, only, you know, we 
 are not born with pockets." 
 
 " Dear me, to be sure not ! " cried Mrs. 
 Courtenay, much struck with the fact, which 
 had never occurred to her before ; " that is a 
 very original remark, Doctor Richard." 
 
 " It is none of mine," he answered, smiling ; 
 " but it is full of philosophy. So let us bear 
 with this catastrophe, which we cannot mend, 
 and let us bless our stars that it is not the 
 destruction of life or limb, as it might be if it 
 occurred through a railway or a steamer. Loss 
 of money is, after all, the least of the three 
 modern evils." 
 
 " I think so," said Mrs. Courtenay, brighten- 
 ing. " I have always had a horror of being 
 drowned or disfigured, and I would much 
 rather lose my all ares of the Redmore Mines 
 than even my left eye." 
 
 She looked quite gay and cheerful again, 
 and in this mood Doctor Richard left her, 
 promising to call again in the evening. 
 
 Mrs. Courtenay was charmed with her med- 
 ical attendant. " How kind he seems ! " she 
 said. 
 
 " Seems ! " repeated Dora, with emotion ; 
 "is, mamma. 'Twice he came to you yester- 
 day evening, and he sat up here till past two 
 rather than prescribe an opiate, which, it 
 seems, might have injured you. And think 
 how kind it was of him to interfere with Mon- 
 sieur Merand on my behalf. Monsieur Mr- 
 rand looked so angry ! I am sorry to lose my 
 5 
 
 good opinion of him, but I am afraid he has 
 almost cheated me. How kind, though, of 
 Doctor Richard not to mind exposing him ! " 
 
 " Yes, very kind," murmured Mrs. Cour- 
 tenay. " And when are you to get the money, 
 Dora?" 
 
 " To-day, if I can finish my drawing," 
 eagerly replied her daughter. " Indeed, I had 
 better go at once," she added, rising ; " Mon- 
 sieur Merand is in a hurry for it, and I am in 
 a hurry for Monsieur Merand's five-franc 
 pieces." 
 
 " Yes, I wish you had the money," rather 
 querulously said Mrs. Courtenay. 
 
 Dora saw she could trust her mother to Mrs. 
 Luan's care, and that it would be better for 
 her to go and calm the poor lady's mind by 
 the prospect of gain, the only prospect which 
 then seemed to have any charm in it for Mrs. 
 Courtenay. So with a cheerfulness half real, 
 half put on — alas ! how many things are so 
 put on by brave hearts, heroism, patience, and 
 the rest — Dora took her portfolio and went 
 forth. On her way she thought, " Since I am 
 selling the drawing, I no longer want the 
 frame ; and since it is not ready, had I not 
 better go and tell that poor Dubois not to 
 make it ? Poor fellow ! I hope he will not be 
 too much disappointed ! " 
 
 Dora found the door of the Duboises ajar, 
 and she pushed it open hesitatingly ; but she 
 was not prepared for the sight that met her 
 view. Her frame, bright as gilding could 
 make it, stood before her, held by Monsieur 
 Dubois, whose hand had got miraculously well 
 during the night, and no less a person than 
 Doctor Richard stood with his back to her. 
 He turned round, and seemed surprised to see 
 her, whilst consternation appeared on Madame 
 Dubois's face, and Monsieur Dubois turned pale 
 as a ghost. 
 
 "Doctor Richard," said Dora, reddening, 
 " was that man's hand unwell ? " 
 
 "Unwell! no. Has he been imposing on
 
 66 
 
 DORA. 
 
 you, Miss Courtenay ? I suppose he was out 
 of woi'k — a child ill, eh ? " 
 
 " Yes," replied Dora, " that is it. "Was it 
 not true ? " 
 
 Doctor Richard laughed heartily, and seemed 
 much amused. 
 
 " The old story ! " he said. " My dear 
 young lady," he added, " why did you not 
 look at the man's low, mean face, and read 
 him ? His story is this. I have kept him in 
 work for the last six weeks; and during that 
 time neither he, nor his wife, nor his children, 
 nor even the white hen, has had a moment's 
 ailment ! " 
 
 Dora was mortified. She had been cheated 
 and deceived, and Doctor Richard only laughed 
 at her simplicity. 
 
 " He is a low vagabond," resumed Doctor 
 Richard, still speaking English, but shaking 
 his forefinger good-humoredly at the culprit, 
 who looked extremely uneasy, " but clever, 
 Miss Courtenay, a self-taught genius ; and 
 though it is abominable that he should thus 
 impose upon you, I cannot afford to be angry 
 with him. Look at that frame I have just 
 bought. There is fancy and invention for you ! 
 Look at that foliage ! " 
 
 "Excuse me, Doctor Richard," said Dora, 
 gently touching his arm, and looking both 
 amused and puzzled, " but this frame was 
 made for me." 
 
 " nave they sold you my frame ? " 
 
 " Dr. Richard, I ordered it." 
 
 " So did I, Miss Courtenay." 
 
 They exchanged looks — then Doctor Richard 
 burst out laughing. 
 
 " The vagabond ! — the low vagabond ! " he 
 said again. "He wanted, perhaps, to sell the 
 same frame twice over. Now, Miss Cour- 
 tenay, take my advice, do not let yourself be 
 so easily imposed upon. But what a pity the 
 rascal should be so clever ! Look at that de- 
 sign, how correct and how graceful, and thone 
 I have at home are better still. I must for- 
 
 give him, Miss Courtenay, for the sake of that 
 leaf!" 
 
 Dora blushed and laughed. 
 
 " But, Doctor Richard," she stammered, 
 " the design is not his — 'tis mine, I drew it." 
 
 " You drew it, Miss Courtenay ! " 
 
 " Yes. I wanted it for my drawing, and I 
 drew several designs, but he told me this was 
 the best — and so — " 
 
 She did not proceed. Doctor Richard was 
 an altered man. The veins in his forehead 
 were thick and swollen, and his full brown 
 eyes burned with resentment so blighting that 
 it almost frightened her. The amusement 
 with which he had heard Dora tell of the im- 
 position practised upon her vanished when he 
 thus learned the fraud attempted on himself. 
 
 " And so they were your drawings ? " he 
 cried at length, speaking angrily and fast, and 
 evidently in a great rage. " Your drawings, 
 which the rascal passed upon me for his ; and 
 I, a gull as I ever am, believed him ! " 
 
 His look, as it fell on the convicted gilder, 
 expressed the most vehement indignation. 
 Evidently Doctor Richard found nothing hu 
 morous or entertaining in being made a dupe 
 of. 
 
 "Is not this abhorrent and shameful? "he 
 proceeded, addressing the gilder in French, 
 which he spoke forcibly and well. " You 
 might have spared yourself this disgrace, and 
 been none the poorer. Nay, the truth should 
 have brought you in more than that base 
 lie." 
 
 Monsieur Dubois murmured some unintelli- 
 gible reply, but already Dr. Richard's anger 
 had melted into scorn. His brow grew smooth 
 again, his brown eyes resumed their serenity, 
 and he burst into a hearty laugh at his own 
 expense. 
 
 " To think of my addressing that low-minded 
 wretch as if he knew the beauty of truth ! " he 
 said, turning to Dora. " Whereas she never 
 left her well, so far as he is concerned. But
 
 THE DUTCH PICTURE. 
 
 07 
 
 how are we to deal with this rascal, Miss Cour- 
 tenay ? Who keeps the frame ? I ordered 
 it, but then you gave the design, so that if 
 you want it — " 
 
 " I do not," replied Dora, coloring a little. 
 
 " Then I shall keep it," he said, readily. " I 
 shall call again and settle with you, sir," he 
 added, giving Monsieur Dubois a significant 
 look ; " for I can see in your face, Miss Cour- 
 tenay," he continued, looking at her with a 
 smile, as they both left the place, " that I 
 must not be too hard on this guilty couple in 
 your presence. You looked quite startled a 
 while ago." 
 
 "You looked very angry, Doctor Rich- 
 ard." 
 
 " Did I ? "Well, Saint Augustine says that 
 each man bears within himself Adam, Eve, 
 and the serpent, and I confess I find it so. 
 Often that weak Adam, and frail Eve, and 
 tempting serpent are busy with me. So lest 
 Adam should prevail against me, I now leave 
 that sneaking impostor and his 'wife. I have 
 no doubt they are quarrelling now, with the 
 boy looking on, and the white hen cackling. 
 Let them ! Confess that you think me a fool ! " 
 he abruptly added, stepping on the staircase 
 to look hard at Dora. 
 
 " You forget that I, too, was deceived," re- 
 plied Dora, smiling. 
 
 " In matters of which you could have little 
 or no knowledge. But if I had looked at the 
 man's head, I might have known he could not 
 be the author of that beautiful drawing. Yet 
 it was that which blinded me. I saw it, and 
 forgot the man. So there is ever something 
 to account for my mistakes ; for it is a hu- 
 miliating confession, though a true one, to say 
 that i't is my lot to be deceived. There is some- 
 thing inexpressively persuasive and convin- 
 cing to me in an assertion. A child's falsehood 
 has often prevailed over me, and yet, Miss 
 Courtenay, I am not an idiot, I assure you." 
 
 He spoke with a gravity which nearly dis- 
 concerted Dora. 
 
 " I can see you are much inclined to laugh," 
 he resumed ; " but you are all wrong. It is 
 idiotic to be so easily deceived, and yet I am 
 no idiot — I maintain it in the face of what has 
 just occurred. Do not protest ; but just allow 
 me to follow out my argument. You have 
 read Don Quixote, I have no doubt ; well 
 then, has it not struck you that this unfor- 
 tunate gentleman commits but one error, only 
 it is the first ; in all else he is shrewd, clever, 
 sensible, well-informed. This is my case. 
 Ninety-nine things I see clearly; but the hun- 
 dredth which escapes me is just the keystone 
 of the edifice. If that Dubois bad assured me 
 that he was benevolent, humane, a kind hus- 
 band, a faithful friend, I should have been 
 amused at his attempting to practise' on my 
 credulity ; but he said I am an untaught ge- 
 nius, and I became his victim ! " 
 
 Doctor Richard spoke very composedly of 
 his deficiencies, as composedly, indeed, as if 
 they concerned him not. Dora, though she 
 heard him in silence, drew her own conclu- 
 sions. Though his brown eyes were piercing 
 enough, eyes that could see far and deep, they 
 were more penetrating than shrewd. The 
 glamour of imagination could baffle the keen- 
 ness of that vision, and Doctor Richard be- 
 longed to the class of men who are to be the 
 victims of their inferiors. He knew it, but 
 the knowledge availed him not. 
 
 " His very gifts betray him," thought Dora, 
 " and have kept him back in the race of life. 
 Poor fellow," she continued, in her mental 
 soliloquy, as he left her, and walked away 
 briskly, "I am afraid he spends his money 
 very foolishly. What could he want with all 
 those frames, now ? " 
 
 Dora shook her head at Dr. Richard's im- 
 prudence, and was still censuring him when 
 she entered the Gallery.
 
 68 
 
 DORA. 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 There were some last touches to be be- 
 stowed on the music-lesson, and Dora lingered 
 over her task. For suppose Monsieur Merand 
 should again find fault with this drawing, and 
 utter those severe remarks which, in Dora's 
 present position, it would be so hard to hear ? 
 Whilst she was thus engaged in the picture- 
 gallery, she heard a step behind the chair, 
 and looking round in some surprise at the un- 
 wonted interruption, she saw Doctor Richard. 
 
 "Will you allow me to make one or two 
 suggestions to you, Miss Courtenay ? " he said, 
 in his easy way. 
 
 Dora assented with a little flush of emotion, 
 which Doctor Richard did not seem to per- 
 ceive. He proceeded with his suggestions, as 
 he called them ; and keen, subtle suggestions 
 they were, implying no small amount of theo- 
 retical and practical skill. 
 
 " He talks more like a painter than like a 
 doctor," thought Dora, "and, indeed, more 
 like a professor than like either." 
 
 "You draw, Doctor Richard?" she could 
 not help saying. 
 
 " Yes, I do all my own illustrations," he 
 carelessly replied. 
 
 " He is a writer upon art," thought Dora. 
 
 But memory, though questioned, remained 
 mute, and had nothing to tell about Doctor 
 Richard's name. 
 
 "You did well to take this pretty little 
 music-lesson," he resumed — " here, at least, 
 imagination is free. I am not an inquisitive 
 man, not in the ordinary sense of the word ; 
 my neighbor's business troubles me not, but I 
 confess to you that a little picture by one of 
 the minor Dutch painters once gave me many 
 a pleasant hour. The burgher father, the 
 matronly mother, and the daughter fair and 
 blooming, were all primly seated before me. 
 The room was large, rather dark, perhaps, 
 with plenty of plate, and two blue china vases 
 
 on an oaken sort of dresser. It was all so 
 minutely painted, that the Eastern pattern of 
 the carpet, the flowering of the brocade in 
 the mother's dress, the fine lace cape of the 
 daughter, were recognizable, and could have 
 been identified. The picture was about two 
 hundred years old. Two hundred years, and 
 their vicissitudes, battles, and generations had 
 passed since that calm home had been some- 
 where in one of the old Dutch cities. I would 
 have given anything to have had the power 
 of going back for a while to those large oaken 
 rooms, with their substantial furniture — to 
 have conversed with these people, or, if that 
 were too ambitious a desire, considering that 
 I do not know Dutch, to have seen them in 
 their daily life, and household occupations. 
 Surely there must have been some chamber 
 up-stairs in which that merchant kept his 
 money-bags, or reckoned his tulip-bulbs? 
 Surely, too, that good dame must have had 
 her empire in wide store-rooms, with jars of 
 pickles and preserves. As for the young lady, 
 I could imagine her bower with birds, and an 
 embroidery-frame, and a looking-glass in the 
 window. I could imagine all that, but as in a 
 dream ; for, after all, this supposed merchant 
 may have been some hard reader, a disciple 
 of Grotius, who stored books, and not gold, 
 and who scorned tulips. His wife, in her 
 way, may have set her mind above mere 
 household comforts, and been a stern Chris- 
 tian, and between these two the poor young 
 damsel probably led a dull life. I doubt if 
 she had birds. Their singing would have dis- 
 turbed her papa's studies, and her severe 
 mamma held embroidery a profane loss of 
 time, and condemned her to knitting and her 
 Bible. So, you see, here are two totally dif- 
 ferent versions of the same story ; and having 
 found that I could thus construct not two, but 
 twenty, I turned the picture with its face to 
 the wall, and forbade it to speak to me more." 
 Did he speak in jest or in earnest? Dora
 
 THE FIVE-FRANC PIECES. 
 
 09 
 
 could not tell, but stole a doubtful look at 
 Doctor Richard, but he seemed unconscious 
 of her surprise. He spoke with the compos- 
 ure of one who is unaware of having said 
 any thing unusual, and with the facility which 
 comes from the habit of being listened to. 
 
 " Is he a lecturer, an author, or both ? " 
 thought Dora; "and yet there is something 
 in him which belongs to none of these — some- 
 thing of the man of the world, who makes 
 himself at home everywhere and with every 
 one." 
 
 But if Doctor Richard had no suspicion of 
 the conjectures in which Dora indulged con- 
 cerning him, he saw very well that her pencil 
 remained idle. 
 
 " I must not prevent you from working," he 
 said, smiling ; and renewing his promise to 
 call on Mrs. Courtenay in the evening, he left 
 her. 
 
 As he walked away, Dora's look followed 
 him a little pensively. 
 
 " Poor fellow ! " she thought, contrasting 
 his erect figure and easy carriage with his in- 
 different apparel, " I fear he has been sadly 
 tossed about by life. Medicine, art, author- 
 ship have not done much for him ! " 
 
 But she admired him for all that. She ad- 
 mired him as the independent and the clear- 
 sighted always admire a vigorous and original 
 mind, even though Fortune should not have 
 favored it. 
 
 Dora left before the closing of the Gallery ; 
 and as she passed by the open library-door on 
 her way down-stairs, she saw Doctor Richard 
 reading within. A heavy folio lay open before 
 him, and he was absorbed in its contents. 
 
 " Doctor Richard has not got many patients," 
 thought Dora ; " I wonder whether he reads 
 on medicine or on art ? And to think of his 
 spending so much money at Monsieur Me- 
 rand's ! " 
 
 To receive from and not to spend with (hat 
 gentleman was now Dora's errand on her way 
 
 home. She entered his shop with slight heis- 
 tation ; but Monsieur Merand was an altered 
 man. The drawing was perfect, and he had 
 but one regret — he must pay Mademoiselle in 
 silver five-franc pieces. But with her bright 
 smile Dora tied up the welcome though cum- 
 bersome coins in hef pocket-handkerchief, and 
 thus laden, went home. 
 
 " Here is news from the Redmore Mines," 
 gayly said Dora, and opening her pocket-hand- 
 kerchief, she scattered its contents on her 
 mother's bed. 
 
 Mrs. Courtenay's eyes glistened as she saw 
 the silver shower. 
 
 " It is not that I am so fond of money," she 
 apologetically said ; " but then one cannot do 
 without it." 
 
 Mrs. Luan was mute, but Dora saw the flush 
 on her sallow cheek, and could read its mean- 
 ing. Dora felt happy, and happiness is loqua- 
 cious. She told them how she had worked at 
 her drawing, how gracious Monsieur Merand 
 had been, and in all she said the name of Doc 
 tor Richard invariably came back. Mrs. Cour- 
 tenay was too much pleased with her medical 
 attendant to censure this frequent repetition 
 of his name ; but when, even after dinner, Dora 
 took up the theme, Mrs. Luan, who had been 
 almost silent since the preceding day's»catas- 
 trophe, now looked up, and said sullenly — 
 
 " I hate Doctor Richard ! " 
 
 " Auut ! " cried Dora amazed — too much 
 amazed to be indignant. 
 
 " I hate him ! " resumed Mrs. Luan ; " look 
 at his clothes — shabby ; he is no good doctor, 
 not he ! He is nothing — no one — nobody." 
 
 She was almost excited now. Dora would 
 have answered, and perhaps with less res 
 and gentleness than she generally show 
 Mrs. Luan — for her cheeks were flushed and 
 her eyes sparkled — if Doctor Richard hi 
 had not at that precise moment been shown 
 up by Madame Bertrand. 
 
 " A good sign when the patient is lively."
 
 70 
 
 DORA. 
 
 lie said, going to Mrs. Courtenay's bed with a 
 pleasant smile; " but I do not mean to give 
 up my attendance yet. You are not quite 
 well, my dear madam." 
 
 " I do not feel quite well, doctor, but much 
 better — oh ! so much better," she added with 
 her little raising of the voice. 
 
 He sat down by her and felt her pulse. As 
 Mrs. Courtenay drew back her hand the mo- 
 tion disturbed the counterpane, and the five- 
 franc pieces which Dora had left and forgotten 
 there, rolled on the floor with many a silver 
 ring. Doctor Richard gave a little start of 
 surprise, and Dora blushed. 
 
 " I put them there to show mamma that I 
 can earn money," she said, trying to laugh it 
 off, " for, thanks to you, Doctor Richard, Mon- 
 sieur Merand has been liberal." 
 
 She began picking up the fallen coins, and 
 Doctor Richard assisted her. When he handed 
 her those which he had gathered he was smil- 
 ing, and Dora could not help thinking how dif- 
 ferent was the warm genial face she now looked 
 at, from the dark wrathful countenance she had 
 seen that morning. That was all storm — this 
 was all sunshine. 
 
 " I am sure he is good," thought Dora ; " he 
 looks as pleased as if that money were his ! " 
 
 " Doctor Richard," she said aloud, " I met 
 Madame Dubois. She begged hard to be for- 
 given." 
 
 "Will you forgive them, Miss Courtenay?" 
 
 " Yes — will not you ? " 
 
 " No ; you know the Chinese saying, ' If I 
 am deceived once, the blame lies with the de- 
 ceiver ; but if I am twice deceived, the blame 
 lies with me.' " 
 
 Doctor Richard spoke so positively, that 
 Dora was silenced. 
 
 " Now, Miss Courtenay," he resumed, " do 
 not think me, soft as I have proved myself, 
 a victim to the dreadful delusion of the de- 
 serving poor. There are such, I suppose, but 
 just as there are deserving rich, in a very 
 
 moderate ratio. No, I do not ask for that 
 wonderful bird — a virtuous man in distress. 
 I am satisfied to take humanity such as it is, 
 and relieve its sufferings so far as I can, which 
 is very little ; but I have a strong hatred for 
 moral ugliness, and so when I get such a rep- 
 tile as the gilder in my path, and can see no 
 redeeming trait in him, I leave him to shift 
 for himself. Some people will be drowned 
 like the man in the story, and who can pre- 
 vent it ? Listen to that drunken wretch now 
 shouting down the street. Who can save 
 him ? " 
 
 " Poor fellow ! " compassionately said Mrs. 
 Courtenay ; " it is all the cider. Perhaps you 
 drink wine, Doctor Richard, and do not know 
 how perfidious cider is. I do. When we came 
 here first, I actually got tipsy ! " said Mrs. 
 Courtenay, raising her voice in amazement at 
 the strangeness of the fact ; " and all for one 
 glass of cidgr." 
 
 " Indeed ! " exclaimed Doctor Richard, much 
 amused. 
 
 "I did," emphatically continued Mrs. Cour- 
 tenay. " I came in very warm, and Madame 
 Bertrand would make me taste her cider. I 
 took one glass, and my head began spinning, 
 oh ! so much. ' Madame Bertrand,' I cried, 
 'your cider is very good, but it is very perfid- 
 ious ! ' ' Not at all, madame,' she replied ; 
 ' you are only a little dizzy.' Doctor Richard, 
 you may believe me, I could not get up-stairs 
 — I had to sit down on the steps ; and I must 
 have been really tipsy, for it seems I got so 
 affectionate, and squeezed Madame Bertrand's 
 hand quite fondly. And I talked so — oh ! 
 how I did talk ! Poor Dora came down to me 
 a little frightened, and what do you think I 
 said to her, doctor? 'Dora,' I said, 'you are 
 a dear, good girl, but I must say it, once for 
 all — I have never told you before, but I must 
 tell you now. You stay too long at your 
 prayers in the morning ; and then, Dora, you 
 are too fastidious about your dress. It is all
 
 MRS. LUAN'S DISLIKE TO DR. RICHARD. 
 
 71 
 
 very well to be pious, and to wear nice collars, 
 but still, Dora, though I like it, I also like not 
 to be kept so long from my breakfast, so 
 please to mend ! ' Dora was quite bewildered, 
 poor dear ! at the lecture, but she helped me 
 up-stairs, and I took^a nap in my chair and 
 woke quite well. And that is how I got tipsy 
 on a glass of cider; and, Doctor Richard," 
 added Mrs. Courtenay, raising her voice in 
 wonder at her own suggestion, " think what 
 a terrible effect a good many glasses must 
 have." 
 
 Dora had felt rather uncomfortable during 
 this narrative, especially at that portion which 
 referred to the length of her devotions, and 
 the nicety of her collars ; but though Doctor 
 Richard seemed much amused, he never looked 
 at her. Moreover, his manner as he listened 
 and spoke to Mrs. Courtenay expressed a gentle 
 and respectful sympathy that went to Dora's 
 very heart. "With Dora herself, when he ad- 
 dressed her, his tone, his looks, his bearing, 
 were those of a friend — kind, but not too 
 familiar. His manner, which had been a little 
 abrupt at first, was now tempered by a refine- 
 ment and a courtesy which to Dora seemed 
 both rare and delightful. She thought she had 
 never met with so perfect a gentleman. Did 
 her bright open face betray her secret admira- 
 tion, or was it part of Doctor Richard's plan to 
 fascinate both mother and daughter ? Even a 
 keen observer might have failed to settle this 
 question, but the dullest must have seen that 
 Doctor Richard bestowed a considerable por- 
 tion of his attention on Miss Courtenay. Even 
 when he spoke to her mother, it was on Dora 
 that his eyes rested. Few people had ever 
 looked at this girl coldly, the light in her face 
 compelled corresponding warmth in the gazer, 
 and Doctor Richard obeyed the general rule. 
 When she spoke he smiled and listened with 
 evident pleasure to the little sallies bj y which 
 she endeavored to amuse her mother. When 
 she was silent his gaze wandered toward her, 
 
 and rested on her radiant face and light figure, 
 with evident enjoyment. She was like a Titian 
 or a Giorgione to him, a glorious bit of color 
 lighting those dull rooms, and contrasting in 
 its brightness with the paleness and subdued 
 tints of age, as seen in Mrs. Courtenay and 
 Mrs. Luan. 
 
 Now there is a subject on which women 
 have a quickness of perception nothing can 
 baffle — it is the impression they produce. 
 Dora knew, as well as if Doctor Richard had 
 sworn it, that he admired her. She had been 
 accustomed to such admiration formerly, and 
 had -received it too often to be mistaken now. 
 What she saw, Mrs. Courtenay saw too, only 
 she drew maternal conclusions which Dora 
 left iu abeyance — that Doctor Richard was a 
 very fascinating man, a very kind one, too ; 
 how delightful if he were to marry Dora! 
 Good, innocent soul ! She never looked at 
 Doctor Richard's coat, nor asked herself how 
 he could keep a wife and rear a family ! The 
 future had, in more senses than one, ever been 
 a sealed book to this amiable and improvident 
 lady. Mrs. Luan, too, being a woman, saw 
 what was going on, and conjectured. Her 
 slow, dull mind fastened on Doctor Richard's 
 admiration of her niece with the tenacity of a 
 leech, and extracted all that such admiration 
 could possibly yield. ' 
 
 She already disliked the man, as the bearer 
 of woeful tidings ; she now hated him as being 
 poor, and coming to the house to rob them of 
 their only support. In her sluggish way she 
 had thought over their position, since the pre- 
 ceding morning, and she had realized the fact 
 that Dora was now their mainstay. John 
 would help ; but Mrs. Luan could not bear to 
 rob poor John, aud she was willing to lean 
 heavily, if need be, upon her niece. 
 
 Such being the case, why did that needy 
 doctor come hankering after Dora? They 
 did not want him. Let him. begone, with his 
 shabby clothes and look of decayed gentility !
 
 72 
 
 DORA. 
 
 For that Doctor Richard's admiration might 
 be the disinterested feeling which many men 
 yield to a young and fascinating woman, Mrs. 
 Luan did not admit in that moment of selfish 
 terror. She only saw the danger ; and she 
 not merely saw it, but she magnified it tenfold. 
 
 Doctor Richard was too quick and observant 
 not to become aware of Mrs. Luan's hard, in- 
 tent look. It annoyed him, yet, thanks to the 
 blindness of which he was uselessly conscious, 
 its meaning was not apparent to him. He 
 saw a dull, heavy-looking lady, with a hideous 
 piece of patch-work on her lap, and he felt 
 that there was something unpleasant to .him, 
 almost repugnant in her aspect ; but he never 
 thought that this low-browed woman was the 
 Nemesis of his life. He never thought, as, 
 after spending an hour or more with Mrs. 
 Courtenay and her daughter, he took his leave, 
 that the woman who rose and gave him a cold, 
 lifeless hand, was the arbitress of his fate; 
 that from her would spring the greatest sor- 
 rows and the greatest joys of his existence. 
 That this being, his moral and intellectual in- 
 ferior, would nevertheless rule him with a rod 
 of iron in weal and in woe, Doctor Richard 
 never suspected. 
 
 " Poor thing ! she is predestined to a brain 
 disease," was his medical conclusion, as he 
 looked at her. 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 What subtle and mysterious chain of small 
 events is it which we so often qualify as in- 
 evitable ? Is there anything not immediately 
 dependent on God's will to which " inevitable " 
 does really apply ? Are we not free to avoid 
 or to seek ? Could wo not walk on the 
 right side of the road as well as on the left? 
 Must we perforce take that turning instead of 
 this ? If we go on board the boat which is to 
 perish, might we not have sailed in that which, 
 after crossing smooth seas, will come to port 
 
 safely ? Inevitable, forsooth ! It is the word 
 of presumption and of weakness, the excuse 
 for all short-sighted folly, the plea of all error, 
 slight or fatal. 
 
 That " inevitable," as it -is called, was now 
 busy with Dora Courtenay's destiny. Her 
 mother got well again. Even Mis. Luan re- 
 covered the shock of the Redmore Mines ; a 
 trifle was saved out of the wreck ; poor John 
 Luan wrote an affectionate letter, and sent 
 twenty pounds ; and Monsieur Merand ordered 
 a series of drawings, which kept Dora in con- 
 stant occupation. All this was as it should 
 be — was, at least, as it often is in life, where 
 the waters flow smoothly again over the 
 greatest wrecks, but the supererogation was 
 in the continued visits of Doctor Richard. He 
 came to see Mrs. Courtenay, and perhaps be- 
 cause her complaint was mental rather than 
 bodily, he came more as a friend than as a 
 doctor. He wished to cheer her, and he suc- 
 ceeded, nis conversation was attractive and 
 varied — the conversation of a well-read man ; 
 he had also a beautiful voice, mellow, har- 
 monious, and full-toned, and Mrs. Courtenay 
 once frankly told him it was like music to 
 hear him. His society, in short, was both 
 genial and interesting, and Dora's mother was 
 getting accustomed to it, and required it as 
 much as her cup of tea in the evening, when 
 it suddenly ceased. 
 
 " I wonder why Doctor Richard comes no 
 more ? " rather plaintively said Mrs. Cour- 
 tenay. 
 
 " Because you are quite well, mamma," re- 
 plied Dora, trying not to look as disappointed 
 as she felt. 
 
 For Doctor Richard had grown invisible. 
 Neither when she passed by his house, nor in 
 the picture-gallery, nor in the roading-room, 
 nor even at Monsieur Merand's, did Dora see 
 him. And there now fell a restlessness upon 
 her, of which she herself knew «ot the cause. 
 She worked, she played, she read, she sewed,
 
 ENNUI. 
 
 73 
 
 she was never idle a second, and yet some- 
 thing ailed Dora. 
 
 " What a pity Doctor Richard is not a friend 
 of ours," she sometimes thought, " it used to 
 do me good when he came. His fancies are 
 rather wild sometimes, and one does not ex- 
 actly know when he is in jest or in earnest ; but 
 he used to set me thinking, and I feel the 
 want of it now that he is gone. It is wonder- 
 ful all I learned from him when he came and 
 stood behind my chair and advised me. Some 
 of his criticisms were so many rays of light. I 
 know I want a critic, and mamma and aunt 
 admire all I do." 
 
 But requisite though his presence was to 
 Dora, Doctor Richard came not. Then she 
 did her best to remember all that this judi- 
 cious critic had said. And memory brought 
 it all back to Dora. Looks, words, the very 
 intonation with which they had been spoken, 
 returned so vividly that it sometimes seemed 
 Doctor Richard himself stood by. Aud she 
 never asked herself why she thus brought this 
 stranger in her life, when he had evidently 
 sought another path than that which she 
 trod — why she compelled him to be thus 
 with her in spirit, when his will kept him so 
 far away in body. 
 
 Some of the ancient philosophers thought 
 that a man could be struck with a thunderbolt 
 and neither know nor feel it. Perhaps they 
 came to this strange conclusion from their 
 knowledge of what happens in the mysterious 
 world of a human heart. There, indeed, the 
 thunderbolt may fall, and leave us unaware of 
 its presence. The great calamity, the crown- 
 ing sorrow of our life, may have come to us, 
 and we may not even suspect it, so suddeu 
 and so invisible was its approach. If such a 
 grief had come to Dora, her ignorance of it 
 was complete. She felt dull, and reason tell- 
 ing her she had no cause for such dulncss, that 
 she led a useful, active life, with many legiti- 
 mate sources of interest in it, she argued 
 
 against herself, and resisted the enemy ; but, 
 unluckily, reason too often took Doctor Rich- 
 ard's voice, and spoke in his language. 
 
 Dora was sitting with her mother and Mrs. 
 Luan. It was evening-time ; the lamp, with 
 its green shade, gave a circle of light on the 
 table, and left the room in a soft brown gloom, 
 through which you caught dim outlines of fur- 
 niture, with here and there a speck of light 
 from some bit of china or gilt frame on the 
 wall. Mrs. Luan was engaged on her patch- 
 work, Mrs. Courtenay was busy with a game 
 of patience, and Dora was mending linen. 
 They were very silent, but the wind moaned 
 without, and now and then a gust brought a 
 heavy pattering shower of rain against the 
 window-panes. 
 
 " How different it would all be if Dr. Richard 
 were here ! " thought Dora, and a thrill passed 
 through her at the thought ; " then, instead of 
 this heavy silence, we should hear his full, 
 •genial voice talking pleasant wisdom, or no 
 less pleasant paradox. How he would preach 
 me out of this dulness of mine, if he knew of 
 it ! How he did go on about ennui the last 
 time he came ! Was it the last ? ' Depend 
 upon it, Miss Courtenay,' he said, ' the great 
 drama of ninety-three was hastened by the 
 feeling which the French call ennui. There 
 must have been dreadful weariness in that 
 pompous old Versailles, with its routine, and 
 its endless round of solemn gayeties. These 
 long-clipped avenues, and statues, and vases, 
 and water-works, looking all so formal in the 
 bright hot sun, made one pine for variety. 
 Anything for a change. So welcome Vol- 
 taire, welcome Rousseau, welcome that inso- 
 lent barber Figaro, who sapped so gayly the 
 foundations of the old regime. Welcome, 
 above all, the Encyclopedic. There is a charm 
 about impiety when all else fails. The end, 
 to be sure, was tragic, and seas of blood had 
 to flow ere the safe shore was reached ; but 
 then, for a few years, at least, the French na-
 
 74 
 
 DORA. 
 
 tion was saved from ennui — an inestimable 
 blessing, Miss Courtenay, for so lively a na- 
 tion.' " 
 
 Yes, thus bad Doctor Richard spoken ; and 
 as she recalled his language, and wisely ad- 
 monished herself with it, Dora seemed to see 
 Doctor Richard himself sFtting in yonder va- 
 cant chair, and looking at her across the 
 table with those genial brown eyes, in which 
 he could put no small amount of mirth and 
 humor. The vision brougbi no blush to Dora's 
 cheek, no emotion to her heart; but it was 
 pleasant, though brief. 
 
 " What a pity he does not like our society 
 as much as we like his !" she thought, honest- 
 ly ; " but it is no great wonder. It must be 
 dull to come and sit here with us, and yet I 
 am selfish enough to wish that he would come 
 again ! " 
 
 As she confessed thus much to herself, her 
 mother pushed the cards away, and exclaimed, 
 a little pettishly : 
 
 " How dull you both are ! I wish Doctor 
 Richard would come in," she added. 
 
 Dora could not help smiling at this coin- 
 cidence in their wishes. * 
 
 "But you are not ill, mamma," she said, 
 gayly, " so why should he come? " 
 
 " Not ill ! " replied Mrs. Courtenay, looking 
 much injured — " and pray, how do you know 
 that I am not ill ? " 
 
 " But I may hope, mamma, you are not so," 
 gravely answered her daughter. 
 
 " I do not feel at all well," triumphantly re- 
 joined Mrs. Courtenay, sitting up in her chair 
 and looking around her with a sort of exulta- 
 tion at her superiority over her daughter and 
 her sister-in-law — " I have the most extraor- 
 dinary buzzing in my right ear." 
 
 Spite this ominous symptom, Dora testified 
 no great uneasiness, and Mrs. Courtenay saw 
 it and looked offended. 
 
 " I think you might send round* for Doctor 
 Richard," she said a little warmly; "I really 
 
 think you might, Dora, seeing me so poor- 
 ly." 
 
 " But, mamma," argued Dora, " you were so 
 well a while ago, that it seems a pity to dis- 
 turb Doctor Richard uselessly." 
 
 " Uselessly ! " exclaimed Mrs. Courtenay, 
 raising her voice in mingled amazement and 
 indignation. "Uselessly! when I tell you I 
 am quite poorly, and when Dr. Richard has 
 only to cross the street to come to us." 
 
 Dora did not reply, but bent her burning face 
 over her work. She felt ashamed to send for 
 Doctor Richard without cause, and she longed 
 to do so, yet did not dare to indulge that long- 
 ing. For suppose it should affront him to be 
 disturbed from his reading ? A while ago she 
 had stood at the window and looked down the 
 street, and she had seen a light burning in 
 Doctor Richard's casement ; sure proof that he 
 was within. What right had they to intrude 
 on his solitude? But Mrs. Courtenay could 
 be wilful when she chose ; she now persuaded 
 herself that she was very unwell indeed, and 
 that it was quite unkind of Dora not to send 
 for Doctor Richard, and what she thought she 
 said. Thus urged, Dora hesitated, then at 
 length yielded. 
 
 Madame Bertrand was much amazed at Mrs. 
 Courtenav's sudden illness; but obligingly 
 went to fetch Doctor Richard at once, whilst 
 Dora sat in her vacant chair. She wanted to 
 see Doctor Richard before he went up-stairs, 
 and to make some apology for thus disturbing 
 him. But there was no need to do so. Ma- 
 dame Bertrand came back alone. The house 
 was locked up — Doctor Richard was gone. 
 
 " And when he goes away," added Madame 
 Bertrand, " it is for days and weeks." 
 
 " Then how do his patients manage ? " 
 
 " He has no regular patients," replied Ma- 
 dame Bertrand. " My impression," she con- 
 fidentially continued, " is, that he goes about 
 the country bleeding, extracting teeth^and so 
 on ; and when he has made a little money, he
 
 DR. RICHARD AND THE UNFORTUNATE CHILD. 
 
 75 
 
 comes back here and buys a heap of rubbish 
 with it." 
 
 Dora laughed at this vision of an itinerant 
 doctor, and went back to her mother, who 
 looked much injured on learning that Doctor 
 Richard had probably left Rouen. 
 
 Days passed on, and he did not return. 
 Dora asked Monsieur Merand if it was Doctor 
 Richard's habit to forsake his patients thus 
 without warning. 
 
 " Patients ! — he has none. Besides,"' he 
 tapped his forehead — " hem ! you know." 
 
 " Indeed I know nothing of the kind," re- 
 plied Dora, gravely ; " and if I thought so, 
 Doctor Richard should certainly not attend on 
 my mother." 
 
 Monsieur Merand looked alarmed. 
 " Do not tell him I said so ! " he exclaimed, 
 hastily ; " I do not wish to injure him, poor 
 fellow ! He wants all the money he can earn. 
 He is as poor as Job, you know." 
 
 He stared at Dora as if to see the effect his 
 words produced upon her. To all seeming 
 they produced none. She went away, looking 
 rather pensive ; but no other expression save 
 that of thoughtfulness appeared on her face. 
 
 Two days later, however, Dora came home 
 looking so bright and gay, that Mrs. Courtenay 
 cried — 
 
 "My dear, what *h as happened? Are the 
 Redmore Mines coming up ? " 
 
 " No ; but a child was run over, and — " 
 " My goodness ! is that why you look so de- 
 lighted ? " 
 
 Dora blushed, and Mrs. Luan stared at her. 
 " Monsieur Merand wants a new drawing," 
 said Dora, apologetically, "and as I was talk- 
 ing to him Doctor Richard came in carrying a 
 poor little thing that had just been run over. 
 I helped him to undress it ; for the child has 
 got an untidy mother, and he had pricked him- 
 self awfully with the pins. I also assisted in 
 bandaging its poor little leg ; but I did little 
 good there, for Doctor Richard said I was no 
 
 heroine, after all. I know I was as pale as a 
 ghost." 
 
 "You are not pale now," remarked Mrs. 
 Luan. 
 
 " No, I came home so fast, mamma ! " she 
 added, turning to her mother. "Doctor Rich- 
 ard will look in upon you this evening." 
 
 "Who wants him?" almost angrily said 
 Mrs. Luan. 
 
 "Aunt, why do you dislike Doctor Rich- 
 ard?" asked her niece. "I wish you had 
 seen how kind and tender he was with the 
 child ; and when I got her to tell me her name 
 and abode, and he went off with her in a cab, 
 Monsieur Merand said to me, ' Do you know 
 why he does not send that object to the hos- 
 pital ? — because he means to feed as well as 
 cure it.' " 
 
 " What right has he to give away ? " asked 
 Mrs. Luan, still gloomy. " He is too poor to 
 give." 
 
 " The poor give more away than the rich," 
 rather indignantly said Dora. 
 
 Mrs. Luan's answer was to take off her cap 
 and fliDg it on the sofa. 
 
 " How often she does that now ! " thought 
 Dora. " I wonder if I ought to mention it to 
 Doctor Richard ? " 
 
 But another of the self-woven links of fate 
 was around her, for on reflection she resolved 
 to be silent. 
 
 "We shall wait tea for Doctor Richard," 
 said Mrs. Courtenay. Dora assented, and 
 Mrs. Luan went and put on her cap and looked 
 sulky. 
 
 The evening was a warm one, and Dora 
 went and sat by the open window. A faint 
 breeze came from the river up the quiet street, 
 which seemed to sleep in gray shadow. How 
 calm all these ancient houses looked in their 
 decaying age! — how pathetic in it> way was 
 that bit of green up amongst the buttresses of 
 the poor old church crumbling away to ruin, 
 with these bright flowers and that joyous
 
 76 
 
 DORA. 
 
 vine growing,- as it were, out of its stone 
 heart ! 
 
 " Poor thing ! " thought Dora, with a sort 
 of pity, " it does its best to be beautiful to 
 the last ! I wonder how it looked on the day 
 of its consecration five hundred years ago, 
 when it was first opened to human worship ? 
 It was bright and strong and new then. Every 
 one of its outlines was sharply chiselled; 
 every one of its ornaments was painted in 
 gaudy blue, deep violet, strong red, or pure 
 gold. Doctor Richard, I remember,- told me 
 once we can have no idea of the revel of color 
 in those mediaeval times. We are too apt to 
 fancy them gray and stern as they look to us 
 now, through the dimness of so many hundred 
 years." 
 
 Her thoughts had gone thus far when the 
 sound of a step up the street made her look 
 down. She saw Doctor Richard coming slow- 
 ly, and as his look was never once raised to 
 the window, she could scrutinize him as closely 
 as she pleased. He looked pale and some- 
 what worn. 
 
 "He has had trouble," thought Dora; "but 
 what trouble ? His carriage is not erect and 
 free as it used to be." 
 
 " I wish Doctor Richard would come," a 
 little querulously said Mrs. Courtenay ; " I con- 
 fess I want my tea." 
 
 " He is coming, mamma," answered Dora, 
 leaving the window. 
 
 They soon heard him talking below to Ma- 
 dame Bertrand, who in a loud, plaintive voice 
 informed him that she had been dreadfully ill 
 during his absence. 
 
 " Such pains as she had had in all her 
 limbs ! " Then followed a separate descrip- 
 tion of each particular pain, after which came 
 Doctor Richard's prescription. 
 
 " Madame Bertrand is a very good sort of 
 woman," superciliously said Mrs. Courtenay, 
 " but she does take liberties. To think of her 
 keeping Doctor Richard in that way ! " 
 
 Doctor Richard's entrance put an end to the 
 cfKise of her displeasure. 
 
 " I am so glad to see you, Doctor Richard ! " 
 she cried warmly; " I was so sorry .you. were 
 away — and, goodness me ! where have you 
 been all this time ? " 
 
 She looked at him with the most innocent 
 curiosity beaming in her face. 
 
 " I have been in the country with one of my 
 patients," he replied quietly. 
 
 " Then he has patients," thought Dora. 
 
 " Is it pretty about there ? " asked Mrs. Cour- 
 tenay — " I mean the landscape, you know." 
 
 Doctor Richard smiled. 
 
 "Yes," he said, "it is pretty according to 
 the present day's idea of beauty ; for I need 
 scarcely tell you, Mrs. Courtenay, that the 
 beauty of a landscape is as much subject to the 
 laws of fashion as a lady's dress." 
 
 " Dear me ! " cried Mrs. Courtenay, amazed ; 
 " I never knew that ! " 
 
 " It is a fact, I assure you," he gravely re- 
 plied; "Switzerland and the Highlands are 
 going down, like Byron's poetry. The fast 
 generation which is coming on will probably 
 call Mont Blanc an old impostor — I use a mild 
 word — and scorn the Trosachs." 
 
 " I cannot say that I admire them much my- 
 self," confidentially said Mrs. Courtenay — "not 
 that I ever saw them, I confess," she frankly 
 added. 
 
 " To see is by no means necessary for admi- 
 ration or dislike," returned Doctor Richard, 
 with unmoved gravity, " since either is a mat- 
 ter of fashion. The fact is, the sublime will 
 soon be pronounced a bore. We are getting 
 tired of it. Even the Romans got wearied of 
 their classical landscape, and one of their latter 
 poets complained that he knew the woods of 
 Mara and the cave of Vulcan as well as his 
 own house. We are in the same predicament. 
 We know it all too well." 
 
 " Is commonplace so old, Doctor Richard ? " 
 asked Dora, with a merry laugh.
 
 VALUE OF DOHA'S DRAWINGS. 
 
 77 
 
 " Do not laugh at it, Miss Courtenay. Com- 
 monplace is one of the powers that be, and 
 will make you rue it." 
 
 Doctor Richard spoke in a tone of grave re- 
 buke, which roused Dora's mirth anew. 
 
 " Dora has a horror of commonplace," re- 
 marked Mrs. Courtenay. " Such a charming 
 man as Mr. Brown was, and he admired Dora 
 so much ; but she thought him commonplace." 
 
 " And was he not revenged upon Miss Cour- 
 tenay ? " asked Doctor Richard, without no- 
 ticing the blush which this indiscreet revela- 
 tion brought up to Dora's cheek. 
 
 " Oh ! yes," innocently answered Mrs. Cour- 
 tenay ; " he was our banker, and he took all 
 our money." 
 
 " The thief! " said Mrs. Luan. " It was her 
 money he wanted ! " 
 
 " Oh ! but he did admire Dora," retorted Mrs. 
 Courtenay, a little jealously. "He said her 
 hair was like dark gold ! " 
 
 Dora shook her head, and a meaning, half- 
 rueful, half-comic, passed across her expressive 
 face. 
 
 " I am afraid the gold he admired was more 
 substantial than that which Xature has given 
 me ! " she said. " At all events, not feeling 
 sure of obtaining the one, he took care to se- 
 cure the other." 
 
 " The thief ! " said Mrs. Luan again. 
 
 Dora laughed, and her clear, ringing laugh 
 showed how far all thought of care was from 
 her just then. 
 
 " He has done me good service, aunt," she 
 said ; " but for him I should never have known 
 I was a little bit of a genius in the way of 
 drawing. Oh ! Doctor Richard," she added, 
 suddenly becoming grave, and fastening an 
 earnest look on his face, " I do wish you would 
 tell me the truth — I do not mean the polite 
 truth, but the whole truth — about these draw- 
 ings of mine. It seems to me at times tiuii I 
 must be laboring under a pleasant delusion. 
 Here am I earning plenty of money, and all 
 
 for such commonplace performances. It is 
 incredible." 
 
 Now, neither Mrs. Courtenay nor Mrs. Luan 
 liked this imprudent speech, and neither gave 
 Doctor Richard time to reply. 
 
 " My dear, you draw beautifully," cried Mrs. 
 Courtenay. 
 
 "Monsieur Merand does not give you half 
 enough," said Mrs. Luan; "a cheat, like the 
 rest of them. I hate the Frerflh ! " she heart- 
 ily added. 
 
 " You hate the French ! " cried Mrs. Cour- 
 tenay. 
 
 " Mamma ! " implored Dora. 
 
 Mrs. Courtenay was magnanimous, and made 
 a sign implying that she would take no notice 
 of the insult. 
 
 " Do tell me the truth, Doctor Richard," re- 
 sumed Dora. " What are my drawings worth ? 
 You know. Do tell me how far I can rely, for 
 instance, on my talent as a means of support." 
 
 She spoke very gravely, and leaning back in 
 her chair, looked with rather sad earnestness 
 at Doctor Richard. Now, Doctor Richard, who 
 was usually so gay, so composed, so much of a 
 man of the world, for once looked thoroughly 
 disconcerted. 
 
 " My dear Miss Courtenay," he said, trying 
 to rally, "the. terms Monsieur Merand > givos 
 you are a test of the value of your drawings. 
 That you draw well, very •well, I have often 
 told you, and I say so again." 
 
 He spoke so emphatically that a bright, 
 happy blush stole over Dora's face, and made 
 it as fresh and glowing as a young Aurora's. 
 If Doctor Richard had been more polite than 
 truthful, he was rewarded for his sin by so ra- 
 diant a smile, and a look so bright that, whilst 
 they lasted, they mad,' Dora's countenance the 
 most bevi itching he had ever seen. Joy, not 
 vanity, innocent triumph, did that beaming 
 face express, till, as if ashamed of her own 
 gladness, Dora tried to laugh it off by sa; 
 
 " Your verdict is so favorable, Doctor Rich-
 
 78 
 
 DORA. 
 
 ard, that I will believe every word of it, and 
 seek to know no more. And now, do tell us 
 something about your little patient." 
 
 There was not much to tell, but Mrs. Cour- 
 tenay uttered little screams of horror, and 
 little screams of relief, according as Catherine's 
 state was described ; and Dora listened and 
 thought Doctor Richard's conversation delight- 
 ful, and without saying anything about it 
 at home, called on the injured child the 
 next morning, on her way to the Picture- 
 gallery. 
 
 Catherine, who had a temper of her own, 
 was in a towering passion, and screaming at 
 the pitch of her sbrill voice, when, after cross- 
 ing a damp court-yard, Dora entered the chill 
 and dark room in which Catherine's mother 
 lived. The child was kicking violently in her 
 bed — kicking is one of the infantine protests 
 most in use in every country ; her mother 
 vainly tried to soothe her, and Doctor Richard 
 stood looking on helplessly with a linen band- 
 age in his hand, when the door opened, and 
 the bright face of Dora appeared amongst them. 
 
 " Some good angel sent you to tame this 
 little lioness ! " said Doctor Richard, gayly ; 
 " now we shall get on." 
 
 Dora smiled and looked doubtful ; but moth- 
 ers cannot always charm their, own children, 
 and there is a sweet and natural freemasonry 
 between youth and childhood. Dora had 
 scarcely sat down by Catherine, and taken her 
 hand, when the child ceased crying, stared, 
 and finally smiled. 
 
 " You are accustomed to children," said 
 Doctor Richard, with a keen look. 
 
 "Xotat all." 
 
 "A natural gift, then. Yes, children are 
 wonderful physiognomists." 
 
 Dis look rested on her bright face with 
 that complacency which such bright faces as 
 hers ever inspire. " Am I getting vain ? " 
 thought Dora, ashamed at the glow of pleasure 
 which overspread her countenance. " Granted 
 
 that he admires me, need I be any the prouder 
 for it ? " 
 
 Oh! if wisdom would but come at our call, 
 or, what would often be as great a boon, if a 
 truer and a keener knowledge of our inner self 
 than we have w r ere granted to us in the crisis 
 of existence ! If we could know the why and 
 wherefore of much that we care not perhaps 
 to scrutinize too closely, and scan our own 
 springs of feeling and action as they rise within 
 us — if we could do all this, how different a 
 lot might be ours ! But there is a languid 
 pleasure in ignorance. To see through a 
 mist, to hear as in a dream, to be borne down 
 the tide of life, and idly played with by its 
 waves, instead of bravely swimming our way 
 to shore against them — all these things are 
 fraught with a perilous sweetness. Happy, but 
 surely few, are they who know how to resist 
 that seducing torpor ere it be too late to re- 
 pel it. Some forewarning Dora felt, however, 
 for after putting on the bed of the little 
 sufferer the sweetmeats she had brought it, 
 she rose to go. Doctor Richard looked in- 
 jured. 
 
 " Will you not stay and manage her whilst 
 I dress her leg ? " he asked. 
 
 Thus adjured, Dora remained. Doctor 
 Richard expressed himself highly satisfied 
 with the state of the injured limb. 
 
 " I dare say the little creature will be able 
 to get into mischief again," he said, gayly; 
 " and of course she will do so, with that care- 
 less mother of hers. Pity," he thoughtfully 
 added, " one cannot stop the growth of some 
 children, put them in cages, and hang them 
 up like canary birds. Look at this child, Miss 
 Courtenay — she is lovely, with delicate, re- 
 fined features, and if her great-great-ancestor 
 had only been a baker, or a butler, or a groom 
 in William the Conqueror's train, we should 
 now have her portrait in a book of beauty, 
 and be told in the letter-press how the in- 
 fantine features, etc., of the honorable Adelina
 
 HER VISIT TO LITTLE CATHERINE. 
 
 79 
 
 Fitz-Norman, etc., were the purest model of 
 the Anglo-Norman type so remarkable in the 
 English aristocracy, etc. I am really sorry I 
 am not acquainted with this young lady's 
 Scandinavian pedigree. For all we know, she 
 may be a lineal descendant of Rollo himself. 
 I am afraid you will think me a man of in- 
 satiable curiosity, Miss Courtenay, but lost 
 pedigrees are one of my torments. I believe 
 in race, in the transmission of form and fea- 
 ture, of mind, and of certain defects and quali- 
 ties. Now, I want to know what has become, 
 for instance, of the descendants of the Scipios, 
 the Gracchi, the Julii, and tutti quantl of those 
 famous old Romans who are the misery of our 
 childhood. I want to know it, for I owe them 
 a grudge, and should like to pay it out. But 
 a Barbarian tide, leaving behind it an endless 
 Gothic sea, has swept away every sure token 
 of the past. It is impossible to doubt but 
 that some of those renowned families still 
 flourish — only where are they ? Blood of in- 
 estimable value flows in their veins, but this 
 rare treasure not being apprehensible by any 
 of our senses, its possessors live and die un- 
 conscious of their own greatness. I always 
 felt convinced that my washerwoman in Rome 
 had been an empress — I mean in the person 
 of one of her ancestors, for the transmigration 
 of souls is not one of my doctrines — and that 
 Benedetto, the facchino, was a remote cousin 
 of Catiline's. He had the man's audacious 
 subtlety, even as he had his features. Un- 
 lucky wretch ! he had no knowledge of his il- 
 lustrious ancestry ! I had a great mind to 
 enlighten him, but forbore, lest I should ren- 
 der him too much dissatisfied with his humble 
 lot ; for, you see, I can temper my fancies with 
 a certain amount of prudence, Miss Courtenay." 
 Doctor Richard was sitting on the edge of the 
 child's bed as he spoke thus, with much com- 
 posure and his usual fluency. Dora, leaning 
 back in her chair with her portfolio on her 
 knees, looked at him thoughtfully. 
 
 " He must have some little income," she 
 thought, " some slender provision between 
 him and want. The tone and substance of 
 his remarks — and how strangely he docs talk! 
 — both tell of leisure. I believe he likes his 
 profession ; but, poor fellow, I fear it does 
 not like him." 
 
 Spite the patient in the country, Dora did 
 not think Doctor Richard a busy or a prosperous 
 man. He had been with the child before she 
 came, he stayed when she now rose to go, and 
 she had scarcely been an hour in the picture- 
 gallery, when Doctor Richard stood behind ber 
 chair. He did not remain long, however ; he 
 had to go and read in the library, he said. 
 
 " I want to get the song of Roland," he in- 
 formed Dora, " I want to get back to Ro- 
 mance and Roncevaux, and the mighty horn 
 and Durandal, the heroic sword, and Oliver 
 and Ganelon, and ahove all, to that grand 
 death-scene, when Archbishop Turpin blesse3 
 the dead and dying heroes, and then dies him- 
 self, leaving Roland, as was but fitting, to die 
 last, with all these noble knights lying around 
 him. Do you read old French, Miss Cour- 
 tenay ? No ! what a pity. There are some 
 rare treasures here." 
 
 Now, Dora, being but mortal, thought she 
 could give Doctor Richard a little useful hint 
 toward practical wisdom. 
 
 " I must work, not read,' 1 ' she said, de- 
 murely. 
 
 " Work," good-humoredly replied Doctor 
 Richard, " is one of the modern mistakes. We 
 are born to be as well as to act, and thinking 
 is one of the many forms of action, whatev< c 
 matter of fact may say. So I keep to my 
 creed, and venture to blame yours.'' 
 
 " Oh ! but I do read," said Dora, blushing ; 
 " but I have little time and few books.' 
 
 " Then, as I have the command of a I 
 library, allow me to lend you some. V m will 
 find the catalogue at Ho lame Bertrand's, and 
 can mark the volumes you prefer."
 
 80 
 
 DOHA. 
 
 Dora looked so bappy as she turned round, 
 that Doctor Richard exclaimed gayly, 
 " Come, you are a reader, after all ! " 
 But he gave her no time to stammer her 
 thanks ; before they were half uttered he was 
 gone. 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 The catalogue was waiting for Dora on Ma- 
 dame Bertrand's table when she went home. 
 " How kind he is ! " she thought ; but to her 
 sense of that kindness succeeded surprise when 
 on looking over, the catalogue she saw how 
 valuable and extensive a collection was thus 
 placed at her command. Doctor Richard 
 seemed to know no one in Rouen ; this library 
 must belong to his patient in the country. 
 But that patient did not seem to take up much 
 of Doctor Richard's time. 
 
 Early though it was when Dora called on 
 Catherine the next morning, Doctor Richard 
 was already with the child. He was alone 
 with her too, and pulling the string of a little 
 pasteboard puppet to amuse her. He stood 
 with his back to the door, and did not see 
 Dora. 
 
 " Faster ! " said Catherine, who lay in her 
 bed looking on gravely at Doctor Richard's 
 performance— " do it faster." 
 
 " So," suggested Doctor Richard, giving the 
 figure such a jerk, that its legs and arms both 
 shot out in hoiizontal directions, "is that 
 right ? " 
 
 " No," was Catherine's peevish reply, and 
 she turned ber head aside and shut her i 
 
 Dora now approached, and Doctor Richard 
 turned round and saw her. 
 
 " Good-morniiiL', Miss Courtenay," he said, 
 gravely; " \<jii find me verifying the truth of 
 that saying, uttered by a woman of genius, 
 that we arc all bom kings. This young lady, 
 lean assure you, is bflflh a cjueen. I offered 
 to stay with her whilst her mother went out 
 
 on some necessary errand, and all the return 
 I have got for my kindness is that she has 
 neither screamed, nor kicked, nor attempted 
 to bite. In all else I have been treated with 
 the most absolute contempt. "Well, well," he 
 added, sitting down on the edge of the bed, 
 and looking down kindly on the little creature, 
 who still kept her eyes shut, " this brief roy- 
 alty is the compensation granted by Nature for 
 all the future maltreatment of society. And 
 after all, Miss Courtenay, is not life full of 
 such atonements? My belief is, that the 
 'Arabian Nights,' for instance, and all such 
 stories of enchantment and buried treasure, 
 were meant to charm the poor man into a 
 
 ft 
 
 more patient endurance of his barren life. It 
 is glorious to finger diamonds and pearls, and 
 have the wealth of an emperor, even though 
 it be but for a moment. But the most glori- 
 ous bit of all is, to be Haroun-al-Raschid — to 
 go about the streets of Bagdad at night with 
 Giafar and Mesrour, and set every wrong right 
 again — to give a bastinado to this man, and a 
 purse of gold to t'other one. Happy Caliph ! " 
 
 " The ' Arabian Nights ' are amongst the 
 books you so kindly offered to lend me," said 
 Dora ; " and I confess that, not having read 
 them since I was a child, I have asked for 
 them." 
 
 " And for Macchiavel's ■ Prince ? ' " he said, 
 glancing over the list she handed him. " Do 
 you really wish for that book, "Miss Courte- 
 nay ? " He looked up at her in surprise. 
 
 " I do," frankly answered Dora ; " Mr. Ryan 
 would never let me read it. He would not 
 help to ruin my political principles, he said ; 
 and I confess that famous book has all the 
 charm of forbidden fruit for me." 
 
 " You shall have it. I shall play the part 
 of serpent in this temptation, since you are so 
 willing to be Eve. But you will be disap- 
 pointed, for, woman-like, I dare say you will 
 run away with your first impression. And 
 yet, you see, this Macchiavel deserves consid-
 
 MRS. LUAN'S SUSPICIONS. 
 
 81 
 
 eration. He was one of the few pitchers who 
 go to the well and do not come back as empty 
 as they went. But for all that you will be 
 disappointed." 
 
 " I am not such a girl, nor yet so ignorant 
 a girl as Doctor Richard imagines," thought 
 Dora, a little displeased. " I suppose he con- 
 siders Macchiavel's pitcher too full for me. I 
 require something more readable — something 
 that will do between the last sweet crochet- 
 stitch or the new quadrille. Paul was not 
 so. lie thought nothing above or beyond his 
 sister." 
 
 Unconscious of offence, Doctor Richard once 
 more devoted his attention to Catherine, who 
 had opened one eye, then the other, and who 
 finally uttered an imperious " Give it to rue," 
 referring to the puppet. 
 
 "Whilst he was engaged with the child, Dora 
 rose to go. 
 
 " You leave me to my fate ! " he said, re- 
 proachfully. 
 
 " Yes," she answered, smiling, "I do ; " 
 and she went thinking, " Am I getting vain, 
 that I care so much for what Doctor Richard 
 may care for me ? " 
 
 Alas ! it was not vanity that stung her 
 then. She did not know it, yet something 
 she vaguely felt, for she went no more to see 
 the sick child in the morning. She thus 
 missed meeting Doctor Richard, but not hear- 
 inc about him. Catherine's mother was full 
 of his praises, especially after he had given 
 her ten francs for an old cracked plate not 
 worth ten sous. Dora sighed over Doctor 
 Richard's improvidence. "What wonder that 
 he had not been a successful man when he 
 spent his time and money thus ! But she for- 
 got his sins the very first time he came to see 
 them. Her color deepened and her eyes lit as 
 she heard his step and voice coming up the 
 staircase one evening. Mrs. Courtenay uttered 
 a little scream of delight, and immediately 
 poured him out a cup of tea. 
 
 Doctor Richard took it, though he also ex- 
 cused himself for calling so late, but he had 
 met Madame Bcrtrand, and that lady had told 
 him Mrs. Courtenay was not quite well. But 
 Mrs. Courtenay was ill when she pleased, and 
 not when it pleased other people that she 
 should be so. She looked affronted with Ma- 
 dame Bertrand's officiousness. 
 
 " Very foolish of her," she said, stiffly ; then 
 relaxing into her usual good-humor, she added, 
 confidentially, " I was not ill, Doctor Richard ; 
 I was only purring." 
 
 " Purring ! " he said, a little surprised. 
 
 " Yes," triumphantly resumed Mrs. Courte- 
 nay. " "When, people get to my age they take 
 to purring, Doctor Richard — that is to say, 
 they like to sit and muse and think over by- 
 gones, and close it all with a nap sometimes. 
 And you will purr too with time, and very nice 
 you will find it. I wanted Dora to do it the other 
 evening when I could see she felt dull; but 
 young people are saucy, and so she answered 
 that she was a kitten, and could not purr yet." 
 
 " But kittens do purr, Miss Courtenay," ar- 
 gued Doctor Richard, looking with evident 
 amusement at Dora's flushed face. 
 
 " So I told her," cried Mrs. Courtenay, with- 
 out giving Dora time to put in a word ; " but 
 she is an obstinate girl, Doctor Richard. Purr- 
 ing is too quiet for her, and she says she 
 would as soon be the painted Griselidis on 
 her bedroom curtains, as sit and purr." 
 
 " But Miss Courtenay sits long and patient- 
 ly at the Gallery," said Doctor Richard. 
 
 How kindly he spoke ! 
 
 " He may be improvident," thought Dora ; 
 "but he is our countryman, we meet in a 
 foreign land, and surely we may take pleasure 
 in his society, and deal leniently with his 
 faults ; these are but the excesses of a fine, 
 generous nature. Ah ! how delightful it would 
 be if he would but continue to come and see 
 us every now and then ! His very presence 
 brings warmth with it."
 
 82 
 
 DORA. 
 
 Thus she thought ; but if there had not been 
 a bandage over Dora's eyes, she might have 
 seen that the cordiality with which Doctor 
 Richard was received in their home had gen- 
 erated no confidence on his part. He was 
 quite familiar with all their' concerns — of his 
 they knew literally nothing. Now, strangely 
 enough, the first to be struck with this fact 
 was Mrs. Luan. The perception had been 
 coming td her for some time, everything she 
 now heard and saw confirmed it, and with it 
 other suspicious which she had long had. 
 She brooded over them in her usual sulky 
 silence, however, and went on with her patch- 
 work, seemingly absorbed in it. 
 
 Doctor Richard seemed to "take particular 
 pleasure in Dora's company this evening. She 
 felt happy, and looked as bright as sunshine. 
 The genial light in her face did Doctor Rich- 
 ard good. He had been severed for some time 
 from all pleasant society, almost as complete- 
 ly severed as Dora herself. So no wonder 
 that he enjoyed looking at the face and listen- 
 ing to the voice of this radiant girl. If he 
 liked her society, his was new to her, as, in- 
 deed, it ever was, like manna after the long 
 fast to the Israelites. It was so pleasant to 
 talk about something beyond the common- 
 place occurrences of daily life ! Never did 
 danger and temptation wear a subtler guise 
 than did these. So they talked of many 
 things. A good deal of drawing, in which 
 Doctor Richard gave Dora some excellent ad- 
 vice ; a good deal of music, with the theory 
 of which he was thoroughly conversant, and 
 more than all of books, which were evidently 
 the food of his life. 
 
 Now, perhaps, because Dora took evidently 
 great pleasure in listening to Doctor Richard, 
 was her danger so very plain this evening to 
 Mrs. Luan. She watched him. ne looked 
 very well. He was attired, too, in a respect- 
 able suit of black, which Mrs. Luan had not 
 given him credit for possessing. Altogether 
 
 he seemed to be enjoying himself, and, as Mrs. 
 Luan saw, Dora engrossed him almost en- 
 tirely. As soon as tea was over he asked to 
 see her last drawing. She went and fetched 
 it somewhat diffidently. She had learned to 
 think a great deal of, and, indeed, to dread 
 Doctor Richard's most lenient criticism. Per- 
 haps a subtle, unacknowledged desire of pleas- 
 ing him in everything might be at the root of 
 that feeling. Doctor Richard looked at the 
 drawing in silence — in silence, too, he gave it 
 back to her ; he noticed her flushed cheek and 
 troubled look, but her nervous little hands 
 shaking as she tied the strings of the portfolio 
 he did not see. 
 
 " It is not good, is it ? " asked Dora, unable 
 to bear the suspense of silence. 
 
 " Far from it. It is very good, indeed ; but 
 I am accustomed to that from you, Miss Cour- 
 tenay." 
 
 The blood rushed up to her face and dyed it 
 with the most beautiful rosy glow, but she bent 
 over the portfolio, and Doctor Richard saw 
 nothing, or, at least, he seemed to see nothing. 
 
 " But as I looked," he resumed, " I thought 
 of the paintings in the Campo Santo of Pisa — 
 something in one of your figures brought back 
 the whole spot to my mind in a second ; and, 
 to be frank with you, I was there, not here, 
 for the time being." 
 
 " What figure ? " quickly asked Dora. 
 
 " That of the youth. He is like one of the 
 cavaliers in Orgagna's Triumph of Death." 
 
 Dora looked pensive. 
 
 " The triumph of death ! " she repeated ; 
 " what can that be like ? " 
 
 " Like life. Youths and ladies, with falcons 
 and dogs, sit beneath orange-trees. They have 
 been hunting and hawking, and they are tired. 
 A troubadour and a singing-girl entertain 
 them. Cupids are abroad, too, as they usu- 
 ally are in such company — but Death is 
 coming — Death, a terrible woman, with sharp 
 claws, bat's wings, and a scythe."
 
 MACCHIAVEL'S " PRINCE." 
 
 83 
 
 " An impressive picture," said Dora, slowly 
 — it seemed to be painted for her on the thin 
 air as she spoke, and it was painful, exquisite- 
 ly painful. The thought of death was abhor- 
 rent to her then, and chilled her very heart. 
 
 " Yes, impressive enough," was his careless 
 answer ; " but so is that newspaper, Miss 
 Courtenay. Take it up, and you will find its 
 births, marriages, and deaths, as impressive 
 as any homily. Orgagna's merit is that he 
 just painted what he saw — all in his fresco is 
 real, save the figure of Death." 
 
 "When did you see that?" asked Mrs. 
 Luan. 
 
 She so seldom spoke, that they all looked at 
 her. Doctor Richard answered composedly : 
 
 " It was some years ago." 
 
 Dora rose and put away her portfolio, and, 
 as she did so, she wondered what had taken 
 him to Italy. 
 
 Mrs. Luan spoke again. 
 
 "From what part of Ireland do you come, 
 Doctor Richard ? " 
 
 The question was a natural one enough ; 
 the only wonder was it had not been put be- 
 fore this evening. Yet Dora saw just a shade 
 of annoyance cross Dr. Richard's countenance 
 as Mrs. Luan spoke. 
 
 " I come from Kerry," he briefly replied, 
 and with less than his usual courtesy he 
 turned at once from Mrs. Luan to Dora, and 
 said quickly, "We were speaking of the Irish 
 melodies, Miss Courtenay. Am I to conclude 
 that you prefer 'Eileen Aroon' to 'Gratna- 
 chree?"' 
 
 " ' Gramachree ! ' " repeated Dora, not un- 
 derstanding at first. 
 
 " Yes, that fine melody to which Moore set 
 his words of 'The Harp that once through 
 Tara's Halls.' " 
 
 Mrs. Luan was decidedly excited this even- 
 
 ins 
 
 "I hate Mr. Templemore," she said — "a 
 swindler, a cheat ! He cheated Paul, he 
 
 cheated John, he cheated Dora out of Mr. 
 Courtenay's money ! " 
 
 They all remained aghast at this unexpected 
 outbreak. Doctor Richard looked as sur- 
 prised as a well-bred man ever allows himself 
 to look. Mrs. Courtenay spoke at length : 
 
 " My dear," she said, " it was not cheating." 
 
 " It was," insisted Mrs. Luan, whose hands 
 shook over her patchwork. 
 
 " No, aunt, it was not," said Dora, quietly ; 
 then turning to Doctor Richard, she gave such 
 explanation as this brief scene required. " An 
 uncle of ours left his property to that Mr. 
 Templemore, and though he is not to blame, 
 there are such painful recollections connected 
 with his name, that it is never mentioned 
 among us." 
 
 Doctor Richard bent his head in token of 
 assent, and changed the subject. Painting 
 had led to questions, music to a scene — he 
 tried literature. 
 
 " How do you like Macchiavel's ' Prince ? ' " 
 he asked. 
 
 Dora gave him no direct answer, but look- 
 ing at him earnestly, she said : 
 
 " You surely do not admire that man, Doc- 
 tor Richard ? " 
 
 " I beg your pardon, I do — dear, candid old 
 boy ! Hear him on the subject of Conquest. 
 Do you wish to conquer a kingdom, Miss 
 Courtenay ? Why, then, take care to exter- 
 minate the native princes whom you rob. Or 
 have you injured your neighbor ? — a common 
 case — well, then, if you cannot conciliate, kill 
 him ! When you injure a man, do not leave 
 it in his power to be revenged. I declare I 
 admire the man prodigiously. It is quite 
 comfortable to hear murder, robbery, and so 
 forth, spoken of in that calm, impartial man- 
 ner." 
 
 "Then you do not admire him?" said 
 Dora. 
 
 "Not admire him!— why, one of his vol- 
 umes is never out of my pocket. I only la-
 
 84 
 
 DORA. 
 
 merit the dear, good-natured fellow is dead, 
 and cannot write leaders in newspapers, or 
 make speeches in senates. The great differ- 
 ence between him and us degenerate moderns, 
 you see, is that, we have lost that beautiful 
 candor of his. Yes, I fear that is gone," added 
 Doctor Richard, in a tone of feeling regret ; 
 " but," he resumed, lookiDg at Dora with a 
 smile, " I preach in the desert. To tell you 
 the truth, I would never have suggested that 
 you should read ' The Prince.' It was your 
 own desire which you followed, not my advice, 
 you know." 
 
 " I hate Mr. Templemore," said Mrs. Luan, 
 again ; " he is a cheat, a swindler, a thief ! 
 Why are we beggars and is he rich ? " 
 
 " Aunt ! " remonstratively said Dora, very 
 much annoyed at this second unseemly out- 
 break. 
 
 Doctor Richard smiled. 
 
 " That Templemore is a fool," he said ; " he 
 should, having injured Mrs. Luan, have taken 
 some Macchiavcl-like means to pacify her — 
 either a handsome slice out of the inheritance, 
 or if that should have been too expensive, a sed- 
 ative, a cooling draught of some kind or other." 
 
 Now Mrs. Luan did not always understand 
 irony, "being a woman of slow literal mind, and 
 all she now understood was that Doctor 
 Richard recommended poisoning her. She 
 could not speak, but her features worked, and 
 her hands shook with anger. Perhaps he was 
 aware of these signs ; perhaps, too, he felt 
 that he had commented too freely on a strictly 
 private matter. At all events, he looked at 
 his watch, and rose to go, like one who had 
 let an appointed hour slip by. 
 
 "I shall not see you for a few days," he 
 said, shaking hands with Mrs. Courtenay, " for 
 I am going down to the country to-morrow; 
 but I trust to find you still quite well when I 
 return. If an) thing should ail you in my ab- 
 sence, let me advise you to call in Doctor Le 
 Roux." 
 
 He handed her a card as he spoke. Mrs. 
 Courtenay looked at it with childish curi- 
 osity. 
 
 " I suppose he takes care of your patients 
 in your absence ? " she suggested. 
 
 " He would do so," carelessly replied Doc- 
 tor Richard, " if I had any patients to take 
 care of ; but, unluckily, that is not the case." 
 
 He spoke a little recklessly, as if the matter 
 were one of profound indifference to him. Dora 
 looked at him with involuntary compassion. 
 He was more than thirty, and yet his career 
 had done so little for him. It was a hard — a 
 very hard case. 
 
 Doctor Richard turned to bid Mrs. Luan 
 adieu, but Mrs. Luan, probably to avoid shak- 
 ing hands with him, had left the room. Doctor 
 Richard made no comment, and turned to Dora. 
 She had taken a candle to light him down the 
 dark staircase. Madame Bertrand was in bed, 
 and, moreover, would not have left her com- 
 fortable fireside for any such task. Doctor 
 Richard went down without saying a word, 
 but paused at the foot of the staircase. 
 
 " Do you like flowers ? " he asked, with his 
 hand on the banisters. 
 
 'i Yes, very much." 
 
 " Then you will allow me to bring you some 
 from the country ? " he said, quickly. " I 
 might have known that you liked flowers," he 
 added, without giving her time to reply ; " but 
 the doubt on my mind arose from the fact that 
 I never see any with you." 
 
 Dora colored, then said, without false 
 shame : 
 
 " Flowers — beautiful flowers especially — are 
 expensive at this time of the year." 
 
 " Just so. Well, the gardener at the house 
 to which I am going is a very good friend of 
 mine, and he shall give me flowers — beautiful 
 flowers, too, or I will have none of them." 
 
 Dora colored again, with pleasure this time, 
 and she gave him a happy, grateful look. They 
 shook hands, and he was gone.
 
 MISS COURTENAY'S LOVE AND PIETY. 
 
 85 
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 " I wonder where he is going," thought Do- 
 ra; " or where his rich patient lives ? " 
 
 " My dear, how flushed you are ! " said Mrs. 
 Courtenay, as her daughter entered the sitting- 
 room again, and put down the light with a 
 pensive look. " Does your head ache ? " 
 
 " Oh ! no, I am only thinking how kind 
 Doctor Richard is. He is going to bring me 
 flowers — beautiful flowers from the coun- 
 try." 
 
 " He is the very kindest man ! " cried Mrs. 
 Courtenay, clasping her little plump white 
 hands, " is he not, Mrs. Luan ? " 
 
 Dora now perceived that her aunt had re- 
 turned to the sitting-room. She saw too that 
 Mrs. Luan looked herself again. Quite coolly 
 she answered : 
 
 " I am sure Doctor Richard is married." 
 
 An earthquake could not have inflicted a 
 more fearful shock upon Dora than did these 
 words, nor one to which every fibre of her being 
 was more terribly responsive. It seemed as if 
 the floor shook beneath her feet — as if the room, 
 with her mother and Mrs. Luan, went round 
 and round before her swimming eyes. The 
 revelation to herself of her secret hopes and 
 wishes was both violent and cruel. One word 
 she could not speak ; but she sat down pale, 
 breathless, full of terror, and covered with 
 shame. 
 
 Mrs. Courtenay's consternation, though not 
 equal to her daughter's in depth, was as great 
 in extent. 
 
 " Married ! " she said, in an injured tone, 
 which showed she did not think Doctor Rich- 
 ard could be guilty of such a crime ; " I do 
 not believe it." 
 
 " And I am sure of it," retorted Mrs. Luan, 
 with dark triumph at the sinner's iniquity. 
 " What did he go to Italy for ? Why did he 
 not like to say he came from Kerry? Why 
 does he never speak about himself? I am 
 
 sure he is married, and that he ill-uses his 
 wife." 
 
 " And I am sure Doctor Richard would ill- 
 use no one," quietly put in Dora. She had 
 recovered by this, and though rather pale, was 
 perfectly calm. " How late it is ! " she added, 
 as the old clock below struck the hour. 
 
 She left them still looking very quiet ; but 
 when she had entered her room, when she had 
 closed and locked the door, and was free from 
 intrusion, she flung herself on a chair near her 
 bed, and burying her face in her pillow, she 
 gave way to her humiliation and grief. She, 
 Dora Courtenay, a girl of twenty-three, loved 
 this stranger ! — and he might be married ! 
 She had never thought of that — but had she 
 thought of anything ? She had known him a 
 few weeks, and how could she dream of dan- 
 ger? And there was nothing to justify this 
 terrible folly. He had been kind, he had been 
 courteous, he had shown that he admired her, 
 but no girl in her senses, and with the least 
 experience of life, could say that he had be- 
 trayed any of the symptoms of love. A mar- 
 ried man might behave to her exactly as Doc- 
 tor Richard had behaved. Kindness, cour- 
 tesy, and admiration are not prohibited to or 
 from the wedded. It was all her folly, her 
 own miserable folly. She told herself so again 
 and again ; but did it lessen the hardship of 
 her fate that she alone was to blame for it ? 
 Alas! the more- she looked into the past, the 
 deeper was her sense of abasement. She 
 knew nothing of Doctor Richard, literally 
 nothing. Of his family, of his antecedents, 
 of his fortunes, she was deeply ignorant. He 
 might be an adventurer, one of life's outcasts, 
 for all Dora Courtenay knew. That he was 
 poor, and led rather a useless, idle sort of 
 life, was certain. What had brought him to 
 Rouen? Debts, perhaps— debts, or trorse. 
 Dora's heart sickened 'and revolted at the 
 thought. No, she would believe nothing 
 mean, nothing dishonorable of him. The open
 
 8Q 
 
 DORA. 
 
 manlinesss of his countenance gave her firm 
 security against all degradation. That clear, 
 frank look was the look of a man without fear 
 or shame. But he might be married, and the 
 thought was misery; he might have left his 
 wife in Italy or in Ireland — nay, he might 
 have gone to see her in the country. " But 
 surely in that case he would say it," thought 
 Dora; "it would be neither honorable nor 
 courteous to make a mystery of it. No, if he 
 is married, his wife is not here. I dare say she 
 is in Ireland." Suddenly a picture rose be- 
 fore Dora Courtenay's eye — a beautiful, heart- 
 rending picture. She saw a bright hearth, a 
 fair woman, with a child on her knee, and Doc- 
 tor Richard smiling happily. She sat up, she 
 clasped her hands tightly, she knit her brows 
 and set her teeth. " I must bear it," she 
 thought ; " I must. What right have I to 
 quarrel with his domestic happiness? Let 
 him be married or not married, what is it to 
 me ? " 
 
 But pride is a weak stay at the best. That 
 spirit of defiance with which Dora uttered her 
 '■What is it to me?" soon died away, and 
 left her desolate and weak. There is a well 
 of strength, however, which she knew of old. 
 To it she now turned, asking the Divine Mas- 
 ter for a cup of those sweet waters which the 
 Samaritan woman longed for. There were 
 many pious memorials in Dora's room — many 
 signs of man's weakness and God's mercy — al- 
 most all were also tokens of her lost brother's 
 love ; and as she now looked at them, each 
 had its own language. That pathetic little 
 image of the child Jesus sleeping on the cross 
 Paul had bought from an Italian boy, and 
 given her. That Saint Catherine borne by 
 angels she had found hanging by her bedside 
 on her sixteenth birthday ; and that divine 
 head cuowned with thorns she had taken away 
 from Paul's room after his death. From the 
 position of the picture, Dora had often thought 
 that her brother's last look had rested upon 
 
 that calm, sorrowful face — sorrowful for man's 
 sin, and not for the cost of redemption. The 
 tears rushed to her eyes, and her lips quivered 
 as sacrifice, suffering, death, and immortal 
 love, all thus admonished and condemned her. 
 She knelt and said her prayers, feeling both 
 stricken and humbled by her folly, and asking 
 for power to conquer, or for resignation to en- 
 dure it, if endurance must indeed be her lot. 
 
 But though prayer is ever heard in heaven, 
 we are not told that it is ever heard at once. 
 A long sleepless night did Dora spend — long 
 and cruel. She could not bear to go on loving 
 this stranger, and she could not help it. This 
 was her first love — the only love she was ever 
 to know, and it had come to her, like Minerva 
 from the brain of Jove, full grown and all- 
 powerful. She tried to strive against it, but 
 it seemed to her as if she only came out of 
 the struggle weak, helpless, and. beaten. A 
 sickening sense of her powerlessness stole 
 over her, then a vague, pitiful, yearning hope 
 closed the long contest. 
 
 Never did Dora forget the bitter suspense 
 of the next three days — three long, weary 
 days of impatience and heart-sickening ex- 
 pectation. Madame Bertrand knew nothing — 
 besides, Dora could put no plain questions, 
 and her open, ingenuous nature revolted from 
 indirect inquiry. 
 
 " Oh ! if he were but back ! " she thought — 
 " that this wretched suspense might be over 
 — that I might either be at peace with my- 
 self, or never see him again ! " 
 
 At length the hope of relief came. On the 
 morning of the third day Madame Bertrand 
 came up with a nosegay of flowers so exquis- 
 ite and so rare, that Dora remained mute as 
 they were put in her trembling hands, and Mrs. 
 Courtenay screamed with admiration, whilst 
 even Mrs. Luan stared. 
 
 " They come from a conservatory," thought 
 Dora, as she bent her flushed face over them. 
 He might be married, but she could not help
 
 MRS. LUAN MAKES A DISCOVERY. 
 
 87 
 
 feeling happy at the gift. Yet she would not 
 indulge herself. She was dressed to go out, 
 and she went, and refused to linger and admire 
 these rare and beautiful flowers. "I must 
 not," she thought; and to her mother she 
 said, " I must work, you know." 
 
 She went to her task, but her mind, no 
 more than her heart, was in it. She longed 
 for the evening. She felt sure he would look 
 in, and that Mrs. Luan would question him, 
 and then a blank followed the thought. 
 
 "And then," thought Dora, after a while, 
 " all will be over, and I shall be at rest. It 
 is impossible that I cannot conquer this mad- 
 ness. I feel sure it is a sort of madness and 
 no more. It is impossible that I should care 
 — really care — for a man of whom I know 
 nothing. I do not believe it — I will not ! 
 Besides, how can I, if he is married ? But, 
 then, suppose he is not ? " 
 
 Her hand slackened in its labor, her pencil 
 paused, then was still. Her heart beat, her 
 pulses throbbed. If Doctor Richard was not 
 married, might she not hope that he came to 
 her mother's house for her sake ? It was a 
 natural hope and a natural conjecture. The 
 young are allowed to indulge in such thoughts 
 and such feelings. Later, they are forbidden, 
 and none but the foolish can think and feel 
 so. Indeed, it is part of the wisdom of age 
 to put by and forget these fond badges of 
 youth. They are things to be pinned on, and 
 unpinned again, and left off early. The rosy 
 favors of love are apt to fade, and the gay 
 colors of pleasure have but a time. Truly it 
 is lucky that the old are allowed to grow wise, 
 to leave off their follies, and deny them grave- 
 ly. It would be sad if Phillis should wear her 
 shepherdess's hat and fluttering ribbons till 
 threescore, and if Corydon should pipe to his 
 sheep when the warm summer days have for- 
 ever gone by. 
 
 But Dora's early spring was scarcely over, 
 and her May was in all its sweet fervor. Love 
 
 to her was a hope, a mystery, and a delight- 
 ful promise. A poor life, a life of toil, fright- 
 ened her not, if this kind and true companion 
 would but share it with her. She believed 
 him honorable and good — what more was 
 needed ? For that is youth's glorious privi- 
 lege. It is equal to any folly granted, but 
 then it comes short of no heroism, no daring, 
 no sacrifice. For this, we all love it, and in 
 some sense we all honor it. We look at it as 
 we might look at some noble tree full of the 
 sap of life, its green boughs laden with flowers, 
 and birds making sweet music beneath the 
 leaves. We know, indeed, that they will be 
 mute some day, for winter must come; we 
 know that the leaves will turn yellow, and lie 
 dead on the sodden earth ; but all the sweeter 
 for that knowledge are this fair tree's brief 
 splendor and beauty. 
 
 Of that brevity youth is as happily uncon- 
 scious as the tree in the forest. If its sacri- 
 fices are to be boundless, so are its loves to 
 be immortal. It was not in Dora's power to 
 foresee an end to her present feelings, and 
 hence, perhaps, she surrendered herself to 
 dangerous conjecture. But she could be wise 
 too, for there is a wisdom which is not the 
 fruit of experience, a wisdom which springs 
 from the habit of self-subjection, and this soon 
 came to the rescue. With a guilty start she 
 banished the vision which turned the kind 
 and courteous visitor into a fond lover. No 
 modest girl who has had the misfortune to 
 give her affection unsought, willingly, and in 
 the first bitterness of the discovery, indulges 
 in such fancies. Later they may come with 
 hope, and be cherished, but surely not at 
 first. 
 
 "I must work," thought Dora, resolutely; 
 and she worked hard and conscientiously, till 
 a step behind her made her cheeks burn. She 
 knew well enough it was Doctor Richard, who 
 was coming to look at her drawing. She 
 turned round, trying to look calm, and she
 
 88 
 
 DORA. 
 
 thanked him for the flowers with tolerable 
 composure. 
 
 " I shall bring you more next time," he 
 said, smiling. Then he asked after Mrs. 
 Courtenay. 
 
 " She is pretty well," replied Dora, quickly ; 
 " but I wish you would come in this evening 
 and see her." 
 
 How she hated herself for saying that ; but 
 she could bear the suspense no longer. She 
 knew that if he came Mrs. Luan would surely 
 get the truth from him. Doctor Richard 
 promised to look in readily enough, and he 
 proceeded to talk to her of her drawing. He 
 stayed long, advising, suggesting, and, do 
 what she would, Dora felt happy. 
 
 The evening came, that evening which 
 Dora longed for, and with it came Doctor 
 Richard, pleasant and genial. Mrs. Luan 
 glared at him, but, contrary to Dora's expec- 
 tation, she was mute. Would she let him de- 
 part without putting the momentous question ? 
 But when, in answer to Dora's thanks, Doctor 
 Richard said, 
 
 " I told the gardener's wife to choose such 
 flowers — " 
 
 " Tour wife ! " interrupted Mrs. Luan, pre- 
 tending to misunderstand him. " Is she in 
 France, Doctor Richard ? " 
 
 A deep silence followed this question. 
 Dora's breath seemed gone, and she looked 
 furtively at Doctor Richard. He colored, and 
 a few seconds elapsed ere he replied. 
 
 "I have no wife, Mrs. Luan. — I am a 
 widower," he added, gravely. 
 
 Mrs. Luan, who had looked triumphant for 
 a moment, now looked blank, and Doctor 
 Richard, turning to Dora, continued — 
 
 "Will you allow me to bring my little girl 
 to see you, Miss Courtenay, I shall have her 
 in Rouen for a day ? " 
 
 Dora scarcely knew what she answered. 
 She felt in heaven. She expected nothing, 
 but Doctor Richard was not a married man. 
 
 She need feel no humiliation, no shame. Her 
 reply seemed satisfactory, however, for he 
 smiled, and looked satisfied ; whilst Mrs. 
 Courtenay, though rather offended that Doc- 
 tor Richard did not want to bring his little 
 girl to see her, asked how old the young lady 
 was. 
 
 " Seven — but very delicate," he answered, 
 with a sigh. 
 
 Dora felt full of pity, and questioned eager- 
 ly. Was she tall, dark, or fair, and did she 
 speak French ? And Doctor Richard, like 
 most parents, answered readily. Dora thus 
 learned that Eva was the child's name — that 
 she was tall, dark, and spoke French fluently. 
 
 " And when will you bring her to us ? " she 
 asked. 
 
 He saw her eager eyes bent upon him ; he 
 read desire in her parted lips, and he smiled 
 a kind, pleasant smile. 
 
 " After to-morrow, if you like it," he said. 
 
 " Doctor^ what made you call her Eva ? " 
 inquired Mrs. Courtenay. 
 
 "It was her mother's name." 
 
 A cloud came over his face as he spoke, 
 which looked more like the shadow of a past 
 trouble than like the remembrance of a sor- 
 row. 
 
 " I wonder if he was happy with his wife ! " 
 thought Dora; "perhaps not, and perhaps, 
 too, he does not mean to marry again." 
 
 The thought gave her no pain. To love is 
 love's true happiness, and, in its early stage 
 at least, it looks for none other. Delightful, 
 therefore, was this evening to her. She spoke 
 little, but she felt happy ; and as she felt she 
 looked, though she sat in silent reverie. She 
 tried, indeed, to rouse herself, and at length 
 she succeeded. When she came back from 
 the world to which she had been wandering — 
 the pleasant world of a girl's fancies — and 
 was once more, both in body and in spirit, 
 present in her mother's sitting-room, she fouud 
 Mrs. Courtenay and Doctor Richard talking
 
 LITTLE EVA'S DOLL. 
 
 89 
 
 gayly, and Mrs. Luan moody and sulky. Doc- 
 tor Richard was a free man — nothing could 
 atone for that calamity. Mrs. Courtenay 
 looked at her sister-in-law, then winked sig- 
 nificantly at Doctor Richard, adding, in broken 
 words, which Mrs. Luan was supposed not to 
 understand — 
 
 " Always was so — likes nothing — does not 
 mind me now — does not know what I am 
 talking of." 
 
 Doctor Richard was of another opinion, 
 and he succeeded in changing the discourse, 
 which referred no more to Mrs. Luan till he left. 
 
 Almost from the first moment that he had 
 mentioned the existence of his child, Dora had 
 been full of a project, which she imparted to 
 her mother as soon as he was gone, and Mrs. 
 Luan had retired to her own room, 
 
 " Mamma," she said rather eagerly, " Doc- 
 tor Richard has been very kind to us. Sup- 
 pose I dress a doll for Eva — the handsomest 
 I can find ? " 
 
 Mrs. Courtenay was charmed with the idea, 
 and added* confidentially — 
 
 "It is to you Doctor Richard wishes to 
 bring his little girl. Dora, depend upon it he 
 wants to marry you." 
 
 Dora turned crimson, and denied this — but 
 faintly. 
 
 M And I am sure of it," said Mrs. Courtenay ; 
 " but perhaps you do not like him ? Then, 
 Dora, do not encourage him. He looks as if 
 he would take such a matter to heart ; better 
 not give the child a doll, after all." 
 
 Dora did not think that to give Eva a doll 
 * was to encourage Eva's father in a hopeless 
 passion ; and she said so. 
 
 " And as my white silk dress would only get 
 yellow and old-fashioned," she added, " I shall 
 cut it up." 
 
 " Cut up your beautiful silk, Dora ! " 
 
 " I shall never wear it again ; and I do not 
 like dyed silks. Besides, it is better to save 
 money than buy." 
 
 Mrs. Courtenay gave in, but with a sigh. 
 
 "I shall dress her like a bride," resumed 
 Dora, " with a veil and orange-wreath." 
 
 Mrs. Courtenay screamed with delight. 
 
 " And she shall have a train ever so long, 
 and satin shoes, and white kid gloves. She 
 shall be the handsomest doll in Rouen. I shall 
 go and buy it to-morrow morning ; and, mam- 
 ma, you will not tell aunt? " 
 
 "Of course not," shrewdly said Mrs. Cour- 
 tenay, who liked a conspiracy of all things. 
 
 When Dora retired to her own room, she 
 took out the white silk dress, and looked at it. 
 She had looked well in this dress, and she 
 knew it. Were those days forever gone by ? 
 Was she never to go to a party again, but to 
 spend life in its present obscurity ? It really 
 was a pity to cut it up ; but then they could 
 not afford to buy, and Doctor Richard had been 
 so kind. There was no harm, however, in 
 putting on this doomed robe once more, and 
 seeing how she looked in it. So Dora slipped 
 it on, and looked at herself in the glass, and 
 bade a sort of farewell to life's vanities as she 
 saw her own image there. It is pleasant to 
 look well — it is pleasant to wear silken gar- 
 ments, with their folds to rustle as we inove — 
 it is pleasant to be clad in the hue which suits 
 our youth and its bloom, both, alas ! so fleet- 
 ing ; but it is scarcely pleasant to do so when 
 we feel that Pleasure has closed her gates upon 
 us, and will open them no more. 
 
 "And yet why should there not be some 
 wonderful story for me too ? " thought Dora, 
 sitting down to muse over her future ; " why 
 should dull commonplace be my lot ? I do 
 not feel as if the straight and beaten road 
 were to be mine. I seem to see many winding 
 paths before me. It maybe an illusion, but it 
 is a harmless one, and I will not bid it begone. 
 As to the dress, I care not for it." 
 
 She took it oft", and to prevent the possibility 
 of repentance, took two breadths out of the 
 skirt. This sacrifice being accomplished, she
 
 90 
 
 DORA. 
 
 went to bed and dreamed of a marvellous doll 
 with a train half a yard long. Early the next 
 morning, Dora went out. She succeeded in 
 finding such a doll as she wanted, and brought 
 it home under her cloak, so that Mi's. Luan 
 might n<Tt see it. She set about her task at 
 once, and locked herself in to prevent a sur- 
 prise ; but Mrs. Courtenay, who, though she 
 liked a conspiracy, did not seem to understand 
 that secrecy was one of its most necessary in- 
 gredients, came and knocked for admittance 
 every five minutes, "just to see how she was 
 getting on." As Dora carefully locked the 
 door after her mother every time she thus 
 came, Mrs. Luan, had she been an observant 
 person, could not have failed detecting the ex- 
 istence of a mystery. Luckily, few things, un- 
 less when connected in a very direct manner 
 with her concerns, drew her attention, and all 
 she thought, if she thought at all, was that 
 Dora was engaged in some new drawing. 
 
 " What a pretty doll it is ! " whispered Mrs. 
 Courtenay, bending over the pillow on which 
 the doll lay carefully wrapped in tissue paper ; 
 " and, oh ! Dora, how it does stare ! " 
 
 This Mrs. Courtenay announced as a de- 
 cidedly singular fact, and as if the staring of 
 dolls were a new discovery of hers. 
 
 "Yes," gayly said Dora; "it was shut up 
 in a box, you see, and having just come out, 
 it is making the best use of its eyes. Besides, 
 it is fresh from Germany, and has a good deal 
 to learn, poor thing! in this new country. 
 Perhaps it is thinking of the Fatherland, and 
 lamenting the change from the Rhine to the 
 Seine." 
 
 "And, oh!" said Mrs. Courtenay, with her 
 little scream, " you have got shoes for it ! " 
 and she took and twirled on her finger a pair 
 of white satin bridal shoes, beautifully made. 
 
 " Yes," replied Dora, looking at them with a 
 little envious sigh ; " I knew I could not make 
 il.ru, so wcU, so I bought them, and stockings 
 and gloves. The rest I shall fashion myself." 
 
 And very cleverly did Dora set about her 
 task. Her eye and her taste were both cor- 
 rect, and ere the day was half over the bride's 
 attire was nearly completed. 
 
 " Is not Dora going out to-day ? " asked 
 Mrs. Luan, with some wonder. 
 
 Mrs. Courtenay winked several times very 
 fast, pursed up her lips, and uttered a mysteri- 
 ous " No." 
 
 " What is she doing, then ? " 
 
 " Nothing particular," replied Mrs. Courte- 
 nay, whose tone implied that Dora was doing 
 something very particular indeed. 
 
 " Is she not well ? " 
 
 " Dear me, Mrs. Luan, how many questions 
 you do put ! Cannot the child stay within 
 without your knowing why ? " 
 
 Now, if Mrs. Luan's inquisitiveness had not 
 been stimulated after this, she should have 
 had no such organ. But as she did possess 
 some share of this important faculty, she de- 
 termined to know what Dora was doing. 
 Very craftily, however, did she set about her 
 purpose. When Mrs. Courtenay leffthe room, 
 Mrs. Luan went and knocked at Dora's door, 
 and Dora, thinking it was her mother, opened 
 with a chiding smile. 
 
 " Is not your mother here ? " asked Mrs. 
 Luan. 
 
 " No, aunt," replied Dora, blushing with 
 vexation. 
 
 No change, no emotion, appeared on Mrs. 
 Luan's heavy face as she withdrew ; but she 
 had seen the doll standing with her back to a 
 chair, her white dress on, and the orange- 
 wreath and veil on the table; and she was not 
 quite so dull but that she knew what this 
 meant. Mrs. Luan had a spice of vindictive- 
 ness in her composition. She felt aggrieved 
 at Dora's daring act, and still more aggrieved 
 at having been excluded from all knowledge 
 of it. She resolved to be revenged, and 
 watched her opportunity so well, that when 
 Dora left her room after dinner, Mrs. Luan
 
 DR. RICHARD'S EVENING VISIT. 
 
 01 
 
 stole into it unsuspected. But in vain she 
 looked on the bed, on the furniture — the doll 
 was not there ; in vain she tried the drawers, 
 Dora had locked them and taken the key. 
 Mrs. Luan's homicidal intentions against Eva's 
 doll were defeated, and she crept out of the 
 room unseen indeed, but none the less sulky 
 at having been baffled. 
 
 Doctor Richard came in the evening. He 
 had not intended doing so, but he had been to 
 the Gallery, and not seeing Dora there, he 
 concluded that either she or her mother was 
 unwell. He now called to ascertain the cor- 
 rectness of his suspicions. 
 
 Dora smiled demurely at his surprise, and 
 replied gayly, 
 
 " No, I could not go to-day." 
 
 Mrs. Courtenay pursed up her lips not to 
 laugh, and said, with a mysterious and puzzled 
 assumption of clearness, 
 
 " No, Dora could not go to-day." 
 
 " Dora was dressing a doll," put in Mrs. Luan, 
 who would not be quite balked of her revenge. 
 "A doll for your little girl, Doctor Richard." 
 
 Doctor Richard smiled, looked surprised as 
 well as pleased, and said, " Indeed ! " whilst 
 Dora uttered a remonstrative, " Oh, aunt ! " 
 and tried not to seem too much annoyed. 
 Mrs. Courtenay did not attempt to conceal her 
 indignation. , 
 
 " Of all talkative creatures, Mrs. Luan," she 
 said, austerely, " you are the most indiscreet. 
 Tou might know Dora wanted to surprise her 
 young friend." 
 
 Mrs. Luan resorted to her usual defence, 
 and began to buzz. 
 
 " I don't know anything about that," she 
 said. " The doll was dressed like a bride, 
 which did not look like a secret. At least, I 
 know that when my aunt ran away with Sir 
 John Barry she went in a cotton dress, in 
 order to be taken for the cook. Though how 
 she could be taken for the cook, who was stout, 
 and forty-five, I don't know." 
 
 " There ! — there ! " superciliously replied 
 Mrs. Courtenay, " who ever heard the like ? 
 Do you suppose we mean to say the doll was 
 going to contract a private marriage, or to run > 
 away with any one, when the orange-wreath 
 and the veil tell as plainly as can be that she 
 is going off to church ? " 
 
 " My dear Miss Courtenay," said Doctor 
 Richard, pathetically, " do let me have a 
 peep at the bride. I shall be miserable if I 
 do not see her, and you may be sure I shall 
 not say a word about it to Eva ! " 
 
 Dora, nothing loath, rose, and went and 
 brought out "the Mariee." She placed her 
 standing safely against the wall, and having set 
 her off by putting a sheet of blue paper behind 
 her back, she withdrew several steps, and 
 looked rather anxiously at Doctor Richard's 
 dark face. This doll was a very pretty one — 
 she had blue eyes, pink cheeks, and red lips. 
 Somewhat deficient in figure she had been, 
 but, thanks to Dora's unscrupulous skill, she 
 had now the most delicate round waist. 
 These " natural " advantages were set off by 
 the loveliest bridal dress maiden ever wore on 
 her marriage morn. Her robe of long sweep- 
 ing white silk, looped up in front to show a 
 
 * 
 
 pair of fairy white feet r was exquisitely trimmed 
 with tulle bouillonne, as an article on the 
 fashions would have said. A long veil, through 
 which shone her fair hair, flowed around her. 
 The orange-wreath nodded over her snowy 
 brow ; pearls gleamed on her plump white 
 neck, and were twisted in rows around her 
 fair arms. Doctor Richard frowned. 
 
 " Miss Courtenay," he asked, " does a bride 
 wear jewels ? " 
 
 " I believe pearls are allowed," timidly said 
 Dora. " Besides," she pleaded, " they are sure 
 to please the child." 
 
 " Pearls, and no prayer-book ! " he con- 
 tinued, critically. 
 
 But Dora shut his mouth. She produced a 
 combination of white satin and gilt paper,
 
 92 
 
 DORA. 
 
 which, when completed, was to be placed in 
 the hand of the bride, and to.be considered a 
 prayer-book. Doctor Richard smiled, and 
 made no further objection. 
 
 " Dear Miss Courtenay," he said, evidently 
 much gratified, " I cannot tell you how grate- 
 ful I feel for all the trouble you have taken, 
 and if Eva does not go crazy with joy, I know 
 nothing about her ! " 
 
 " I hope she will like it," remarked Dora, 
 with a smile. " I have done my best." 
 
 " You have done wonders — and the doll is 
 a beautiful doll ! Indeed, I feel bound to wish 
 her bridegroom joy, whoever he may be. This 
 Minna or Thecla — for who can doubt her 
 parentage ? — will surely make a good wife ! 
 There is truth in her honest blue eye, and 
 good-humor iu her round, rosy face. She has 
 a good intellectual development too. In short, 
 I see a store of domestic bliss for the happy 
 man ! " 
 
 " Dear, dear ! " exclaimed Mrs. Courtenay, 
 " to think you should see it all in the doll's face, 
 Doctor Richard ! I only saw that she stares." 
 
 " She does stare a lee-ttle — just a leettle 
 bit," deprecatingly observed Doctor Richard. 
 " In her maiden innocence, you see, she looks 
 at this wicked world, and thinking no harm of 
 it, forgets to drop her eyelids. Besides, this 
 bit of insolence shows her high birth and per- 
 fect breeding. Then how do we know but 
 that she is a specimen of the fast young lady ! 
 These rosy lips may talk slang for all I can 
 tell to the contrary ; but oh ! if she does talk 
 slang, let it be German slang, I pray, and not 
 English slang, wherewith she might corrupt 
 my little Eva's vernacular." 
 
 " She shall not talk at all, Doctor Richard," 
 gayly exclaimed Dora. " I am a fairy, and I 
 lay upon her the spell of silence." 
 
 "An Irish <;*'i>, such as used to be laid on 
 our kings and heroes," Bald Doctor Richard, 
 li-iiiL'. "Dear Miss Courtenay, your bride is 
 perfect now ; for as she can never say the fatal 
 
 ' yes,' so can she never cease to be a bride. 
 Life to her will be a perpetual marriage morn- 
 ing, with orange-wreath ever in bloom. Time 
 is no more for her. Youth and beauty cannot 
 fade. Truly you are a fairy indeed ! " 
 
 " What, going so soon ? " cried Mrs. Cour- 
 tenay, as she saw him looking for his hat. 
 
 " Yes, I have an appointment. But I shall 
 bring you Eva to-morrow." 
 
 " Bring her to luncheon," warmly said Mrs. 
 Courtenay. 
 
 Doctor Richard seemed to hesitate. 
 
 " With great pleasure," he said, after the 
 pause -of a moment; "but though I by no 
 means presume to make the favor I am going 
 to ask a condition of my little Eva's coming 
 to-morrow, I hope you will grant it. I have 
 long promised Eva that she and I should have 
 luncheon together on the grass before the 
 weather got too cool. Will ■ you join us ? 
 The spot is pretty, and within five minutes of 
 Rouen by rail." 
 
 Mrs. Courtenay and her daughter were taken 
 by surprise. They exchanged looks, then Mrs. 
 Courtenay spoke and accepted. 
 
 " You see, my dear," she said to Dora after 
 Doctor Richard had left them, " it would really 
 have been unkind to refuse Doctor Richard ; 
 he would- have thought we were afraid of put- 
 ting him to some expense, and that would 
 have annoyed and humbled him." 
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 Beautiful and bright shone the next morn- 
 ing when Dora opened her window and looked 
 out. A warm sunbeam stealing over the roof 
 of their low house lit the opposite church ; the 
 vine-leaves reddened in its glow, the air was 
 crisp and sharp, and every thing to Dora 
 looked enchanting. 
 
 "We must give Doctor Richard and his 
 little girl a good luncheon," said Mrs. Cour-
 
 THE LUNCHEON. 
 
 93 
 
 tenay, who partook of her daughter's exhila- 
 ration ; " a pair of roast fowls, and a tart. 
 Thelittle thing is sure to like the pastry." 
 
 "And so is the father," suggested Mrs. 
 Luan, grimly ; " he eats our bread and butter 
 as if he were starving." 
 
 "Nonsense, Mrs. Luan," shortly replied 
 Mrs. Courtenay; "how can Doctor Richard be 
 starving when he has that large house to him- 
 self?" 
 
 "I dare say he pays no rent," said Mrs. 
 Luan, after a pause ; " they have put him in 
 to keep it aired." 
 
 " They '.—who ?— what they ? " 
 
 But to answer this question was beyond 
 Mrs. Luan. She replied, impatiently, that she 
 did not know their name ; and Mrs. Courtenay 
 had too much to do to spend more time in the 
 argument. A terrible deal of fuss and worry 
 had to be gone through before the luncheon 
 could be got ready for one o'clock, the ap- 
 pointed hour. 
 
 Mrs. Courtenay joined Madame Bertrand in 
 the kitchen, and a little squabbling, polite, of 
 course, but decidedly squabbling, was the con- 
 sequence of her appearance there. Dora, too, 
 had her share of preparation, though Mrs. 
 Courtenay would not hear of her venturing on 
 anything culinary, lest she should" soil her 
 clothes or spoil her hands ; and Mrs. Luan 
 alone sat idle, and in high dudgeon. Most 
 cordially did she hate these doings, and Doc- 
 tor Richard and Eva, and the expense and the 
 doll. But she was mute. She knew she had 
 no right to speak, and that her objection, if 
 she made any, would not be regarded. So she 
 was silent, and looked on — brooding over her 
 wrongs, and thinking them many. 
 
 And now the hour came round, and both 
 Dora and Mrs. Courtenay began to look anx- 
 iously at the clock. At a quarter to one steps 
 were heard coming up the staircase, and a 
 childish voice mingled with deeper tones. 
 Dora went and opened the door, and received 
 
 her young guest with a smile and a kiss. Eva 
 had her father!s dark eyes and his genial 
 smile, but otherwise she was not much like 
 him. She gave Dora a shy, wistful look, then 
 she returned her embrace, and was familiar 
 and free in a moment. 
 
 " You live here ? " she said, running to the 
 window and peeping out. " Oh ! what a queer 
 old church ! Do you like it ? Are these your 
 birds ? " 
 
 She looked curiously at Dora's sparrows, 
 who fed tamely on the ledge of the opeu win- 
 dow, looking sharply at Eva, however, with 
 their little keen black eyes, then suddenly flew 
 away twittering. 
 
 " Miss Courtenay prevails over every thing," 
 said Doctor Richard ; " birds and children." 
 
 " Come to my room," whispered Dora. " I 
 have a young lady there who is waiting for you." 
 
 " For me ? " said Eva, looking interested. 
 
 Dora nodded, and, taking her hand, led her 
 away. They entered her room, and she there 
 probably introduced Miss Eva to the bride, for 
 Doctor Richard smiled as he heard a succes- 
 sion of rapturous screams from within. Pres- 
 ently Eva came out with the doll in her arms, 
 and ran to her father, her eyes sparkling, her 
 cheeks flushed with joy. 
 
 " Oh ! do look ! " she entreated ; " do ! " 
 
 Doctor Richard pretended to be greatly 
 pleased and surprised, and every thing would 
 have gone on charmingly, if Mrs. Luan had 
 not uttered a croaking note : 
 
 " That doll will not live — it is consump- 
 tive ! " 
 
 " Dolls do not die," pertly said Miss Eva ; 
 " they get broken, though." 
 
 She laughed, but no one else laughed. Doc- 
 tor Richard's -eye had an angry flash as it 
 lighted on Mrs. Luan, and Dora and her 
 mother looked shocked and distressed, for the 
 glow of health was wanting to Eva's dark 
 (.luck, and now and then a hectic flush ap- 
 I pcared there in its stead. She was a sickly
 
 94 
 
 DORA. 
 
 child, too, and ate little. The chickens, though 
 done to a turn, did not tempt her; the tart 
 she would not touch. " Ah ! there is sorrow 
 in store for him there, and he knows it," 
 thought Dora ; but conscious of future grief 
 though he might be, Doctor Richard did not 
 intrude his apprehension upon his friends. He 
 was as gay and cheerful as he could well be, 
 uttered some pretty nonsense about the bride, 
 and indulged himself in some of those flights 
 of speech which, if they entertained Dora, al- 
 ways saddened her, as showing how little 
 share the practical had in his life. Mrs. Cour- 
 tenay seemed struck with this fact too, and 
 she remarked in her innocence : 
 
 " Doctor Richard, what a pity you do not do 
 something ! Write books, I mean," she added, 
 a little confused at the uncalled-for advice ; " I 
 am sure you could write — oh ! so well." 
 
 "Papa does write," put in Eva, rather jeal- 
 ously ; " he wrote me out ' Cinderella,' and il- 
 lustrated it, with her glass slipper and all." 
 
 " Dear me ! " cried Mrs. Courtenay ; " are 
 you really an author, Doctor Richard ? " 
 
 "I am afraid having written out 'Cinder- 
 ella ' will scarcely give me a claim to author- 
 ship, Mrs. Courtenay," he replied, smiling. 
 
 " Oh ! but one can put a great deal of 
 originality even into an old fairy-tale," kindly 
 said Mrs. Courtenay ; " I am sure," she added 
 emphatically, " your version of ' Cinderella ' 
 is charming. Is it published ? " 
 
 " T have taken some liberties with it," 
 gravely replied Dr. Richard ; " and therefore 
 I dare not face the juvenile public, which is 
 apt to be cruel at times. For instance, I have 
 called ' Cinderella ' ' Rhodopis.' You are not 
 aware, perhaps, that Cinderella's prince was 
 one of the Pharaohs, and that she now sleeps 
 as a mummy beneath one of the Pyramids. 
 Now, how would the little men and .the little 
 women like that? Not at all, I dare say, for, 
 you see, Eva persists in calling poor Rhodopis 
 • Cinderella, and her sandal a glass slipper." 
 
 Mrs. Courtenay tried to look both knowing 
 and captivated, and was sure that the story of 
 Rhodopis, alias Cinderella, was mightily inter- 
 esting, and she reiterated her wish that Doctor 
 Richard would become an author. " I assure 
 you you would be successful," she added, with 
 much simplicity. 
 
 Doctor Richard seemed amused. 
 
 " I might, as you kindly predict, be success- 
 ful," he replied, " but then I should no longer 
 be Doctor Richard, which is, I confess it, the 
 character I prefer. If you were to know, my 
 dear madam, how many a fine fellow has been 
 spoiled, to my knowledge, by some such hob- 
 by ! I like to keep my identity, and feel as 
 sure as human frailty will let me, that I shall 
 remain what I am. Change is so dangerous. 
 History and daily life are both full of perplex- 
 ing questions bearing on this matter. Take 
 Robespierre, for instance, and put him on 
 horseback, and perhaps the man is a hero. 
 Take Napoleon, and make a disappointed law- 
 yer of him, and he sends all his friends to the 
 scaffold, as he sent boyish conscripts to death, 
 and follows them there, instead of dying like a 
 chained eagle in Saint Helena. Nay, even a 
 trifle — if there be such things as trifles, which 
 I doubt — can change the aspect of a country 
 and the character of a people. There was a 
 time when it was a capital offence to bum 
 coals in London. Fancy London without 
 smoke or soot, and just tell me if the London- 
 ers must not have been then a different people 
 from what they are now." 
 
 " Good gracious ! " cried Mrs. Courtenay— 
 " London without coals !" 
 
 "Dreadful! is it not?" 
 
 " And fame, Doctor Richard," said Dora, 
 rather earnestly — " do you not care for 
 that?" 
 
 " Fame for writing about Rhodopis," he 
 good-humoredly replied. 
 
 " There are other subjects," she urged. 
 
 " So there arc — ' Red-riding Hood,' ' Beauty
 
 INDIGNATION OF DORA'S AUNT. 
 
 95 
 
 and the Beast,' and others ; and to tell you 
 the truth, I have written about them too. A 
 set of gypsies ! There is no knowing where 
 they came from. They are here, they are 
 there, in every point of the compass do we find 
 these pretty Zingari. A world of trouble they 
 gave me." 
 
 " And so you do not care about fame ? " re- 
 sumed Dora, who would not be balked of an 
 answer. 
 
 " Verily, Miss Courtenay, I do not. I ad- 
 mire the man who first said, ' What has pos- 
 terity done for me, that I should do anything 
 for posterity ? ' Think, moreover, how fragile 
 a good it is ! Think of poor Ptolemy and his 
 eleven ethereal regions. For a thousand years 
 and more he reigns supreme in astronomy, 
 then comes a Copernik, or a Galileo, and 
 Ptolemy may sleep in Egyptian dust for ever- 
 more." . 
 
 " Ah ! if one could rouse him out of that 
 apathy to generous ambition ! " thought Dora, 
 with a secret sigh. 
 
 But of that there seemed little chance. 
 Doctor Richard looked too good-humored, and 
 too well-satisfied with his poverty to be easily 
 roused. But however deficient these genial 
 natures may be, they have a charm which is 
 irresistible. When Doctor Richard, noticing 
 how languid Eva began to look, spoke of go- 
 ing, it seemed to Dora that his three hours' 
 stay had been too brief, and she longed to 
 join her entreaties to Eva's prayer to be 
 allowed to remain. But she did not — perhaps 
 she dared not. Doctor Richard looked, more- 
 over, as if he would have been inexorable, so 
 Eva submitted, threw her arms around Dora's 
 neck, and said, kindly, 
 
 " Do come and see me — do ! " 
 
 " Miss Courtenay has no more time to lose, 
 Eva," said her father. " She lost yesterday 
 in dressing your doll, and to-day in receiving 
 you ; it is out of the question that she should 
 sacrifice a third day." 
 
 Eva looked rather crestfallen, but Dora 
 whispered : 
 
 " Never mind ; you will come and see me 
 again," and the brightness returned to the 
 child's face, and with a look of intelligence 
 she nodded, adding in Dora's ear, " I love 
 you, Miss Courtenay. Oh! I do love you 
 so!" 
 
 A fond parting followed, and Dora went to 
 the window and looked out, and saw Doctor 
 Richard and his little girl walking down the 
 street. Ere they turned the corner, Eva 
 looked up at her, and gave her a last friendly 
 nod. « 
 
 When Dora drew her head away, and 
 looked in, she found her aunt in a towering 
 passion. Whenever Mrs. Luan w r as angry, 
 speech failed her utterly. She stammered 
 through her wrath, and became almost incom- 
 prehensible. Dora looked at her flushed and 
 agitated face, then glanced to her mother for 
 explanation. 
 
 " Your aunt is angry with poor Doctor 
 Richard," said Mrs. Courtenay. 
 
 ." A low, vulgar upstart ! " stammered Mrs. 
 Luan — " how dare he ? — how dare he ? " 
 
 " Why, what has Doctor Richard done ? " 
 asked Dora, with a little indignation. 
 
 " No doctor ! " said Mrs. Luan — " not he. 
 I know a doctor." 
 
 "Aunt, what is the matter? " 
 
 " Don't tease her," whispered her mother. 
 " She is in a rage because she considers that 
 Doctor Richard has retracted his invitation." 
 
 " Oh ! aunt," remonstrated Dora, " is it 
 possible you do not see that Doctor Richard 
 spoke so to surprise Eva to-morrow ? He 
 looked at me quite significantly all the time." 
 
 This did not mend matters. 
 
 "Why does he look the beggar ? " 
 
 Poor Mrs. Luan ! she was nearly a beggar 
 herself, yet in her wrath she could find no 
 keener word of reproacli for the offender than 
 this. Dora blushed a little, but was mate.
 
 96 
 
 DORA. 
 
 " Why docs be come here ? " angrily con- 
 tinued Mrs. Luan. " He is old, he is poor ! — 
 you can't want him ! " 
 
 Cora became crimson. "Aunt — " she be- 
 gan, but Mrs. Courtenay interrupted her a 
 little angrily. 
 
 " Nonsense," she said, " Dora wants no 
 one; but I must say that even if Doctor 
 Richard comes here for her sake — which I do 
 believe — Dora could not do better than to 
 receive his addresses. He is a most delight- 
 ful man," she added, emphatically ; " and I 
 should like to see my dear Dora provided for 
 » before I die." 
 
 Now, the idea of Dora being provided for 
 by " the beggar," as she called him, added 
 fuel to the fire of Mrs. Luan's wrath, and 
 there is no knowing to what a height it might 
 have risen if Madame Bertrand had not just 
 then made her appearance with a note, which 
 she handed to Dora. It was from Doctor 
 Richard, and reminded her of her promise to 
 meet Eva the next day. He also intimated 
 that, " in case they did not find ten too early, 
 the carriage of the lady with whom Eva re- 
 sided, and which had been placed at his 
 disposal, would come round for Mrs. and Miss 
 Courtenay and Mrs. Luan, at that hour." 
 
 Dora's bright face took a flush of pleasure 
 and triumph as she read this note aloud, and 
 it was with the mildest reproach that she 
 said, 
 
 " There, aunt ! " 
 
 Mrs. Luan was silent and sulky, and Mrs. 
 Courtenay lull of childish glee. 
 
 "A carriage!" she said. "Then I sup- 
 pose the lady is quite rich, I should not 
 wonder if she had really adopted little Eva. 
 Poor darling! It is an injudicious plan, I 
 think. ITow will she like poverty when she 
 has to go back to it? Parents should think 
 of these tilings." 
 
 She shook her head, and breathed a philo- 
 sophic sigh over Doctor Richard's imprudence. 
 
 Dora folded up her note, and went into her 
 room to read it again. 
 
 There is a rapid downward path in all things, 
 and Dora Courtenay was going down very fast 
 to the dangerous depths whence it is all but 
 hopeless to look up to the free level world 
 again. She knew it, and yet she went on and 
 never cared to stop or to look back. Doctor 
 Richard was free, that was enough for con- 
 science. He was free, and though it might be a 
 misfortune to love him, it could no longer be a 
 sin. Foolish girl, as if a misfortune to which 
 our wiil says " yes " were not almost always 
 guilt more or less deep, but guilt none the less. 
 Her aunt's jealous observation of Doctor Rich- 
 ard, her mother's fond comments on his fre- 
 quent visits, were as music to her ear, siren 
 music, wondrous and strange, that made her 
 reckless of the breakers and sand-banks to 
 which her poor bark was rapidly steering. 
 Oh ! if it were true ! If he really liked her ! 
 If he came to the house for her ! If he had 
 brought his child because he wished her to be- 
 come that child's mother ! If he hoped to bind 
 her to himself by the closest and the dearest 
 ties known to man ! She was alone now, yet 
 at the thought she hid her flushed face in both 
 her hands. She was so happy that she could 
 scarcely bear it. It did occur to her, indeed, 
 that she might be mistaken — that Doctor Rich- 
 ard had no such intentions as her mother and 
 her own secret hopes attributed to him. But 
 even if he had not these wishes now, might 
 they not come with time ? Few women who 
 have the power to fascinate do not know that 
 it is theirs. Dora Courtenay had charmed 
 many hearts in her day. She knew she had 
 the gift to attract even those for whom the 
 cared little ; was it presumption to think that 
 she might win a heart so dear ? — was it wrong 
 to try and do so ? 
 
 "I will be good! "thought Dora. "I will 
 try and conquer my faults. If I reach his lik- 
 ing it shall be through his esteem, and then I
 
 POVERTY NOT INCONSISTENT WITH HAPPINESS. 
 
 97 
 
 can at least look back on the attempt without 
 self-reproach or shame. Perhaps he is too 
 poor to marry. Perhaps, seeing aunt and mam- 
 ma almost dependent upon me, and having a 
 child himself, he will not be so imprudent. If 
 so, I cannot blame liim, surely. And yet peo- 
 ple can be poor and very happy ! " 
 
 As Dora came to tbis conclusion, she could 
 not help looking toward the lame teacher's 
 window. It was open, to let in the pleasant 
 autumn heat; and Dora's eye could dive down 
 into the clear dark room, dark not because it 
 was gloomy, but on account of the surround- 
 ing brightness of the street. It was yery neat, 
 though poorly furnished ; the beeswaxed floor 
 shone again, the distant bed looked snow- 
 white, and the lame teacher's wife sat mend- 
 ing linen with a work-basket on a chair by 
 her. Presently she put down her task to peep 
 out of the window. She gave a long, wistful 
 look down the street, then she glanced toward 
 a little clock on the mantle-piece. W as her 
 husband late? — was she getting anxious at 
 his delay? But there was no need — a door 
 opened, and Dora saw him coming in. He 
 went up to his wife and kissed her. She took 
 away his hat and books, made him sit down in 
 her chair, and brought him a glass of wine. 
 
 "Yes, one can be poor and be happy," 
 thought Dora, turning away from the little 
 homely picture, " but I could be happy also 
 even though I should never marry him, or 
 though we did not marry till we were both as 
 old as that poor teacher and his wife. I could 
 wait twenty years for him and think it but a 
 day. It would be strange indeed to marry at 
 past forty, and yet I know I could be happy 
 still — very happy. His hair would be quite 
 gray, and mine would be turning fast. I should 
 be rather a faded old maid, such a one as peo- 
 ple say of, ' She must have been good-looking 
 when she was twenty.' He would be brown 
 and rather thin, and Eva would be a young 
 matron with children on her knees — but I 
 
 should be happy, very happy. We should 
 have a little money then — not much, but just 
 a little ; a cottage near Dublin, too ; and he 
 would be out all day, and would come home to 
 me of an evening a little tired, but cheerful. 
 ' Dora,' he would say, as we sat and talked by 
 the fire, ' do you remember when you were 
 young ? You had bright hair and brighter 
 eyes, and a blooming face enough then, and 
 now they are gone.' I shall answer, ' You 
 should have come earlier, sir, and you should 
 have had them all.' Ah ! what will he say to 
 that ? " 
 
 Poor Dora ! Her dream from subjective and 
 contingent has become future, so swift is the 
 transition. She stands in her room with Doc- 
 tor Richard's note in her hand, and happening 
 to raise her eyes, she sees her own image in 
 the greenish glass above her mantel-piece. It 
 is a dull plate, tarnished and gloomy, but 
 Dora's radiant face shines from its depths with 
 the glorious light of hope and young love. And 
 Dora is not forty yet, but twenty-three, and 
 she barely looks beyond her teens. There is 
 not a silver thread in the rich brown gold of 
 her hair, nothing has yet dimmed the bright- 
 ness of her happy, radiant eyes. With that 
 pure, fresh bloom on her cheek, and that smile 
 of delight on her ripe lips, Dora looks enchant- 
 ing just then. Mere beauty would seem cold 
 near her, for beauty is not always a light from 
 within ; and the fervor of her dream, and the 
 consciousness that she is still young and pleas- 
 ant to look at, make Dora's heart beat with 
 secret rapture. She knows, too — how can she 
 help knowing it? — that she has more to give 
 than to receive in the exchange she is contem- 
 plating. How many women would care for the 
 poor widower of thirty-odd ? — and how many 
 men could help caring for the young radiant 
 girl? 
 
 "He is worth ten of me," thought Dora, 
 turning away from the glass ; " but most gills 
 would remember his half-shabby coat, and
 
 98 
 
 DORA. 
 
 laugh at him if he came to woo. Perhaps he 
 knows it, and is diffident. Ah ! if lie knew 
 all — if he but knew it ! " 
 
 But on reflection Dora thought it was as 
 well that he should not know it. She opened 
 a drawer, took out a little inlaid mother-of- 
 pearl casket, in which she kept her choicest 
 treasures — memorials of her brother — and she 
 put Doctor Richard's note with them. 
 
 " Paul would have liked him," she thought, 
 the tears rushing to her eyes. " Oh ! if I 
 could but have seen these two together — if I 
 could but have sat and listened to them, how 
 happy, how very happy I should have been ! " 
 
 But sad and troubled are the dreams we 
 indulge in when we remember the dead. We 
 cannot, if we have truly loved them, let fancy 
 free where they are concerned. The gloom, 
 the sad austerity of the grave, its silence and 
 its hopelessness, ever come between us and 
 our reverie. The remembrance of her brother, 
 ever loved, ever lamented, fell like a pall over 
 Dora's happy imagining. 
 
 " I must not think of these things," she 
 thought, rather sadly; "if Doctor Richard 
 wished to marry he need not have waited so 
 long to do so ; and if he does not care for me, 
 why should I be ever thinking of him ? " 
 
 But she left his note where she had put it 
 with the treasures and the mementoes of her 
 youth. 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 At ten exactly a handsome carriage drew 
 np before Madame Bertrand's door, and Ma- 
 dame Bertram] herself came up with the ti- 
 r both charmed and puzzled as 
 she delivered them. 
 
 "Such a pretty carriage," she said; "such 
 handsome horses, too ! " 
 
 Mrs. Courtenay smiled mysteriously; and 
 Dora went to the glass, tied her bonnet-strings, 
 and, without looking round, said : 
 
 " Are you ready, aunt ? " 
 
 Twenty times since the morning Mrs. Luan 
 had declared that she would not go, and twenty 
 times she had retracted and said she would. 
 As her last declaration had been one of denial, 
 her present one was naturally one of assent. 
 Rather shortly she answered that she was 
 quite ready. They went down at once and 
 entered the carriage ; whilst Madame Ber- 
 trand stood on the doorstep to see them drive 
 away. 
 
 The morning was one of perfect beauty. 
 Mrs. Courtenay's raptures were spoken ; but 
 though Dora was mute, never, it seemed to 
 her, had earth and sky been so full of happy 
 promises as they were then. Through the city 
 they went ; beyond the track of the railways, 
 through a green and fertile landscape, up a 
 winding road that overlooked the silver Seine, 
 till they came at length to a little wood, on 
 the skirt of which they saw Doctor Richard 
 and Eva waiting for them. 
 
 " I have called her Minna ! " cried Eva, dartr 
 ing forward to meet Dora as she alighted. 
 
 "And I have already broken her nose," 
 added Doctor Richard, completing the infor- 
 mation. 
 
 " Why did she fall ? " argued Eva, looking 
 injured. 
 
 " Oh ! Doctor Richard, what a charming 
 place ! " cried Mrs. Courtenay, looking round ; 
 " and we have a carpet too," she added, see- 
 ing one spread on the grass within the shade 
 of the trees. 
 
 " And partridges in the hamper ! " said Eva ; 
 " and—" 
 
 " Eva ! " Doctor Richard said no more ; but 
 Eva was mute and looked abashed. 
 
 The spot was pretty, sylvan and quiet. A 
 stone cross rose at the angle of the wood; 
 close by it a little stream murmured through 
 
 * 
 
 the grass ; below lay a wide and rich land- 
 scape, and the winding road up which they 
 had come passed through the wood and be-
 
 OLD FIDO. 
 
 99 
 
 came an arched avenue. Dora watched the 
 carriage, which, after bringing them thus far, 
 now entered that shady path, and was soon hid- 
 den from her view, and she wondered whither 
 it was going. Doctor Kichard, who was read- 
 ing her face very closely, was soon by her side. 
 
 " Do you like this spot ? " he asked. 
 
 "How could I fail liking it ?" she replied, 
 smiling ; " it is charming ! " 
 
 " Yes ; and I brought Fido," said Eva, who 
 could not bear to be silent. " Oh ! do look at 
 him, Miss Courtenay ! " 
 
 A pretty King Charles, who lay licking his 
 paws on the carpet, now interrupted the task 
 in order to look at the new-comers. On Mrs. 
 Courtenay and Mrs. Luan he bestowed a lazy, 
 good-natured look; but Dora he eyed more 
 shrewdly. After a few seconds given to de- 
 liberation, he rose, came up to her, sniffed her 
 flowing skirts, then pawed her with a famil- 
 iarity that looked like recognition. Dora stoop- 
 ed and patted his silky head, whilst Doctor 
 Richard smiled significantly. 
 
 " Fido is a shy, reserved dog," he said ; 
 " and yet, you see, Miss Courtenay, he ac- 
 knowledges your power at once." 
 
 " Oh ! but they all like Dora ! " cried 
 Mrs. Courtenay; "Madame Bertrand's cat 
 dotes on her ; and it is a most intelligent cat, 
 and never could endure Monsieur Theodore, 
 who ran away without paying the poor old 
 thing! " 
 
 " What a remarkable cat ! " gravely said 
 Doctor Richard. " I hope it clawed Mon- 
 sieur Theodore and spit at him." 
 
 " Yes, it did," innocently replied Mrs. 
 Courtenay ; adding, whilst Mrs. Luan looked 
 daggers at her, " but it loves Dora so." 
 
 Doctor Richard did not answer that every- 
 thing and every one must love Dora, but his 
 look and smile implied it so plainly, that Dora 
 thought with secret joy, " Well, I believe it is 
 so — I do believe that everything and almost 
 everyone likes me ! " 
 
 " Come and look at yourself in the water ! " 
 cried Eva, impatiently; and taking hold of her 
 hand, she led Dora away. 
 
 The little stream flowed slowly, and proved 
 a fair mirror. It gave back the gray old 
 cross, all mossy with age, and a quivering 
 aspen-tree, and Dora's laughing face as she 
 bent over it ; and it soon gave back Doctor 
 Richard's face, too, for Dora remembered 
 later that he kept very close to her that morn- 
 ing. But a sudden breeze rippled the water, 
 and every image within it was broken. 
 
 " A pretty looking-glass, forsooth ! " said 
 Doctor Richard — " is it an image of life, Miss 
 Courtenay ? " 
 
 " I hope not," she replied quickly. 
 
 " You prefer a smooth, unruffled surface? — 
 so do I ; but who has it? So let us make the 
 best of the present time." 
 
 " It is time for luncheon," said Eva. 
 
 " Well, I believe it is, you little torment ! " 
 
 Mrs. Luan and her sister-in-law were al- 
 ready seated on the carpet. Dora and Eva 
 joined them — Minna was by Eva's side, and 
 Fido nestled on Dora's skirts — and Doctor 
 Richard unpacked the hamper, and laid the 
 cloth. Alas ! how extravagant that Doctor 
 Richard was ! This was not a sumptuous re- 
 past, indeed, but it was far too luxurious for a 
 man in his circumstances. Dora did not dare 
 to say a word, but Mrs. Courtenay assumed 
 the privilege of her years, and lectured this 
 prodigal entertainer. He heard her with his 
 usual good-humor, but attempted no justifica- 
 tion. 
 
 " Life is brief,", was all he said ; " let us 
 enjoy its happy hours whilst we may, Mrs. 
 Courtenay. This delightful morning required 
 cold partridges, a melon, champagne, and a 
 few et-cetcras. I contend that we could not 
 enjoy the landscape upon less." 
 
 Mrs. Courtenay tried to find an answer to 
 this argument, but failed. Doctor Richard's 
 geniality was communicative this morning.
 
 100 
 
 DORA. 
 
 Even Mrs. Luan, perhaps under the influence 
 of such unwonted good cheer, relaxed from 
 the usual severity of her demeanor. Dora did 
 not care to hide her happiness. When the 
 meal was over, she went with Eva to sit by the 
 stream, and she there enjoyed herself silently. 
 The sweet autumn breath from the little wood 
 filled her with a vague delight. There was 
 music in the soft rustling of the trees, and to 
 sit thus, forgetting the world, and looking at 
 the dark though clear water rippling along, 
 and seeming to carry away in its waves the 
 woodland green and the blue sky, was en- 
 chanting. This little bit of Norman landscape 
 was Eden to her, and everything in her aspect 
 said so. Doctor Richard looked at her even 
 while he talked with Mrs. Courtenay, and as 
 he looked he thought : 
 
 " If ever a girl was made for happiness, 
 this is she. Happiness is her calling, her 
 vocation, just as ill-temper is her precious 
 aunt's." 
 
 Unconscious of this severe sentence, Mrs. 
 Luan, who could enjoy the good things of this 
 world when she had not to pay for them, was 
 wondering whether she had really done justice 
 to Doctor Richard's luxurious cheer, when a 
 fit of drowsiness that came upon her seemed 
 to answer the question satisfactorily. Doctor 
 Richard, who saw her struggling against sleep, 
 smiled and walked away to smoke a cigar, 
 whilst Dora rose and went away, with Eva to 
 wander in the wood. 
 
 "I shall stay and mind Mrs. Luan," whis- 
 pered Mrs. Courtenay to her daughter. "I do 
 believe she is overpowered with the cham- 
 pagne; you know how I was for just one 
 glass of cider." 
 
 Dora laughed, but willingly enough left 
 Mrs. Luan to her mother's care, and walked 
 away, as we Baid, with Eva, leisurely followed 
 by Fido. They wont along a narrow winding 
 path, where the shade was thick, and where 
 a sunbeam could scarcely pierce the heavy 
 
 boughs. Many yellow and withered leaves 
 already strewed the grass, and crackled under 
 their feet ; but the air was warm, and a gentle 
 breeze scarcely moved Dora's muslin dress. 
 She felt vaguely happy, and holding the 
 child's hand, hearing her chattering without 
 listening to it, she felt as if she could walk on 
 thus nor think of stopping, when she suddenly 
 stood still on seeing Doctor Richard. He was 
 leaning against a tree smoking, and throwing 
 away his cigar, he came toward them. 
 
 " Eva," he said, without preamble, " go and 
 put on your hat." 
 
 " There is no sun." 
 
 " Do as I bid you." 
 
 Eva pouted, but obeyed. Dora and Doctor 
 Richard remained alone. Dora felt tongue- 
 tied ; sudden shyness came over her, and 
 kept her mute. Doctor Richard did not ap- 
 pear to see her embarrassment. He only 
 smiled as he saw Fido standing in the path 
 looking after Eva, but remaining after evident 
 consideration of the matter, with Dora. 
 
 " Fido has decidedly given you his heart ! " 
 he said. 
 
 " Does he not stay with you, Doctor Rich- 
 ard ? " 
 
 " No. I have the slightest share of Fido's 
 regard. Yet he owes me much. A poor 
 English lady died here, and this little fellow 
 was her great trouble during her last illness, 
 for, as she said to me, ' No one will have him 
 for his own sake, he is too old, and no one 
 here can value him for mine.' I set her mind 
 at rest by promising to take him ; so when 
 the poor thing died, I put Fido in my pocket 
 and brought him to Eva. But there was 
 grief and trouble in Fido's little heart, and he 
 never could take kindly to us. He lies on 
 his cushion licking his paws, and sometimes 
 seeming to wait and listen for a footstep that 
 comes not, and will never come again ; and 
 he lives a good deal within himself, like a 
 philosopher. Poor old Fido ! There is some
 
 AN TTNEXPEOTED REVELATION. 
 
 101 
 
 thing pathetic to me in the old age of animals. 
 We are still in all the early exuberance of our 
 youth when decrepitude steals upon them. 
 But all this Eva does not suspect, and she 
 petulantly wonders that Fido will not play 
 with her, and murmurs because he walks 
 instead of running along the' avenues." 
 
 " What avenues ? " thought Dora. 
 
 " How do you like this little wood ? " sud- 
 denly asked Doctor Richard, changing the 
 subject rather abruptly. 
 
 " Very much indeed ! " 
 
 " Yes, it is pretty enough ; but you and I, 
 Miss Courtenay, have seen spots more beauti- 
 ful by far in another land than this ! " 
 
 " You mean in Ireland ? " replied Dora. 
 
 " I do. We had not there indeed that clear 
 brightness, the attribute of the Continent ; 
 but there is a western softness which has its 
 charm, sometimes mysterious and sweet, like 
 what we imagine of fairy-land. If there be a 
 country in the landscape of which poetry has 
 chosen to become visible, it is surely Ireland. 
 In other lands — I speak of the most favored — 
 climate, ruins, and famous old names lend 
 their beauty to spots which otherwise might 
 not be much heeded ; but in Ireland it is not 
 so. There the spell is unalloyed. We need 
 no heathen temple to grace the waterfall. We 
 do not ask what poet's villa once stood by the 
 lake — what battle was fought on its banks. 
 We have a sad story which we would rather 
 forget than remember, so we look at this 
 beautiful Ireland, and think her a free virgin 
 still, for though many have been her masters, 
 she has preserved the grace and wildness of lib- 
 erty through all the bitterness of her servitude." 
 
 He spoke with some emotion, and tears 
 rushed to Dora's eyes as she heard him. A 
 vision of the past — not of her lost home, but 
 of Deenah as she imagined it, with its shining 
 lake, its white waterfall, and it3 sweet sylvan 
 landscape — rose before her as he spoke. 
 
 " I have pained you," he said. 
 
 " Yes," she answered, " for your words 
 made me think of places which I shall never 
 see." 
 
 " Oh ! how can you tell ? " 
 
 " I do not wish it," she very sadly said. 
 
 " Oh ! but I do," he ejaculated, with sud- 
 den fervor. " God forbid that I should stay 
 forever in this pretty Normandy — so pretty, 
 but so homely ! " 
 
 " He does not mean to stay in Rouen," 
 thought Dora, with a pang. " I might have 
 known it. What brought him here ? " 
 
 Doctor Richard unconsciously answered that 
 question by saying : 
 
 "I came for Eva's health. She required 
 this keen air — for a time, at least. This is a 
 very elevated spot." 
 
 They had reached a narrow platform be- 
 yond the wood. On their left stood a little 
 brick chateau, of gay and cheerful aspect. Its 
 high slate roof and tall . chimney-stacks were 
 cut sharply in the blue air. Its many win- 
 dows were framed by white stone carvings. 
 Behind it spread a green mass of trees, with 
 many an autumn tint softening their verdure. 
 In front a blooming flower-garden sloped from 
 the flight of stone steps that led to the porch 
 down to the handsome iron gates that closed 
 the entrance to the pleasant domain. 
 
 The flowers, stirred by a soft breeze, were 
 dancing in the sun, the window-panes shone 
 again in its western glow ; the whole place 
 looked so gay, so airy, so cheerful, that a 
 smile broke over Dora's face as she went up 
 to the gates, and stood still to look at it 
 through the iron bars. 
 
 " Oh ! what a place to live in ! " she ex- 
 claimed. " What sunny rooms those must be 
 within it, rooms in which it is delightful to sit 
 and read by the open window, and alternate 
 every page with a look ! " 
 
 " Say but sesame, and the gates shall open, 
 and the whole place bid you welcome," gayly 
 exclaimed Doctor Richard.
 
 102 
 
 DORA. 
 
 Dora turned round with a startled look. 
 
 " It is mine," he said, quietly. 
 
 " Yours ! " 
 
 " Mine, at least, on a long lease." 
 
 Dora's blooming face grew ashy pale, and 
 her hand grasped one of the bars of the iron 
 gate with unconscious force. Who? — what 
 was Doctor Eichard ? He answered the ques- 
 tion she was unable to put, and said, gravely : 
 
 "My name is Templemore — Doctor Richard 
 Templemore." 
 
 If he had led her mind back to Ireland, 
 that this revelation might prove less startling, 
 Mr. Templemore failed in his object. The 
 name he uttered seemed to tear her heart 
 asunder. This man who stood by her side 
 was her lost brother's happy rival. His suc- 
 cess had been Paul Courtenay's death ; his 
 triumph had helped to fill the lonely grave in 
 Glasnevin, She clasped her hands together in 
 a mute agony, and looked at him with such 
 passionate reproach in her eyes, that Mr. Tem- 
 plemore colored deeply. His lips parted to 
 say something, but Dora did not give him 
 time to speak. 
 
 "You are Mr. Templemore!" she cried, 
 stepping back from him; "you are Richard 
 Templemore ! " And she uttered the name as 
 if it were of itself sufficient denunciation. 
 
 " I am," was his brief reply. 
 
 " What had I done to you that you should 
 inflict tbis upon me? " vehemently exclaimed 
 Dora, speaking with mingled sorrow and amaze- 
 ment ; " could you not be satisfied with your 
 triumph over my brother? Is he not dead, 
 and forever out of your way ? What had I 
 done to you to deserve this ? " 
 
 Her passion confounded him. He looked 
 at her pale, troubled face, and vainly attempted 
 to fathom its meaning. Was this auger caused 
 by bis long concealment of his identity ? 
 
 " Believe me,'.' he said vehemently, " I never 
 meant to deceive you — never ! I have long 
 known what your feelings toward me were, 
 
 and if you had not sought me as Doctor 
 Richard, I would never have intruded myself 
 upon you. Tbis mistake was involuntary on 
 my part ; and since I have seen how painful 
 it would be to you, it has become insufferable 
 to me !" 
 
 Dora grew more calm as he spoke. But she 
 turned her head away, for her heart was full — 
 full almost to breaking. This man, this 
 Richard Templemore, her brother's successful 
 competitor, was also a wealthy man, who had 
 practised on her credulity. She had been his 
 toy, his plaything, and when she remembered 
 the fond dreams into which her ignorance had 
 led her, dreams which had haunted her this 
 very morning, and given common pleasures 
 the sweetness of Paradise, she could almost 
 have wished to die, so keen was the sorrow of 
 that moment. 
 
 " Ah ! you are angry — very angry indeed," 
 said Mr. Templemore, in a tone full of concern. 
 " And yet you must hear me — you must in- 
 deed ! I could not bear to relinquish your 
 regard ! " 
 
 " There is nothing to be heard or spoken," 
 sadly answered Dora, walking away from the 
 gates of the chateau ; " nothing, Mr. Temple- 
 more — you succeeded, my brother failed, and 
 failure was death ! You were called Doctor 
 Richard by people who seemed to know you, 
 and you never said, ' I am that Mr. Temple- 
 more to whom you owe a bitter grief. ' " 
 
 " Will you hear me ? " persisted Mr. Temple- 
 more, walking by her side, and entering the 
 wood with her ; " surely in justice you must." 
 
 She was silent — he continued : 
 
 "Allow me to ask if you considered Mr. 
 Courtenay's decision an unjust one ? " 
 
 Dora colored, and turned upon him almost 
 angrily. 
 
 " I consider the competition to have been 
 an unjust one," she said, with ill-repressed in- 
 dignation ; " I consider that my brother hav- 
 ing done nothing to forfeit, but everything. to
 
 MR. TEMPLEMORE EXPLAINS HIS HEIRSHIP. 
 
 103 
 
 deserve his uncle's good opinion, ought not to 
 have had this stigma thrown upon him." 
 
 Mr. Templemore looked at her keenly. 
 
 "And perhaps you think," he remarked, 
 " that I, a stranger as it were to Mr. Courte- 
 nay, took advantage of an old man's weakness 
 to deprive the lawful heir ? " 
 
 "Mr. Courtenay's legal right to give away 
 his fortune, .and yours to accept it, I do not 
 question," replied Dora, with a touch of bit- 
 terness in her tone, and without looking at Mr. 
 Templemore as she spoke. 
 
 " Then that was your impression of the 
 case," he said, very gravely ; " a severe one, 
 Miss Courtenay, but which I can bear, for I do 
 not deserve it. You knew that I was the 
 nephew of Mr. Courtenay's wife ; but are you 
 aware that his ■ fortune — all his fortune," he 
 added, emphatically, " was derived from that 
 wife?" 
 
 Dora turned upon him with a startled, 
 amazed look. " No," she said, quickly ; " he 
 made it in the Funds. He told Paul so." 
 
 " He may have increased it by lucky hits," 
 composedly replied Mr. Templemore ; " but 
 I say it again — he derived it from my aunt." 
 
 " Then it was yours, after all ! " exclaimed 
 Dora, confounded. 
 
 " It should have been mine," he corrected, 
 " but my grandfather's caprice bestowed it on 
 my aunt, in preference to my father. She 
 promised to make amends to me, and I was 
 brought up in that belief. Mr. Courtenay 
 himself helped to deceive me. The catalogue, 
 the competition were therefore an injustice to 
 me, which I felt and resented. I won the 
 race, indeed, but I only won back what I 
 should never have risked to lose." 
 
 Dora heard him with mingled mortification 
 and shame. So her long resentment was 
 groundless. There was no foundation for that 
 passionate dislike which she had nursed up 
 against Mr. Templemore. Her past disap- 
 pointment rested on an error, and was both 
 
 futile and childish. Neither she nor Paul was 
 the wronged one, as far as money went, since 
 that which they had received at Mr. Courte- 
 nay's death had been actually taken from Mr. 
 Templemore's legitimate inheritance. There 
 was something in the thought which Dora 
 could not endure. She turned upon Mr. 
 Templemore, and exclaimed in the bitterness 
 of her heart — 
 
 " If Paul and I had known this, we would 
 not have accepted Mr. Courtenay's legacy. 
 Paul would never have competed with you, 
 Mr. Templemore, and I should have him 
 still." 
 
 She could not utter the last words without 
 a quivering of the lip, which betrayed the 
 keenness of her sorrow. He took her hand 
 and pressed it between both his own with 
 mingled tenderness and respect. 
 
 " Heaven alone knows how much I feel for 
 your grief," he said with much emotion, " but 
 surely you must see now that I am guiltless 
 of it ? Surely Mr. Templemore may hope to 
 be as much your friend as was Doctor Rich- 
 ard ? " 
 
 But the question awoke a new storm in 
 Dora's heart. Let it be that her resentment 
 had been groundless, that Mr. Templemore 
 was innocent of all wrong to her dead brother, 
 that Paul had been the victim of an old man's 
 whim and a selfish girl's ambition ; let all this 
 be — and Mr. Templemore spoke with a manly 
 frankness which her own integrity forbade 
 her to doubt — let all this be, we say, stili 
 something was left — something that made her 
 snatch her hand from his, and turning upon 
 him with flushed cheeks and sparkling eyes, 
 exclaim almost passionately : 
 
 "Mr. Templemore, who bought my draw- 
 ings from Monsieur Merand ? " 
 
 He blushed, but he was too honest to deny. 
 
 " I did," he said. 
 
 That, too, was gone — that dear illusion of 
 her little pride in her own worth ! That, too,
 
 104 
 
 DORA. 
 
 was gone, that fond belief in her little skill — 
 that innocent joy over gold won by labor both 
 pleasant and beloved. She had been living 
 on Mr. Templetnore's bounty all the time ! 
 She, Paul Courtenay's sister, had been eating 
 Mr. Templemore's bread ! The bitterness, the 
 humiliation were both too much for her pride. 
 She buried her face in her hands, and even 
 through her slender fingers her tears fell fast. 
 Mr. Templemore was dreadfully shocked. 
 
 " My dear Miss Courtenay," he said, eagerly, 
 " do not wrong us both — do not ! " 
 
 By a strong effort Dora compelled her tears 
 to cease flowing. 
 
 " I beg your pardon," she said, looking up 
 again, and trying to speak calmly, " but that 
 was too much for me." 
 
 " Indeed — indeed ! " said Mr. Templemore, 
 earnestly, "if you think that I bought your 
 drawings simply to oblige you, you wrong me. 
 I value them highly — more than I can tell. 
 Their merit is of the highest order. I hope 
 jou believe me?" 
 
 Dora was silent, but she did not believe 
 him. She had some talent, of course she had, 
 but her drawings had found but one pur- 
 chaser, and he was Mr. Templemore ! Oh ! 
 bitterness — bitterness that could not be put 
 into words ! 
 
 " Mr. Templemore, you meant well," she 
 paid, at length, "but you are a rich man, and 
 you cannot understand how your kindness has 
 given my poverty a bitter and needless sting." 
 
 "Miss Courtenay, do not upbraid me with 
 my money. It is not so long ago since I was 
 a struggling man, with a sickly child, in Lon- 
 don — it is not so long ago since I had to see 
 her wasting away before my eyes for the need 
 of that pure air which I was too poor to pur- 
 chase for her. It is not so long ago since I lost 
 her two little sisters, and felt, as I buried them 
 on one day, ' May God give me the grace not to 
 hate the rich ! ' Ah ! you have never known 
 what it is to sec a loved creature die, and to 
 
 lack the means that could save it. These 
 means have come, indeed, but, Miss Cour- 
 tenay, I often fear that even for my last child 
 they have come too late. Pity me ! — spite all 
 my money, pity me ! " 
 
 The sorrow in his looks, the pathos in his 
 voice, went to Dora's heart. Amazement had 
 given place to resentment, that had yielded to 
 wounded pride, and now this melted away as 
 she heard him remind her of his past poverty 
 — that poverty which seemed to make him 
 Doctor Richard once more. It vanished as he 
 bade her pity him, spite the wealth which had 
 come too late. She forgave him freely, fully, 
 the past and the present all in one moment. 
 She forgave him, and forgot, for a while, at 
 least, that she loved him, and what she had 
 felt keenly in the first moment of the dis- 
 covery — that since Doctor Richard had not 
 wooed the poor girl, Mr. Templemore surely 
 never would. 
 
 " God save you from such a sorrow ! " she 
 said, fervently. 
 
 "Amen!" he no less fervently replied; 
 then, with his serene, genial smile, he added : 
 " I knew you could not cherish resentment 
 against me, and of Mrs. Courtenay, I believe, 
 I am sure." 
 
 Dora was silent; she felt languid and de- 
 pressed. It seemed to her as if Mr. Temple- 
 more had given her a chance of liberty, and as 
 if she had voluntarily cast it away. 
 
 " Doctor Richard," she began — " Mr. Tem- 
 plemore, I mean." 
 
 " No, do call me Doctor Richard," he in- 
 terrupted — "I like it dearly. I was forced 
 into my profession by a severe father ; I hated 
 it years, and now that I have relinquished it I 
 love it, and I regret it. Often, when I am 
 seated in a warm room, with every comfort 
 around me, I remember some of the scenes I 
 witnessed in London when I was obliged to 
 reside in the neighborhood of St. Giles's, and 
 I feel a longing upon me to go back amongst
 
 LES ROCHES. 
 
 105 
 
 those starred, squalid wretches who are the 
 pariahs of civilization. There are plenty of 
 them in yonder old Gothic city down below 
 us. Vice, woe, disease are there, asking for 
 mercy, and getting it, and alas ! deserving it 
 very rarely. There, I am Doctor Richard, 
 Miss Courtenay ; and do you wonder that, 
 having been a poor man almost all my life, I 
 like a name which helps to remind me of a 
 port safely reached after a long, bitter jour- 
 
 ney 
 
 9" 
 
 Dora did not answer. They had reached 
 the end of the path, and they stood once more 
 within view of the spot where they had spent 
 the morning. Eva was there, between Mrs. 
 Courtenay and Mrs. Luan, talking volubly ; 
 and Mr. Templemore, seeing the amazed faces 
 of the two ladies, had no difiSculty in guessing 
 that the little chatterer had been unable any 
 longer to keep his secret. 
 
 "Are you, too, a true woman, Eva? "he 
 said. " Well, it does not matter now. I have 
 been making my peace with Miss Courtenay, 
 and I trust Mrs. Courtenay will likewise be 
 good enough to forgive my unintentional cheat- 
 ing." 
 
 Mrs. Luan's forgiveness Mr. Templemore did 
 not solicit. Mrs. Courtenay looked at her 
 daughter's face, and seeing peace and good- 
 will there, though with the traces of recent 
 tears, she frankly accepted Mr. Templemore's 
 extended hand. Indeed, she looked delighted 
 with the change in his circumstances, for if 
 he was Dora's admirer, was it not all the better 
 that he should be a wealthy man, and not a 
 poor doctor ? Mr. Templemore promptly fol- 
 lowed up his advantage with a request that the 
 ladies would spend the rest of the day at Les 
 Roches ; and Mrs. Courtenay, understanding 
 this was his abode, candidly expressed her will- 
 ingness to see it, for, as she innocently added, 
 
 " I am so glad you do not live in that dread- 
 ful tumble-down old place in our street, Doctor 
 Richard ! " 
 
 " I keep it as a storehouse for my purchases, 
 Mrs. Courtenay, but I seldom sleep there. I 
 reside here with Eva and my sister-in-law, Miss 
 Moore. Eva, go first and tell your aunt we 
 are coming." 
 
 Eva, who looked much happier since she was 
 no longer bound to secrecy, obeyed gladly, and 
 vanished down the path. In a few minutes 
 they had all reached the chateau ; the gates 
 were open, and a lady with a green parasol, 
 who was walking in the flower-garden, came 
 forward to receive them. 
 
 Some secret apprehensions which Mrs. Cour- 
 tenay had conceived on hearing of a sister-in- 
 law vanished as she saw that lady. None save 
 a strictly Platonic friendship could exist be- 
 tween this homely-looking, middle-aged woman 
 and the genial, imaginative Mr. Templemore. 
 
 "I am so glad the sun is shining ! " was her 
 welcome, " because Les Roches wants sun, you 
 know. Which will you see first, the house or 
 the grounds ? Is it not a hot day ? " 
 
 Her face was plump and foolish, and her man- 
 ners were awkward. She blundered through 
 speech in a silly fashion, very like the flight 
 of a reckless butterfly, so heedlessly were the 
 words uttered and constructed into sen- 
 tences. Mrs. Courtenay, who longed to scru- 
 tinize Mr. Templemore's domestic arrange- 
 ments, asked to see the house first. Dora 
 felt no such curiosity. Every new proof of 
 Mr. Templemore's wealth only reminded her 
 of the distance which separated him from poor 
 Doctor Richard. 
 
 The chateau of Les Roches was, however, 
 as pleasant an abode as she had conjectured 
 it to be from its external appearance. It had 
 large, sunny rooms, some still hung with tapes- 
 try, and all bearing tokens of Mr. Temple- 
 more's tastes and purchases. Many a relic 
 which she had seen in Monsieur Mcrand's shop 
 Dora recognized, and in Mr. Templemore's 
 own sitting-room, or study, she saw her copy 
 of the Music-Lesson hanging in the frame
 
 106 
 
 DORA. 
 
 which had lf>rl to the exposure of the Dubois. 
 Bu't she felt no pride, no joy in seeing it there. 
 She remembered the little comedy Mr. Temple- 
 more and Monsieur Merand had acted about 
 that drawing; she remembered how he had 
 helped her to pick up the five-franc pieces, and 
 how his dark eyes shone with pleasure as she 
 gathered her little hoard. But she could not 
 bear to recollect these things — they seemed to 
 put her on a level with little Catherine and 
 his other proteges ; and when Eva, pulling her 
 skirt for the twentieth time since they had 
 entered the house, whispered again, " Do come 
 and look at the rocks," she gladly yielded. 
 
 Scarcely had they entered a winding path 
 behind the chateau, when Mr. Templemore 
 was by their side. 
 
 " This place was laid out a hundred years 
 ago," he said ; " and it has false ruins and 
 artificial rocks, which have grown old and 
 venerable, and in which Eva believes im- 
 plicitly." 
 
 " Here they are ! " cried Eva, springing for- 
 ward. 
 
 Bora heard a sound of water, a few steps 
 more showed a green bank, against which rose 
 brown rocks, covered with ferns, ivy, and a 
 world of creeping plants and flowers. From 
 a gap above came a silver thread of water, 
 which was broken in its fall by a projecting 
 stone, and bubbled away in light white foam 
 in a marble tank below. Blue forget-me-nots 
 and white daisies were set around its edges, 
 and formed a flowery wreath to the crystal 
 waters. Beyond this the shady path they had 
 followed wound away through a green and 
 tangled wilderness of underwood, with tall 
 trees shooting out. Not a sunbeam pierced 
 the leafy dome, or fell on the brown earth. 
 The wild vine went from tree to tree, and 
 led with the honeysuckle and the ivy; 
 and in a hollow of the path appeared an old 
 stone bench, mossy and broken ; it looked 
 ages old, a relic of the past surviving midst 
 
 the eternal freshness of nature. Dora felt 
 troubled, languid, and depressed. Everything 
 she saw said too plainly, "You must not 
 hope. This is the home for love, but not for 
 you ! " 
 
 But it is very hard to resist the magic of a 
 loved voice. Mr. Templemore was bent on 
 winning back Bora's lost favor, and Bora was 
 not quite so heroic as to remain obdurate. 
 Something of her cheerfulness returned, and 
 when they joined the rest of the party, and 
 Mr. Templemore persuaded them to stay to 
 dinner, she yielded almost as willingly as her 
 mother. 
 
 The meal, though not sumptuous, was lux- 
 urious enough. It had plate, and crystal, and 
 every attribute of wealth. Bora remembered 
 with a swelling heart how much her simple 
 mother had thought of the couple of fowls 
 and the tart she had provided for Boctor 
 Richard and his child. She remembered her 
 own little folly about the doll. Alas ! what 
 was Minna's bridal finery to the rich man's 
 indulged daughter ? What she herself had 
 been to the father — the amusement of an 
 hour — no more. Yet she compelled herself 
 to talk, to laugh, to look happy and pleased. 
 
 After dinner Mr. Templemore drove them 
 home. As he parted from them he wrung 
 from Bora the confession that, though she 
 wished to cherish no resentment against him, 
 yet something remained which she could not 
 conquer. 
 
 " Then I must," he said, looking a little 
 vexed, yet smiling good-humoredly — " I must 
 prevail over that something ; we must have a 
 lasting peace ! " 
 
 The warmth and earnestness of his manner 
 sent the blood to her heart. They might 
 mean much or nothing, and hope and reason 
 alternately inclined to either surmise. 
 
 " Oh ! what a delightful day ! " cried Mrs. 
 Courtenay. 
 
 Bora, who sat with her elbow resting on
 
 AN INVITATION TO TrTE CHATEAU. 
 
 107 
 
 the table, and her cheek on her hand, was 
 mute. Mrs. Luan had been remarkably silent 
 all day ; but she now spoke : 
 
 " Dora, when is Mr. Templemore going to 
 marry you ? " 
 
 " What !" cried Dora, turning crimson. 
 
 " Has he really asked you ? " eagerly said 
 her mother. 
 
 " No," answered Dora, looking displeased. 
 
 " He will, then," muttered Mrs. Luan, nod- 
 ding grimly. 
 
 If she had said "he shall" instead of "he 
 will," Mrs. Luan would have been nearer to 
 her meaning. 
 
 "Aunt, you are mistaken," impressively said 
 Dora. 
 
 Mrs. Luan never argued ; but she was tena- 
 cious, and never disheartened. She had parted 
 from John to separate him from Dora ; and 
 when Dora had grown rich, she had reunited 
 these two, then parted them again, still faith- 
 ful to John's interests and her own ends. 
 Doctor Richard was giving her a world of 
 trouble, for she did not want him to have 
 Dora, when, by turning into Mr. Templemore, 
 he had set all right. He was in love with 
 Dora, no doubt, and he should marry her. 
 Her niece would have a rich husband, which 
 would be a good thing for the family ; and 
 John would not marry a poor girl. He had 
 talked of coming to Rouen, " but it would be 
 all over then," coolly thought Mrs. Luan. 
 
 Dora little suspected what an ally her aunt 
 meant to prove ; but her mother was more 
 candid. 
 
 " I think I shall get out the cards, and have 
 Louis Dix-huit's patience," she said, signifi- 
 cantly. " I could not sleep, so I may as well 
 do that, may I not ? " 
 
 Dora did * not answer. But when Mrs. 
 Courtenay began to deal out her cards, and to 
 exclaim triumphantly, " It is going on beauti- 
 fully ! Well, I never had so many twos and 
 queens all at once ! It is quite remarkable, 
 
 and so encouraging ! " When we say she 
 gave vent to such exclamations with an em- 
 phasis and an eagerness which betrayed that 
 she was secretly indulging in a wish the suc- 
 cess of which the cards were to tell, Dora 
 would hear no more. " And yet such things 
 have been," she thought, as she retired to her 
 room, and looked at the patient Griselidis on 
 her bed-curtains ; " such things have been in 
 song and story, a long time ago, when the 
 world was younger than it is now ; but even' 
 then they were not always blessed. Poor, 
 patient Griselidis, you paid dear for your hon- 
 ors." But need that price always be paid ? 
 
 Dangerous question, which came like a temp- 
 tation, and to which, in her pride, Dora would 
 
 not even listen. 
 
 • > ■ 
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 We cannot live without hope. It is the 
 very condition of our being. Dora was haunt- 
 ed by Mrs. Luan's words, and her mother's 
 questioning look was as the token of a great 
 coming joy. The thought haunted her dreams, 
 and she found it on wakening, though some- 
 what shorn of its glow ; but the spell was 
 broken when her mother said at breakfast: 
 
 " Come back early from the Musee, will 
 
 you 
 
 9" 
 
 Dora put down her cup and turned pale. 
 The Musee! — what should take her there? 
 Were it but for pride's sake, she must finish 
 the drawing she had begun, take money 
 for it from Monsieur Merand, and pretend 
 nothing to the dealer ; but after that, what 
 should she do ? A blank followed this ques- 
 tion. Mr. Templemore was the real purchaser 
 of her drawings, and now that she knew it, 
 could she live on his generosity ? In a mo- 
 ment pride was in arms, and uttered as fatal a 
 " never " as was ever spoken. But unluckily 
 pride failed to say how Dora was to live. 
 Hope, so strong with the young, might have
 
 108 
 
 DORA. 
 
 lent her some illusions concerning labor and 
 its rewards ; but the fact that her little inde- 
 pendence had all rested on a rich man's kind- 
 ness, silenced such pleasant dreams. The will 
 to work no longer implied success ; and as 
 Dora put down her cup, it seemed to her as 
 if the shares in the Redmore Mines were lost 
 anew. 
 
 But as Mrs. Courtenay evidently had no 
 suspicion of the truth, and still believed in 
 Monsieur Merand, Dora smiled, looked cheer- 
 ful, and went to her task as if nothing had 
 occurred. Yet her heart was very heavy. Her 
 pencil flagged, her hand seemed to have for- 
 gotten its cunning. She leaned back in her 
 chair, looking at the picture she was copying, 
 and seeing it not. Every now and then, in- 
 deed, she woke from her dream, and started 
 at the sound of a step, and felt her cheek flush 
 if the door opened ; but there was no need for 
 these signs. Mr. Templemore did not come 
 to fill up Doctor Richard's vacant office. Dora 
 was glad of it ; she did not wish for or expect 
 it, and yet, if she had questioned her heart 
 very keenly, she might have found disappoint- 
 ment there. 
 
 But Mr. Templemore had called on her 
 mother during her absence. He had come 
 with an invitation for a week's stay at Les 
 Roches, which Mrs. Courtenay had accepted. 
 
 " The carriage is to come for us next Mon- 
 day," resumed Mrs. Courtenay. 
 
 Dora was silent. She was happy, and she 
 could not help it. But when Mrs. Courtenay 
 resumed, as a matter of course, " When you 
 are Mr. Templemore's wife," Dora rebelled 
 and interrupted her hastily. 
 
 " Mamma, you must never say that! " 
 
 "Nonsense! You never can do better — 
 and any one can Bee that he wishes it !" 
 
 The truth wa<J, thai Mrs. Luan and Mrs. 
 Courtenay had so talked the matter over dur- 
 ing Dora's absence, that had any one told Mrs. 
 Courtenay Mr. Templemore had no thought 
 
 of marrying her daughter she would have felt 
 both indignant and aggrieved. Of the three 
 Dora was by far the least sanguine ; for, after 
 all, such was the thought that ever came back 
 — if Mr. Templemore wanted her, why did he 
 not speak ? He could have spoken as Doctor 
 Richard, and he had been mute! Was not 
 such silence significant ? Was it not also 
 very significant that he neither came near 
 them nor dropped in upon Dora at the picture- 
 gallery ? He came not to cheer or to inter- 
 rupt her with his comments. She went on 
 with her drawing, she finished it, she took it to 
 Monsieur Merand, and was paid for it, without 
 having once seen Mr. Templemore. Ah !. how 
 heavy her heart felt as she left that quiet gal- 
 lery, and thought, " I shall need to come here 
 no more ! " How sad and depressed she was 
 when Monsieur Merand put the money in her 
 hand, and looking at the gold, she no longer 
 felt, " I, too, have a gift, and, lo ! it has 
 brought me in this ! " He had meant well, no 
 doubt ; but how sadly it had ended ! And 
 next Monday they were all going to his house ! 
 What for? Doctor Richard had been their 
 friend, but there was, there could be, nothing 
 between them and Mr. Templemore. 
 
 " Does not Monsieur Merand want any more 
 drawings?" asked Mrs. Courtenay, when Dora 
 came home. 
 
 " No, mamma, he does not — and how are we 
 to live ? " 
 
 Mrs. Courtenay looked bewildered, Mrs. 
 Luan's sallow cheek flushed as she said, 
 
 "Mr. Templemore will make him take 
 them ! " 
 
 " Aunt, you know Monsieur Merand was no 
 one." 
 
 " My dear," airily said Mrs. Courtenay, "I 
 feel quite sure of Mr. Templemore's intentions ! 
 Never mind about the drawings ! " 
 
 Dora would not argue. She went to her 
 room. The lame teacher's window was open. 
 She could see him and his wife taking their
 
 NANETTE'S DEATH BED. 
 
 109 
 
 frugal dinner. There was a look of calm con- 
 tent about them, too, which stung Dora, and 
 made her think — 
 
 "Oh ! why have I been mad? Doctor 
 Richard is dead, and comes no more ! " 
 
 But she would not be weak, she would not 
 remember that there had been a time when 
 she had watched this domestic happiness as 
 something that might one day be within her 
 reach. She glanced up toward Nanette's 
 window. 
 
 " I, too, may live a poor lonely woman like 
 you," she thought. " I, too, may need a pound 
 of candles to cheer me through the long dark 
 night. Well, another pound, the last, perhaps, 
 I can afford to give, you shall have." 
 
 She slipped out unseen, made her little pur- 
 chase, then stole up to Nanette's room. The 
 door was ajar, Dora pushed it open and looked 
 in. Neither welcome nor token of recognition 
 came from the low bed on which Nanette lay. 
 With a doubtful look at the pale, sunken face 
 resting motionless on the white pillow, Dora 
 said gently, 
 
 " Nanette, I bring you candles." 
 
 " Nanette needs none, Miss Courtenay," re- 
 plied Mr. Templemore, whom the half-open 
 door had concealed from Dora's view. " A 
 brighter light will soon, let us hope, be shining 
 before those poor wearied eyes of hers." 
 
 Dora, who had given a nervous start on 
 hearing his voice, now entered the room. 
 Nanette lay in a sort of stupor, and Mr. 
 Templemore stood by the bed, looking down 
 at the sick woman with a grave, attentive gaze. 
 
 " Has she long been ill, Doctor Richard — I 
 mean Mr. Templemore ? " asked Dora. 
 
 " Call me Doctor Richard here, Miss Courte- 
 nay. Nanette has been ill two days. She sank 
 into this stupor an hour ago. Till then she 
 was quite conscious. Poor old Nanette ! That 
 woman had a fine, proud nature, Miss Courte- 
 nay. Her incessant lament all night was that 
 she had not been able to work to the last. 
 
 But she had her weakness too. She begged 
 hard not to be taken to the hospital, and 
 when I gave her my word of honor to save 
 her from this calamity, her gratitude knew no 
 bounds. She actually gave me that fine enamel 
 which is so like you. Do you know if she has 
 any relatives to whom I can make compensa- 
 tion for a gift so valuable ? " 
 
 "No, she has none. But Doctor Richard, 
 is she dying ? " 
 
 "She is, Miss Courtenay. You surely do 
 not regret to see the prison gate opened, and 
 the poor captive set free ? Think of her sad, 
 lonely life, and say if it be not an act of God's 
 mercy to call her away to liberty ! " 
 
 " Why did I not come near her all this 
 time ? " thought Dora with keen self-reproach 
 — " why was I absorbed in my own thoughts, 
 and did I forget this poor creature whom God 
 seemed to have thrown on my kindness ? " 
 
 " I might perhaps have saved her," resumed 
 Mr. Templemore, after a pause; "though ill- 
 ness at her age is too often fatal ; but Petit 
 had been with her. Petit," he continued, », 
 answering Dora's questioning look, " is a man 
 whom science has licensed to kill. In plain 
 speech, he is a doctor by his diploma only, 
 but in nothing else. Miss Courtenay, I do 
 not exaggerate when I say that this man deals 
 out death. I have seen his handiwork, and I 
 have often thought with horror that my little 
 Eva might fall into his hands. It is not likely, 
 to be sure ; but I once saw a child — a beautiful 
 child whom that man had murdered, lying dead 
 before me in this very city, and the mother's 
 cry of agony I never shall forget." 
 
 " And is there no means to prevent that ? " 
 asked Dora, horrified. 
 
 " What means ? He is well known to med- 
 ical men ; but, like all false prophets, he has 
 his disciples, chiefly amongst the iguorant and 
 the poor ; and as the man is not really cruel 
 or bad-hearted, but simply stupid and ignorant, 
 he cheats himself as well as his adherents."
 
 110 
 
 DORA. 
 
 "And did be kill this poor creature too, 
 Mr. Templemore ! " indignantly exclaimed 
 Dora. 
 
 " That I dare not say, but I should not 
 wonder if be did. However, he affronted ber, 
 and so she sent for me ; but I am powerless." 
 
 There was a long pause, which made Na- 
 nette's heavy breathing very distinct. The 
 sun was near its setting, a gorgeous glow 
 from the west filled the poor little room, and 
 a rosy flush fell on the dying woman's face. 
 From the spot where she stood Dora could 
 look down at Madame Bertrand's house, and 
 see her own room tbrougb the window, wbicb 
 she had left open. That room was still 
 haunted with fond dreams and sad regrets 
 and struggles for self-subjection, and what 
 did they all seem now when she looked at 
 Nanette? Seventy-three years of care and 
 poverty and bitter trials were written in that 
 thin worn face before ber; but the story 
 would soon be blotted out by the hand of 
 death, and what trace, what token woidd be 
 left of it then upon earth ? Did it matter so 
 much to be blest or wretched when this was 
 the end ? 
 
 Happy are they who can take such lessons, 
 and who --do not feel, like the French king, 
 that he must change the site of a palace, be- 
 cause the spires of Saint Denis, where bis 
 predecessors were buried, are in view. The 
 haughty Louis Quatorze rebelled under that 
 mcm<»/<> tnori. Was it not enough to know 
 that he must go down some day to those chill 
 dark vaults, and sleep there with all the 
 and queens of his race? — was it not 
 igh to know this ? — must a young sov- 
 ereign, with La Vallieres and Montcspans, 
 dreams of conquesl to boot, be forever 
 that be was mortal, and must die? It 
 not to be endured 
 • by some ascetic or careless monarch, 
 
 full of heaven or reckless of death a 
 
 Saint Louu or a Henri Quatre. 
 
 But not so felt Dora. Every deep, earnest, 
 and religious impulse of her nature rose and 
 was strong within her as she stood by this 
 death-bed. She scorned ber own dreams as 
 she looked up at Mr. Templemore. She tri- 
 umphed over them and trampled them with 
 a ruthless foot. From that hour forth there 
 was a change in her both strong and deep. 
 Something she could not conquer, because 
 even self-subjection has its limits, but all that 
 will can rule she mastered, and the power 
 then acquired she let go no more. 
 
 Mr. Templemore, too, bad bis thoughts. 
 
 " And this is the end of youth and beauty ! " 
 he could not help thinking, as he looked at 
 Nanette, and from her to Dora with her 
 blooming face and ber pensive gray eyes, and 
 that hair of brown gold which a blue ribbon 
 tied back in the graceful Greek fashion. 
 " Ah ! what folly, then, it is to forget the 
 brevity of life, and the treacherous power of 
 Time ! " 
 
 And Mr. Templemore, too, was right ; for 
 surely Death reads the two lessons. Surely 
 it teaches us masterdom over self, and preach- 
 es th'e wisdom of happiness. Blessed are 
 they to whom the task of reconciling those 
 two does not prove too hard ! 
 
 Madame Bertrand now came in, and Mr. 
 Templemore, saying, " I shall call in again," 
 went away. 
 
 " There goes an angel," emphatically said 
 Madame Bertrand, taking a chair, and settling 
 herself down, by the bedside in the attitude 
 of a professional nurse. "He sat with Na- 
 nette all last night. Doctor Richard would 
 do anything for me," she continued, with a 
 certain complacency, and taking as a personal 
 compliment his kindness to the sick woman ; 
 " but it is wonderful how every one, save 
 Monsieur Theodore, has always liked me. Na- 
 nette, who could endure no one, doted on 
 
 me. 
 
 " She was religious," said Dora, following
 
 DORA READS THE HYMN FOR THE DYING. 
 
 Ill 
 
 her own train of thought — " I am sure she 
 loved God. I remember how she once said 
 to me that as she lay awake at night, and 
 saw the stars shining in the sky, she used 
 to feel full of wonder and delight at the 
 Almighty's greatness." 
 
 " Oh ! yes," said Madame Bertrand, nod- 
 ding ; " she was so pious, and so cross," she 
 added, in a breath. " She asked for the Cure 
 at once, poor soul ! He wanted to send some 
 one to sit up with her, but Nanette would be 
 alone. Luckily she took a fancy to Doctor 
 Richard, who stayed with her to oblige me." 
 
 " Are you staying with her now, Madame 
 Bertrand ? " 
 
 " Yes, my cousin will cook madame's din- 
 ner." 
 
 The words recalled Dora to the necessity of 
 going home. She was silent concerning Na- 
 nette's story. Mrs. Courtenay could never un- 
 derstand how people could be ill, and got 
 irritable when they ventured on dying. Be- 
 sides, she now indulged in such bright antici- 
 pations concerning their visit to Les Roches — 
 everything was to be so happy, and so delight- 
 ful, and so charming — that Dora could not help 
 smiling as she listened to her. 
 
 " My dear little mother," she thought, with 
 a half sigh, " how happy I shall be, spite of it 
 all, if I can but make you happy ! " 
 
 Mrs. Courtenay went to bed early, and thus 
 Dora could go and see Nanette again without 
 saddening her mother's cheerful mood. Mrs. 
 Luan, indeed, stared, and looked up from her 
 patchwork as Dora left, but she put no ques- 
 tion. Her niece often went and prayed of an 
 evening in Notre Dame before it was closed 
 for the night, and such, Mrs. Luan concluded, 
 now was her errand. 
 
 But the divine presence of Him who came 
 to suffer with and for the afflicted is not con- 
 fined to temples and tabernacles built by man's 
 hand. Dora knew that we find Him in the 
 homes of the needy, in the lazar-house, in the 
 
 prison, and that it is the weakness of our faith 
 and the coldness of our hearts that will not let 
 us seek Him there. 
 
 Madame Bertrand had lit a candle, but she 
 had forgotten to snuff it, and its long wick 
 and dull yellow light looked dismal in the nar- 
 row room. 
 
 " It is melancholy here, mademoiselle," said 
 Madame Bertrand, as Dora came in; " poor 
 Nanette cannot say a word. Then I do not 
 like to think that she is going to die. Look 
 at her bit of a body — does it not seem hard 
 there should be no more room for her ? But 
 there is not. Some one else is being born just 
 now, and Nanette must make way. I shall 
 miss her. I used to like seeing her go by 
 leaning on her stick, scolding the children. 
 Now, poor soul, she cannot help herself." 
 
 No, she could not, indeed. Nanette had 
 already entered that shadowy region where 
 human will is weak, and Dora thought, as she 
 looked at her, that she was travelling very 
 fast indeed toward that deeper darkness in 
 which it becomes powerless. Something in 
 Dora's face told Madame Bertrand the nature 
 of her thoughts. 
 
 She rose and looked at the sick woman, and 
 shook her head. 
 
 " I believe it will soon be over, mademoi- 
 selle," she whispered beneath her breath. 
 " Will you read the prayer to her ? " 
 
 " What prayer ? " asked Dora, rather star- 
 tled. 
 
 " Wei!, it is not a prayer exactly, I mean 
 the ' Go forth, thou Christian soul ! ' She 
 wanted me to read it this morning, and I said 
 she was not to think of these things ; but to 
 get well again. And still she wanted it, but 
 you see I — I could not — and will you read 
 it?" 
 
 She put a prayer-book in Dora's hands, and 
 Dora, though very white and pale, said not 
 nay. Yes, she would read to the dying and 
 unconscious woman that solemn and pathetic
 
 112 
 
 DORA. 
 
 adjuration which had been appointed for the 
 dying Christian. Her brother had passed 
 away to his rest — not unprepared she hoped — 
 but without the tender and holy rites of the 
 Church, without a sister's loving voice to call 
 down Heaven's aid for the traveller on that 
 last trying journey; but Nanette had been, 
 and should be still more favored. She had been 
 strengthened with the bread of life, and even 
 though she heard it not, Dora could now bid 
 her go forth to her eternal home in holy Sion. 
 She would summon every choir of angels to 
 receive her, she would bid holy saints and 
 martyrs, and the greatest and the purest, 
 welcome their poor mortal sister to the house 
 of the one Father; she would ask for this 
 little despised old woman such honor and such 
 reverence as kings themselves never get upon 
 earth. 
 
 She knelt, and opening the book she began 
 reading, in a voice which, though tremulous 
 and low at first, grew in power as she pro- 
 ceeded. Far away in the heart of the city, a 
 French soldier's drum was calling in the men 
 to the barracks. In the street below a work- 
 man was singing as he came home from work, 
 and still Dora's clear voice went on holding 
 forth heavenly promises, and bringing down 
 the Divine presence to that humble sick-room. 
 And so whilst poor Nanette's soul was passing 
 away, all the sounds blended around her, as 
 in the old mediaeval chorus, where the tenor 
 or the soprano sang of love, the barytone of 
 wine and glory, and the bass uttered a solemn 
 Latin hymn, and the three produced a strange 
 simultaneous harmony. 
 
 All wafl over, and as Dora uttered the last 
 prayer, and closed the book, a voice behind 
 her Baid, 
 "Amen." 
 
 She was not startled — she had heard Mr. 
 Tcmplemorc enter the room whilst she read, 
 and was prepared for his appearance. 
 
 ard the bed ; " well, I could have done noth- 
 ing." 
 
 He spoke with the gravity which the pres- 
 ence of death commands, but also with the 
 composure which habit gives to men of his 
 profession. Dora looked sad and thoughtful, 
 and Madame Bertrand was crying, not exactly 
 through grief, poor soul, but because tears 
 came easily to her. This was all ; there was 
 no one else to lament that a lone woman had 
 gone to her rest, and, as Madame Bertrand 
 philosophically remarked, made way for some 
 one who was now being born. 
 
 Dora's presence was no longer needed. So she 
 left, after Madame Bertrand had gone to fetch 
 a neighbor, who agreed to sit up with her. Mr. 
 Templemore took a candle and lit her down 
 the dark staircase. He looked thoughtful, and 
 before they were half way down he stood still. 
 "Miss Courtenay," he said, impressively. 
 " You knew Nanette for some time ; you kindly 
 took her candles, as she told me. May I ask 
 if she lamented to you, as to me, that she could 
 not work ? " 
 
 " Very often, Doctor Richard." The name 
 came quite naturally. 
 
 " Strange, is it not ? Nanette was no lady, 
 you see. A born lady, a real lady dies if she 
 must use or soil the hands God gave her for 
 ornament — not for use ; but a plebeian like Na- 
 nette thinks herself wretched if she has to eat 
 the bread of idleness and charity. W< 11, I 
 knew a weaver who, in his way, was as great 
 an oddity as our poor little friend up-stairs. 
 That man's passion was to pay the old debts 
 which a series of misfortunes and troubles had 
 bequeathed to him. He stinted himself, his 
 wife and his child, for that. The end was al- 
 most won. The weakness of coming prosper- 
 ity was creeping over him. His wife actually 
 bought him a woollen jacket, and though he 
 grumbled at her prodigal deed, he grumbled 
 gently. The evenings were getting chill, and 
 
 "So I come too late," he said, looking tow- | comfort is pleasant at fifty-three. This piece
 
 VISIT TO THE GOTHIC CHURCH. 
 
 113 
 
 of extravagance was perpetrated on a Satur- 
 day in October. On that same day the man 
 gave an old coat to the village tailor, in order 
 that it might be made a new one of. ' I shall 
 want it for All Saints,' he said. Glimmerings 
 • of pleasure were in that man's mind, and fol- 
 lowed him at his loom. Over that bright dawn 
 came a sudden darkness — the darkness of 
 death. On the Monday evening he was taken 
 ill ; on the Tuesday morning he was a corpse. 
 Within that brief space he tasted the greatest 
 bitterness which his heart could kn^w. ' I 
 shall die like a rogue ! ' he said to me again 
 and again; 'I shall die without having paid 
 my debts ! ' Miss Courtenay, when I think of 
 that man, with his nice honor, and of the hun- 
 dreds who cheat and swindle in the very jaws 
 of death, I feel a sort of grief and pity stronger 
 than I can tell. I grieve that some should be 
 so pure, and others so foul : that of coins all 
 from the same Divine mint, some should be of 
 metal so sterling, and others, alas ! so base." 
 
 He spoke gravely and sadly, with one hand 
 resting on the banisters, and the o^her holding 
 the old brass candlestick he had brought with 
 him from Nanette's room. The pleasure he 
 found in thus imparting his passing thoughts 
 to Dora, made him forget that he was detain- 
 ing her on the old staircase. It was not the 
 first time she had noticed how favorite a listen- 
 er she was with him ; how he liked to think 
 aloud when she was by. That link of sym- 
 pathy, one of the purest which can exist be- 
 tween two human beings, did certainly exist 
 between them ; perbrps because Dora had that 
 quickness of intuition which makes a good 
 listener. She now said, with a wistful look : 
 
 " But that weaver did not die broken-hearted, 
 Mr. Templemore — you paid his debts." 
 
 "How do you know?" he asked, coloring 
 slightly. 
 
 " I do not know — I only guess." 
 
 " "Well, I did, Miss Courtenay," he resumed, 
 
 lighting her down the staircase as he spoke ; 
 8 
 
 " with fourteen pounds sterling I relieved that 
 man from a sense of disgrace, but he groaned 
 heavily under the burden of the gift. The 
 poor fellow longed with his whole soul to pay 
 me ; from that bitterness I could not save him, 
 you see." 
 
 Dora did not answer. They had reached the 
 foot of the staircase, and went out silently 
 into the street — there they parted quiet'.y. 
 Dora found Mrs. Luan sitting up for her. , 
 
 " Were you in the church all that *,ime ? " 
 she asked. 
 
 " No ; I was with a sick woman." 
 
 " Was Mr. Templemore there '? " 
 
 "Yes, he was." 
 
 Mrs. Luan's face almost brightened; but 
 Dora was too full of her own thoughts to see 
 it. She was not sad, she was not unhappy ; 
 but it was long, vei-y long, indeed, before she 
 could fall asleep that night. 
 
 CHAPTER XXI. 
 
 It would have been hard to guess, from Mr. 
 Templemore's dark, genial face, as he wel- 
 comed his guests to Les Roches, that lie and 
 Dora had followed poor Xanette to her grave 
 that morning. She, too, looked bright and 
 gay, but when Mr. Templemore said, "Eva 
 has been dying to see you — she has fallen in 
 love with you, you know, Miss Courtenay," — 
 when he spoke thus in his most friendly tone, 
 and Mrs. Courtenay looked beaming and tri- 
 umphant, and whispered, as, she glanced 
 around her, " The mistress of all this will be a 
 happy woman," no voice within Dora said, 
 Maybe you will be she. " The wife of Doctor 
 Richard would have been the happier woman 
 of the two," was all she thought. She would 
 not think of Mr. Templemore save as her kind 
 and courteous host ; and, indeed, friendly 
 though was his manner, there was nothing in 
 it to justify the belief that he, had lured Dora-
 
 114 
 
 DORA. 
 
 to his house for the purpose of love-making. 
 The attraction which kept Eva and Fido by 
 Dora's side existed for Mr. Templemore too. 
 He certainly liked to sit, to walk, to talk with 
 his bright and genial young guest ; yet no 
 more than Eva or Fido could he be said to 
 show symptoms of love, and Mrs. Courtenay 
 and Mrs. Luan, who had at first put a mean- 
 ing in everything, began to perceive this, and 
 to /eel disappointed. Their expectations rose 
 every morning, and fell every night. But 
 Dora to^k each day's pleasure and happiness 
 as it cami\ and in her careless pride looked 
 for no more. 
 
 On the fourth day of their sojourn at Les 
 Roches, Mr. Templemore took them all to visit 
 a pretty Gothic church, which was but a short 
 distance from them b7 rail. The little house 
 of God stood on a height above the village to 
 which it belonged, in the cantre of a narrow 
 churchyard, and surrounded by trees, that 
 gave it a lone and sylvan aspect. Miss Moore 
 kept very close to Dora and her brother-in- 
 law ; but if she felt any uneasiness, nothing in 
 Mr. Templemore's conversation on Gothic 
 architecture and stained glass justified it. 
 Dora saw her aunt watching them with evident 
 eagerness and interest. Miss Moore, feeling 
 perfectly secure, had left them for a few min- 
 utes, and she thought, with mingled scorn and 
 amusement, 
 
 "Poor aunt! she little suspects it is all 
 about that old window ! " 
 
 Indeed, Dora would have been very blind if 
 she had not discovered by this that the pleas- 
 ure Mr. Templemore took in her society was 
 fly an intellectual pleasure. She had both 
 judgment and knowledge. She could under- 
 stand and appreciate as well as listen, and 
 Mr. Templemore was fond of talking, not for 
 its own sake, not to say anything, but as one 
 of the modes in which thought can best be 
 called forth. Moreover, and whatever his 
 feelings for her might be, he liked a listener 
 
 none the worse for wearing "Dora's bright 
 youthful aspect. She seldom answered him, 
 save in monosyllables, but she had an eloquent 
 face, across which meaning passed with the 
 suddenness of light, dark-gray eyes, deep and 
 earnest, and a serious yet naive grace of look 
 and attitude, when she listened, which gave 
 her something of the irresistible charm of 
 childhood. There were subtle distinctions, 
 and though some of them escaped Dora, her 
 perceptions were too fine not to tell her much 
 which those around her did not suspect. 
 
 But Mrs. Luan, whose feelings were neither 
 keen nor delicate, saw matters very differently. 
 She watched her niece and Mr. Templemore 
 with the utmost eagerness, and her face dark- 
 ened when Miss Moore suddenly joined them. 
 
 " Oh ! Mr. Templemore," eagerly said this 
 lady, as if to account for her abrupt approach, 
 " do tell us the legend of this church — about 
 the devil, you know." 
 
 " Oh ! pray tell it ! " cried Mrs. Courtenay, 
 joining them — " I do so like legends about 
 him!" 
 
 "Oh! this is the old story. The devil 
 helped the architect to build this church on 
 the usual terms, but instead of fulfilling his 
 contract, the shabby architect applied to a 
 holy monk, who released him, and sent the 
 devil away discomfited." 
 
 Mrs. Courtenay looked disappointed. 
 
 " Poor fellow," she said a little plaintively, 
 " how they do cheat him ! " 
 
 " Yes, it is too bad," replied Mr. Temple- 
 more, gravely. 
 
 There was no more to be seen ; they left the 
 church, and Mrs. Luan seized the first oppor- 
 tunity she could find to join her niece. She 
 took her arm, held her fast, and with some 
 sudden force compelled her to stand still in 
 the path whilst the others went on. 
 
 " Well ? " she said, staring eagerly in her 
 face. 
 
 " Well, aunt ? " composedly replied Dora.
 
 EVA BECOMES MISS COURTENAY'S COUSIN. 
 
 115 
 
 " You know my meaning ! " excitedly re- 
 sumed Mrs. Luan. 
 
 " Yes, aunt ; and here is my answer : he will 
 as soon make love to you as he ever will to me." 
 
 Mrs. Luan heard her in some consternation, 
 and Dora availed herself of the feeling to dis- 
 engage her arm from her aunt's hold, and join 
 the rest of the party. 
 
 " We are to dine at the sign of the ' White 
 Horse,' " breathlessly said Eva, running up to 
 Dora. " Papa is sure you will like dining 
 once at a French village inn." 
 
 " I shall like it of all things," gayly replied 
 Dora. 
 
 The " White Horse " stood at the entrance 
 of the village. It was such an inn as painters 
 delight in ; an old, low, straggling house, with 
 heavy gable ends, beneath which lurked deep 
 shadows. Its once red brick had been baked 
 by time into a mellow brown tone ; its small 
 irregular windows had greenish diamond panes, 
 that now gave back the sunset brightness ; 
 and its tall chimney-stacks sent forth wreaths 
 of blue smoke, which drifted gently in the 
 westerly wind. 
 
 Everything about this quiet house wore a 
 peaceful and friendly aspect. It stood by the 
 roadside, shadowed by two broad trees, facing 
 the south, and looking strangely snug and 
 homely. Hens cackled in front of the open 
 door, through which you saw the fire burning 
 brightly on the kitchen hearth ; ducks swam 
 in a shallow rippling pond, and an old gray 
 donkey was tied to one of the trees, and vainly 
 stretched his neck to reach a bundle of hay 
 tantalizingly thrown on the green sward before 
 him. A warm and rather stormy sunset glow 
 came streaming from the west, fighting up the 
 winding road with its level rays, giving Vene- 
 tian splendor to the brick front of the inn, and 
 turning into misty gold the deep purple of the 
 Undulating background of wide plain. 
 
 The landlady came out all smiles to meet 
 her guests, and show them into a broad low 
 
 room, with windows looking over the strag- 
 gling village street, and across which vine- 
 leaves made a chequered screen. The cloth 
 was laid, and a tureen full of rustic but deli- 
 cious soup was smoking on the table. Eva 
 asked to be lifted up to peep at its brown con- 
 tents, and Fido turned up his nose and snuffed 
 with evident approbation. 
 
 " Oh ! how charming ! " cried Mrs. Courte- 
 nay, clasping her hands with rapture. 
 
 Dora, too, looked gay and merry. A hard 
 future enough lay before her, and she knew it ; 
 but she was young and buoyant, and she could 
 snatch its delight out of the present time, nor 
 darken the bright to-day with the gloom of to- 
 morrow. Mrs. Luan, however, was black as a 
 thunder-cloud, and Miss Moore had something 
 to do not to look surprised and bored. It was 
 just like Mr. Templemore to bring them back 
 to the ways of that old poverty which they 
 had both gone through, and of which she so 
 disliked — hated would be too strong a word, 
 Miss Moore hated nothing — the very remem- 
 brance. But spite these two, the dinner — a 
 very good one — was a merry meal. Mr. Tem- 
 plemore was as joyous as a schoolboy, and 
 Dora as gay as a lark. Did she really feel in 
 such high spirits, or did she want to convince 
 her aunt that she was heart-free ? There 
 might be something in this, and yet it was im- 
 possible to look at her bright face, and hear 
 her clear ringing laugh, and not believe in the 
 sincerity of her mirth. A doubt on the sub- 
 ject never came near Mr. Templemore; and 
 when dinner was over, and they all left the 
 inn and walked slowly toward the station, Eva, 
 as usual, clinging to Dora's side, and Fido 
 wagging slowly behind her, he purposely lin- 
 gered by her to say — 
 
 " I wish, Miss Courtenay, you would let me 
 consider myself a sort of relation of yours ; I 
 am your uncle's nephew by marriage, you 
 know. I wish you would let my little Eva 
 have cousinship with you."
 
 116 
 
 DORA. 
 
 "With great pleasure," replied Dora, smil- 
 ing ; but her look unconsciously added, " why 
 
 BO?" 
 
 " Perhaps she might acquire with the title 
 some of your happy gift of enjoyment," he 
 said, answering the question ; " you have it in 
 a rare degree, even for the daughter of an 
 Irishman and of a Frenchwoman." 
 
 Dora smiled again, but this time there was 
 triumph and pride in the smile. Yes, she had 
 so far prevailed over herself, she had so deeply 
 buried every pining hope, every vain regret, 
 that he could say this. 
 
 And thus Eva called her Cousin Dora, to 
 
 Miss Moore's amazement and Mrs. Courtenay's 
 
 delight. But Mrs. Luan was not satisfied. 
 
 This man was enjoying her brother's fortune. 
 
 no explanation of Dora's could remove this 
 
 impression from her narrow mind ; he was 
 
 rolling in wealth, whilst John, poor John, who 
 
 had written to her that morning that he was 
 
 coming to see her — or Dora, perhaps, but he 
 
 did not say so — was toiling in London. Should 
 
 he then be allowed to go on trifling thus with 
 
 her niece, leaving .the great peril of a marriage 
 
 between her and John still impending, like a 
 
 sword of Damocles ? Again and again the 
 
 stubborn voice which often spoke within Mrs. 
 
 » 
 Luan said " No." 
 
 To ask an agreeable girl to be adopted 
 cousin to one's little daughter is a very remote 
 step on the road to courtship. Sanguine 
 though Mrs. Courtenay felt, she, too, thought 
 so when she exchanged comments with Mrs. 
 Luan on this incident. So a consultation was 
 held by these ruling powers, and therein it 
 was ordered that Mr. Templemore's backward- 
 ness — for Mrs. Courtenay had not the faintest 
 doubt of bis intentions— all lay to Miss Moore's 
 account. How could Mr. Templcmore speak 
 when Miss Moore showed an affection for 
 Dora's society, which rivalled Fido's ? It might 
 be politeness, but Mrs. Courtenay thought it 
 downright planning. 
 
 Mrs Luan was silent; she did not complain 
 of the enemy, but she acted, and Miss Moore, 
 who looked on this stupid, heavy woman with 
 the most complacent contempt, fell into the 
 first snare spread before her. Nothing was 
 more easily done. 
 
 Miss Moore objected to raw starch, and had 
 said so in Mrs. Luan's hearing ; and so Dora's 
 aunt, with a stolidity which defied penetration, 
 declared, as they were all sitting in the gar- 
 den one afternoon, admiring the last autumn 
 flowers, that she bad just seen Marie, the 
 French maid, throwing water on the starch 
 instead of boiling it. Miss Moore heard, be- 
 lieved, and was gone. But unluckily little 
 perverse Eva at once came and took the place 
 her aunt had left vacant on the bench by 
 Dora, and rested her head on the young girl's 
 shoulder, evidently intending to remain thus. 
 Starch boiled or unboiled would not lure Eva 
 away, and Mrs. Luan was like Moliere's Mar- 
 quis, her impromptus were all most leisurely 
 concocted ; so she stood looking on bewil- 
 dered, till Mrs. Courtenay fortunately, but most 
 unconsciously — she was too thoughtless for a 
 plot — came to her assistance. 
 
 "Eva, my dear," she said, "you have not 
 shown me your flower-garden." 
 
 "This way," cried Eva, jumping down with 
 great alacrity, and showing Mrs. Courtenay 
 the way. Mrs. Luan followed ; we need not 
 say how strong an interest she took in Eva's 
 garden, and thus Dora remained alone with 
 Mr. Tempkmore. She rose at once. A nerv- 
 ous emotion always seized and mastered her 
 when she was alone with Mr. Templemore. 
 
 They stood on the edge, and within the 
 shade of the green world which enclosed the 
 little chateau and its flowery garden. The 
 red sunlight lit up the brown front of the 
 building, and gave gorgeousness to its walls, 
 flights of steps, vases, and flowers. The glass 
 window-panes were tinned into sheets of fire, 
 I the weather-cocks on the turrets were rods of
 
 MR. TEMPLEMORE'S PROPOSAL. 
 
 117 
 
 solid gold. Every thing looked enchanting 
 and splendid, and the thin, yellow leaves on a 
 tree beyond the house quivered on a back- 
 ground of blue air as softly and as tenderly as 
 if fanned by breezes of spring. Dora admired 
 the beautiful picture, but she admired in si- 
 lence; she now cared to praise nothing that 
 belonged to Mr. Templemore. 
 
 "Miss Courtenay," he suddenly remarked, 
 " would you like to live at Les Roches — I 
 mean all the year round ? " 
 
 He spoke earnestly, but quite frankly, his 
 
 eyes meeting hers in all honesty of purpose. 
 
 Dora felt her face burn, but she replied quietly : 
 
 "Les Roches must have winter as well as 
 
 summer attractions." 
 
 Mr. Templemore did not seem satisfied. 
 "Would you like it?" he urged; then, 
 without giving her time to reply, he added, 
 "Pray hear me before you say yes or no." 
 
 Was it possible ? Had the moment come ? 
 Were her aunt's predictions, and her mother's 
 wishes, and her own secret ill-conquered hopes 
 and desires so soon to be fulfilled ? She stood 
 still, listening so intently that her breath 
 seemed gone. But it fared with her as with 
 the Arab maiden whose story she had once 
 read. Whilst her pitcher was filling at the 
 well, she was borne to a delightful island, 
 thence removed to a dreary wilderness, im- 
 prisoned in an enchanted tower, and after un- 
 dergoing every happy and sorrowful variety 
 of adventure, brought back to the well before 
 her pitcher was full. 
 
 " It is impossible to know you and not ad- 
 mire you, Miss Courtenay ; impossible not to 
 appreciate the extraordinary mixture of origi- 
 nal talent and good sense — for one often ex- 
 cludes the other — which is in you. Do not 
 therefore think me too selfish if I wish in some 
 measure to appropriate gifts so rare. Will 
 you undertake the charge of my little Eva's 
 education ? " 
 Whilst he spoke, Dora, like the Arab girl, 
 
 went through every vicissitude. Hope soared 
 on happy wings to empyreal heights, then 
 sank down prostrate, a chained captive. 
 Whilst he spoke, and the sound of his words 
 fell on the air, a splendid vision faded into 
 darkness, a palace of delight ^vas laid low, 
 and by the shock of the ruin Dora felt how 
 deep in her heart its foundations had been. 
 
 Mr. Templemore took her silence for that 
 of consideration, and he respected it ; but he 
 looked at her anxiously. 
 
 There was not a particle of foolish senti- 
 ment about Dora. She carried a clear posi- 
 tiveness in her feelings, though they were so 
 warm and ardent. Romantic she was in her 
 love of the strange and the wonderful ; she had 
 also a touch of poetry that lingered around 
 her, and gave her the fresh fragrance of a wild 
 flower ; but sentimental she was not. Bitter 
 and cruel though was the shock she had re- 
 ceived, she rallied from it almost at once; 
 and what was more, she indulged in no illu- 
 sions. The man who wanted her to be his 
 child's governess was not a lover, and never 
 would be one. She turned to Mr. Temple- 
 more, and she answered with a smile : 
 
 " I am not qualified — I have never taught." 
 
 "And it is that which helps to make you 
 so invaluable, Miss Courtenay." 
 
 " I cannot leave my mother," said Dora, 
 gravely ; " besides — " 
 
 "Excuse me," he interrupted, "I never 
 contemplated that you and Mrs. Courtenay 
 should part. To tell you the truth, I have 
 had an apartment prepared for her, and an- 
 other for you and Eva. I was not so presump- 
 tuous as to feel sure of you, but the illusion, 
 if it was one, was so pleasant that I could no't, 
 or rather that I would not forbear indulging 
 in it." 
 
 " You forget my aunt, Mrs. Luan." 
 
 " Is not Mrs. Luan going to England to join 
 her son ? " asked Mr. Templemore. " She 
 I told me so this morning."
 
 118 
 
 DORA. 
 
 But Mrs. Luan had told Dora nothing of the 
 kind. She had, as with a presentiment that 
 her ungracious presence might mar all, spoken 
 to Mr. Templemore ; but to her niece, to her 
 sister-in-law, she had not so much as read a 
 line of John's letter. Dora was taken by sur- 
 prise, and her heart, too, felt heavy and sad. 
 It was natural that when means failed, Mrs. 
 Luan should go and join her son ; but it was 
 also a token that Dora's fortunes were very 
 low indeed. No doubt Mr. Templemore 
 thought so too. No doubt not caring to em- 
 ploy her any longer at the Musee, he had hit 
 on these means to be useful to her. Dora's 
 color deepened at the thought, and there was 
 a sudden light in her eyes, as, looking up, she 
 said — 
 
 " No — it cannot be." 
 
 Mr. Templemore looked so disappointed that 
 Dora could not think he had simply meant to 
 oblige her. 
 
 "Dear Miss Courtenay," he urged, "do 
 think over this, and consult with Mrs. Cour- 
 tenay." 
 
 Dora assented, and half smiled at the thought 
 of Mrs. Courtenay's indignant amazement when 
 she should hear the news. And yet why be 
 angry with him? It was no crime of his that 
 they were poor, and that Dora must work to 
 live. In making such a proposal he only as- 
 sumed the privilege of friendship. If he had 
 been her cousin, indeed, he could have done 
 it, and neither her aunt nor her mother would 
 have wondered. 
 
 " I will not be proud," thought Dora, tak- 
 ing herself to task at something which rose 
 within her and made her heart swell. " I 
 will remember his goodness to us all, and 
 refuse or accept his offer from no mean or 
 ungenerous motive ! " 
 
 Eva now ran to meet them, exclaiming in 
 great glee, 
 
 " Mrs. Luan says my garden is beautiful ! 
 
 beautiful ! " 
 
 " Beautiful ! " repeated Mrs. Luan, coming 
 up. 
 
 She gave Dora a furtive glance ; her niece 
 looked flushed and pensive — Mrs. Luan liked 
 these signs. Dora, indeed, was both grave 
 and quiet during the rest of the evening, but 
 she was scarcely aware of it her«elf, and she 
 had retired to her room for the night, and 
 sat by the window thinking over Mr. Temple- 
 more's proposal, when the sudden entrance 
 of Mrs. Courtenay and Mrs. Luan made her 
 look up in some surprise at this joint visit. 
 
 " My dear, we are come to know," said 
 Mrs. Courtenay, sitting down. " We saw Mr. 
 Templemore talking to you so very earnestly, 
 and though we can guess what it was all about, 
 still we want to know." 
 
 " Know what, mamma ? " 
 
 " Did not Mr. Templemore propose to 
 
 you 
 
 9" 
 
 " He made a proposal ; but — " 
 
 "My dear," almost screamed her mother, 
 raising her shrill little voice, and clasping her 
 hands in alarm, " don't say that you have not 
 accepted him ! " 
 
 " Mr. Templemore made a proposal which 
 I did not accept," began Dora ; " but — " 
 
 Mrs. Luan groaned, and sank down on a 
 chair. 
 
 " The idiot has refused him," she said ; 
 " a man who has a thousand a year ! " 
 
 Mr. Templemore had more ; but Mrs. 
 Luan's imagination could not go beyond a 
 thousand. Dora looked at her aunt with just 
 a touch of quiet disdain. 
 
 " Mr. Templemore has asked me to be 
 Eva's governess," she said, " and I have not 
 accepted." \ 
 
 Mrs. Courtenay opened her mouth, and 
 stared in blank dismay. Mrs. Luan turned 
 crimson, and said sullenly, 
 
 " I don't believe it !— I don't believe it ! " 
 
 " You must believe it, aunt ; it is so." 
 
 " Eva's governess ! " faintly said Mrs. Cour-
 
 A GOVERNESS FOR EVA. 
 
 119 
 
 tenay. " He has not asked you to be his 
 wife ? " 
 
 "No, and he never will," firmly replied 
 Dora. " The only question is, shall I accept 
 or not? He would give you an apartment 
 here, and as aunt, it seems, is going to Eng- 
 land to join John, the plan is feasible enough." 
 
 " He is a very rude man ! " cried Mrs. 
 Courtenay, feeling extremely angry with the 
 delinquent. " Did you ask him for a situa- 
 tion ? " 
 
 " No, I did not ; but I did not ask bim 
 either to draw for Monsieur Merand, and be 
 paid handsomely for it. Mamma, we must 
 look our future in the face, and not quarrel 
 with our only friend because he wants to 
 make our lot les^ hard than it would be with- 
 out him. I want to work, but work I have 
 not got. I have already thought of taking 
 a situation." 
 
 " And leaving me ! " screamed Mrs. Cour- 
 tenay, in horror. 
 
 " Ay ! there it is ! " replied Dora, much 
 affected. "We love each other, and cannot 
 bear to part." 
 
 " You always said that even if you married 
 we should remain together," resumed Mrs. 
 Courtenay, looking injured. 
 
 " What am I to do ? " asked Dora, despond- 
 ently. t,If girls, poor superfluous creatures 
 as they are, were only drowned like kittens 
 at their birth, there would not be this terrible 
 difficulty to provide work for them when 
 they are grown upJ you see. I am clever 
 enough, I believe I can do twenty things, but 
 for all that, a situation is the only door open 
 to me. The drawing made me happy, oh ! 
 so happy ! but it was a delusion, a dream, 
 and Mr. Templemore himself dare not suggest 
 it again — it is so patent ! " 
 
 She sighed, and Mrs. Courtenay burst into 
 tears. Three kittens, the offspring of Ma- 
 dame Bertrand's cat, had been ignominiously 
 drowned in a tub of water a, fortnight before, 
 
 and on hearing Dora lament that she had not 
 undergone such a fate at her birth, Mrs. 
 Courtenay was fairly overpowered by her 
 feelings. 
 
 "Dear mamma," exclaimed Dora, much 
 concerned, " you must be brave, you must ! " 
 
 " And how can I be brave ? " asked Mrs. 
 Courtenay, " when you talk of drowning and 
 kittens in that dreadful way, and want to 
 leave me ? " 
 
 " I do not want to leave you, but — " 
 
 " Well, then, why not take the situation 
 Mr. Templemore offers you ? " asked Mrs. 
 Courtenay, wholly forgetting how angry she 
 was with that gentleman — " that way we need 
 not part, and Les Roches is a delightful place, 
 and I am sure he would give a liberal salary." 
 
 Dora was silent. Yes, she too could see all 
 the advantages of this scheme. It would be a 
 haven instead of a stormy journey, peace and 
 rest instead of trouble and toil ; but are not 
 these good sometimes, and is there not danger 
 often lurking in the smoothest lot ? Danger ! 
 — what danger ? asked Pride, and at once an- 
 swered : " I fear none such. I stand secure 
 from all such peril. There was a folly once, 
 but I have thrust it back so deep, that it will 
 never rise to light again — never ! Then speak 
 not of danger to me." 
 
 But the very thought Dora thus repelled 
 came back from Mrs. Courtenay's lips. 
 
 " My dear," she exclaimed, suddenly bright- 
 ening, " depend upon it, Mr. Templemore 
 means to ask you to marry him, after all. 
 Only he wants to see how you can get on with 
 Eva first." 
 
 " Mamma," answered Dora, coldly, " I have 
 no wish to think of him in that light — it is not 
 right ; besides, I am proud, and do not like it. 
 Let the only question be, shall I, or shall I 
 not, be Eva's governess ? " 
 
 " My dear, I do not think you can do better 
 than to say yes — don't you think so, Mrs. 
 Luan ? "
 
 120 
 
 DORA. 
 
 But Mrs. Luan had slipped out of the room 
 unperceived. 
 
 " I need not give an answer at once," said 
 Dora, looking a little irresolute, " so I shall 
 think over it." 
 
 But Mrs. Courtenay, whose brightest hopes 
 had suddenly revived, though she saw the ex- 
 pediency of not expressing them to Dora, could 
 not help urging her daughter r.ot to hesitate 
 about such an offer. In her opinion, such 
 hesitation was almost wroDg. Dora heard her 
 with ber cheek resting on her left hand, and 
 her eyes bent on the floor. She thought, with 
 a sigh of regret, of those days when she worked 
 at the Musee for Monsieur Merand, cheered by 
 Doctor Richard's counsel and approbation. She 
 remembered them, and with them some idle 
 fancies in which she had then indulged — 
 dreams in which she was Doctor Richard's 
 wife, and they worked together, he writing, she 
 drawing, in the same room, both poor, yet 
 both happy. What were Les Roches, and 
 servants, and a liberal salary, to that tender 
 but now lost folly ? For could she doubt that 
 to make her his child's instructress had been 
 his object all along ? That had been her value 
 and attraction in his eyes. 
 
 " And that shall be all I will now look at," 
 thought Dora. "Never, if I accept, shall I 
 forget that position — never ! " 
 
 " Well, my dear, I suppose you will have 
 made up your mind to-morrow ? " said Mrs. 
 Courtenay, rising, with a sigh of apprehension. 
 
 " I dare say I shall say ' yes,' mamma," re- 
 plied Dora, gravely. 
 
 "Do," eagerly said her mother — " do, my 
 dear. Good-night. God bless you! " 
 
 But the blessing did not seem to leave peace 
 behind it. Dora thought of her little inde- 
 pendence, of that dear liberty for which the 
 luxurious comforts of Les Roches could offer 
 no compensation, and she sighed. Restless- 
 ness followed her to her pillow, and chased 
 away sleep. 
 
 " Oh ! if I could but say no ! " she thought, 
 with a yearning, passionate wish for the sweet 
 freedom which a little money gives. 
 
 But even as she thought thus, her room 
 door opened, and some one entered the apart- 
 ment. 
 
 " Who is there ? " exclaimed Dora, in some 
 alarm. 
 
 " It is I," replied Mrs. Luan's voice in the 
 darkness. She approached Dora's bed, and 
 standing there, she said, " You must accept 
 Mr. Templemore's offer, Dora ; and if you do, 
 you will assuredly become Mr. Templemore's 
 wife." 
 
 " Aunt ! " cried Dora. 
 
 " Hush ! do as I say, and I will answer for 
 the end. When he sees you daily he will love 
 you ; and when he loves you, he will marry 
 you." 
 
 " Aunt, I cannot — " 
 
 " Hush ! I know you like him." 
 
 Dora was mute, and whilst her face flushed 
 and felt hot even in the darkness, whilst her 
 heart throbbed so that her breath seemed 
 gone, Mrs. Luan groped out of the room. Dora 
 sat up in the bed, and clasped her burning 
 head between her hands. No, she could not 
 say yes — she could not stay in Mr. Temple- 
 more's house with such predictions* to haunt 
 her. 
 
 " I will not ! — I will not ! " she thought again 
 and again. 
 
 Once more her room door opened. 
 
 " Aunt ! " she exclaimed, agitatedly. 
 
 But it was not Mrs. Luan, it was Mrs. Cour- 
 tenay, with a light in her hand. 
 
 " My dear," she said tearfully, "" you must 
 say ' yes ; ' promise me that you will say ' yes.' 
 We shall all starve if you do not ! You must 
 say ' yes.' " 
 
 She was quite hysterical, and the sight of 
 her emotion calmed Dora as by magic. 
 
 "Dear mamma," she said cheerfully, and 
 kissing her as she spoke, " it shall be yes.
 
 MR. TEMPLEMORE ON PROGRESSIVE SCIENCE. 
 
 121 
 
 And that yes, spoken for your sake, will be 
 like a spell — it shall conjure away every snare 
 and every peril." 
 
 She spoke resolutely, but not presumptu- 
 ously. That "yes" did prove a spell. It 
 silenced at once and forever the dangerous 
 wishes which Mrs. Luan's words had awakened 
 anew from their rest. They fled, to return no 
 more. No more did Hope whisper, though 
 ever so faintly, " Why should he not learn to 
 care for me?" 
 
 CHAPTER XXII. 
 
 " Make Eva like yourself, Miss Courtenay," 
 said Mr. Templemore to Dora, the next day, 
 as they stood alone in the garden — he had 
 plainly asked Miss Moore to leave them there. 
 " Even my paternal ambition can hope for no 
 more." 
 
 But, spite this complimentary remark, Dora's 
 face remained grave. 
 
 " I have said ' yes,' " she replied ; " but 
 pray remember how inexperienced I am, es- 
 pecially in the modern system of teaching." 
 
 " My dear Miss Courtenay, is there magic in 
 that word modern ? Is the present so very 
 different from the past ? " 
 
 '* We have made progress in science, Mr. 
 Templemore." 
 
 " None to speak of. What are all the visions 
 of political economy, for instance, to that 
 grand thing, the transmutation of the baser 
 metals into gold ? You will stop me with 
 modern unbelief, but I say it can be done, and 
 has been done. You can make gold or silver, 
 I forget which, only it is too expensive — it 
 comes dearer than the natural thing. Well, 
 our ancestors had the cheap process, and we 
 have not — that is all. Then what are all our 
 beautifiers, and enamellings, and Macassar 
 oils, to the fountain of youth ? Do not tell 
 me it never existed unless in the brain of 
 poets. Juan Ponce de Leon fitted out an ex- 
 
 pedition, and went to seek it. Would he 
 have done so if it were an imaginary foun- 
 tain ? " 
 
 "Did he find it? " asked Dora, demurely. 
 
 "No, Miss Courtenay; but do you doubt 
 the existence of the North Pole because Sir 
 John Franklin perished in going to it ? Shall 
 we call that band of heroes and martyrs, 
 dreamers ? — and shall we think that people in 
 the sixteenth century, which saw such splen 
 did discoveries and such stirring deeds, were 
 more foolish than they are in the nineteenth ? 
 And then the fancy, the playfulness of inven- 
 tion in those days ! No black smoking rail- 
 way engines hissing through a landscape, but 
 enchanted cars, that flew through the thin air ; 
 or wooden horses, with pegs under their right 
 ears, that conveyed you wherever you wished 
 to go! Why, the theme is endless — its fer- 
 tility is bewildering. Take garroting and Bill 
 Sykes. Five hundred years ago, Bill Syke3 
 would have been a magician — a cruel one, no 
 doubt ; but look at the superiority of these 
 ancient times over ours. Bill Sykes, who now 
 knocks you down, half strangles you, and after 
 plundering your pockets, parts from you with 
 a kick of his brutal heel on your prostrate 
 face, Bill Sykes, I say, would have ' enchanted 
 you.' Oh ! delicious days, lovely days of the 
 olden time, when you were ' enchanted ' by 
 your enemies — when romantic forests, or fairy 
 palaces, or green islands were ever ready to 
 receive you — when, if you belonged to the fair 
 sex, knights and princes strove to release you 
 from durance vile ; and if you were some rosy 
 young knight, a benevolent fairy, a Gloriaua, 
 ever beautiful and young, was sure to deliver 
 you in the end." 
 
 " But all enchantment was not mesmeric, 
 Mr. Templemore," gayly said Dora; "there 
 was transformation, you know." 
 
 " Ah ! you have me there, Miss Courtenay. 
 I am too candid to deny that the mere thought 
 of bcins turned into a bird or a four-footed crea-
 
 122 
 
 DORA. 
 
 turc, or a stupid fish, of being liable to be 
 snared by the fowler, trussed and roasted by 
 the cock, or even simply fried in a pan, is odi- 
 ous to me. It would almost reconcile me to 
 Sill Sykes, but for Huon of Bordeaux's ivory 
 horn. That is my weak point. All my life 
 long I have hated bores with a silent, deadly 
 hate ; but I have been powerless against them. 
 I have met them on Vesuvius, in Eegent Street, 
 on the banks of Killarney, and they have ever 
 prevailed against me. The bore is clad in 
 mail, which is sword and dagger proof. But, 
 oh ! if I had that gold-mounted ivory horn 
 which Oberon gave to Huon, and which set all 
 sinners spinning, how I could settle the bore 
 once for all ! Suppose the bore comes and 
 buzzes in my ear his foolish inanities concern- 
 ing scenery, suppose he tells me about his chil- 
 dren, or, what is just as likely, gives me the 
 bill of fare of that capital dinner which he ate 
 last year at the Freres Provencaux — instead 
 of listening to him with secret pangs, instead 
 of flying like a coward, I should just look at 
 him quietly so, take my ivory horn, well se- 
 cured to my side by a patent chain and Bramah 
 hook, blow one blast, and leave him there spin- 
 ning." 
 
 " You would not have the heart to do it, Mr. 
 Templemore." 
 
 "Miss Courtenay, as there is no spot, no 
 season, no hour sacred to the Bore, so none 
 should save him from my revenge." 
 
 Dora looked at him wistfully. It was very 
 pleasant to listen so to Mr. Templemore in that 
 blooming garden, with the old brick chateau 
 in the background ; but it reminded her too 
 strongly of the happy days when Doctor Rich- 
 ard and she used to vie in such fanciful para- 
 doxes, and she would rather forget that time. 
 She was to be the governess of Mr. Temple- 
 more's child, then let her sink into the posi- 
 tion, with all its advantages and drawbacks, 
 and be nothing else; 
 
 " But to return to Eva," resumed Mr. Temple- 
 
 more. " Since the sad day on which I lost her 
 two little sisters, she has been too much in- 
 dulged. She has faults, which she must out- 
 grow, and so we must part for awhile. I shall 
 leave her here under your care, and spend the 
 winter in Deenah." 
 
 Dora started, yet she had wished to be noth- 
 ing but the governess, and she had her wish. 
 She need fear no dangerous sweetness in her 
 lot. He was going to Deenah, and she would 
 remain in Les Roches, almost alone with the 
 child, in that large silent house. Yes, it was 
 well, but how far the days in the Musee, and 
 at Madame Bertrand's, now seemed — how re- 
 mote ! Something, too, there was in her mind 
 which she could not help uttering. 
 
 "Mr. Templemore," she said, turning upon 
 him with much earnestness, " you throw a great 
 responsibility upon me." 
 
 " I do," he replied, gravely ; " I feel I do. 
 But I cannot leave the child to Miss Moore's 
 care — nay, I will leave her to none save you. 
 Eva loves you, and that love, joined to your 
 happy nature, will do more to cure her of her 
 faults than all my preaching. I have no fear 
 for the result — none." 
 
 He spoke so confidently, that Dora felt si- 
 lenced. She had but to submit. Her mother 
 longed to stay in Les Roches, and to enjoy its 
 comforts, and Mr. Templemore was bent on se- 
 curing her. His will and her necessity were 
 both too strong for liberty. 
 
 " Be it so," she said, a little wistfully. 
 
 But Mr. Templemore was too much pleased 
 to see it. He looked perfectly happy at her 
 final consent, and with a boyish eagerness 
 which gave the ardor and the freshness of youth 
 to all he said or did, he asked to show her at 
 once the apartments he had prepared for her 
 and Eva, who now joined them. The child was 
 all alive witli curiosity and excitement. 
 
 For the last month these mysterious rooms 
 had been locked up, but now their secrets were 
 going to be disclosed.
 
 MISS COURTENAY'S REMOVAL TO LES ROCHES. 
 
 123 
 
 " And I shall know all about them," said 
 Eva, exulting. 
 
 They entered a room on the ground-floor. 
 Books, globes, maps, and a large slate in a 
 frame, said plainly this was the school-room. 
 Thence Eva ran into the next apartment. 
 
 " Oh ! what a pretty room ! " she cried ; " is 
 it for me ? " 
 
 '•' No. This sitting-room is destined to the 
 lady who will have the goodness to teach 
 you." 
 
 Eva pouted, and Dora looked around her. 
 Her future sitting-room was very graceful and 
 elegant, and overlooked the flower-garden. 
 
 "This is a delightful apartment," she said, 
 gayly ; " but where is Eva's ? " 
 
 Eva had already opened a door, and gone 
 up a private staircase, which gave access from 
 the sitting-room to the first-floor, and thence 
 she eagerly summoned " Cousin Dora." 
 
 Dora went up and found three bedrooms — 
 Eva's, the servant's, and her own. It was a 
 handsome room — handsome, yet pleasant ; but 
 it seemed to Dora that it had a grave, sober 
 aspect, which made it a very different apart- 
 ment from the graceful room she now slept in, 
 as Mr. Templemore's guest. The furniture was 
 ancient, valuable indeed, but somewhat solemn- 
 looking. 
 
 It was a corner room, and each of its two 
 windows commanded a different prospect. 
 Standing in the deep embrasure of one, you 
 saw the gates of the chateau, and you looked 
 down the long road delving deep into the city. 
 That view Dora had from her present apart- 
 ment. But this, her future room, if she be- 
 came Eva's governess, had another window 
 looking down into a quiet court, around which 
 the chateau was built. In the centre rose a 
 bubbling fountain, and though the aspect of 
 all she saw was Norman, and not Germanic, 
 Dora thought of Undine, when she had wedded 
 Knight Hildebrand, and went home with him 
 to his castle. 
 
 "When I feel foolish and unhappy I shall 
 sit here and look at that court and fountain," 
 she thought. " Even as that water is enclosed 
 everywhere by cold stone walls, and must be 
 satisfied with its life of domestic usefulness, so 
 must I not repine or think myself ill-used be- 
 cause others go forth and wander in lovely 
 spots and happy liberty, whilst I bend over 
 books, teach a wayward child, and forget that 
 I too might have had a story ; and yet — yet 
 oh ! how can I forget you, my brother ? How 
 can I forget that if you had triumphed that 
 man would have been poor, and would scarcely 
 have hit upon me to be the governess of his 
 child ? How can I forget that, poor or rich, I 
 should still have liked your conquered enemy, 
 as I now cannot help liking your successful 
 rival?" 
 
 "I don't like this," said Eva, peeping out 
 of the window, and drawing back. " I don't 
 like that court and the fountain ; do you, 
 Cousin Dora ? " 
 
 " Oh ! so much," replied Dora, with a smile. 
 " This is mine, you know." 
 
 "Are you the governess, Cousin Dora?" 
 cried Eva, amazed. 
 
 "Yes, Eva," answered Dora, with quiet 
 pride ; "lam the governess." 
 
 Thus it was decided. Miss Moore, on learn- 
 ing the news, or seeming to learn it, be- 
 came wonderfully kind to Dora — so kind that 
 Mrs. Courtenay was almost tempted to ex- 
 postulate ; but the quiet indifference of Miss 
 Courtenay's manner soon silenced Miss Moore 
 effectually. Coldness is the strongest weapon 
 of defence. It is a shield of adamant, which 
 nothing can pierce. 
 
 Great were the laments of Madame Bertrand 
 on hearing that her lodgers meant to leave 
 her ; but great, too, was her amazement when 
 Mrs. Courtenay informed her that Doctor 
 Richard and the tenant of Les Roches were 
 one. Her questions, Was Mr. Templemore 
 very rich ? — was he married ? — and the shrewd
 
 124 
 
 DOEA. 
 
 looks she gave "Dora all the time, were very 
 hard to bear. 
 
 " Yes," she thought, " all that might have 
 been, but it must never be now — never." 
 
 Mrs. Luan went to England the very day 
 after they left Les Roches. Her haste struck 
 Dora, though she was so far from guessing its 
 real motive, that, as they parted from her at 
 the station, she said — 
 
 " Aunt, tell John I am very angry that he 
 did not come to see us." 
 
 Mrs. Luan nodded. Yes, she would tell 
 John — she would be sure to tell him. 
 
 " Eow odd aunt looked ! " said Dora, as she 
 walked home with her mother. 
 
 But Mrs. Courtenay had seen no particular 
 oddity about Mrs. Luan ; she always was odd, 
 she said ; and in the same breath she expressed 
 her relief at leaving Madame Bertrand's mean 
 little rooms, and going to inhabit the broad 
 lofty chambers of Les Roches. But when 
 Dora entered her room to bid her adieu, she 
 looked at that quiet room with fond regret. 
 She glanced at the prim Griselidis, at the 
 shabby furniture, at the gray church opposite, 
 with the vine-leaves turning red beneath the 
 cold breath of autumn winds, and she sighed. 
 At the lame teacher's window she would not 
 look, but she glanced up to Nanette's. The 
 friendly beacon she had once seen shining 
 there was gone forever, and with it had de- 
 parted some bright visions, not of love or hap- 
 piness, but of pleasant labor and sweet inde- 
 pendence. 
 
 " My poor little fairy," she sadly thought, 
 " I used to fancy you had brought me in luck 
 in exchange for my milk and eggs; but I 
 know now it was such luck as one reads of in 
 story-books, where the gold turns into withered 
 leaves, and the fairy palaces you sleep in at' 
 night are gone in the morning." 
 
 "Dora!" called her mother's voice in the 
 outer room, " are you ready ? " 
 
 " I am coming," answered Dora ; but the 
 
 sparrows she used to feed, seeing her stand 
 by the open window, went fluttering past, ex- 
 pecting their little pittance, and Dora would 
 not disappoint them. She covered the window- 
 ledge with bread, then, with a last look and a 
 last sigh, she bade adieu to her room, and, for 
 the first time in her life — to liberty. 
 
 And yet she looked happy and gay when 
 she entered Les Roches. For, after all, hers 
 was a happy lot, and she knew it. It was 
 pleasant to be valued so highly by the father, 
 and to be loved so dearly by the child. Even 
 Fido's greeting was grateful to her ; and then 
 it was something surely that when one door 
 closed upon her, another should open so 
 readily and so soon. It was a relief to Mr. 
 Templemore to read the brightness of all this 
 in her face, as she arrived with her mother. 
 Yes, he felt it keenly ; he could trust his child 
 whilst he was away to this fine joyous nature — 
 so joyous, and that, too, Mr. Templemore 
 knew, though not to what extent, because it 
 was so brave. 
 
 And now Dora entered thescbool-room, and 
 became queen absolute there. Eva's love for 
 her governess partook of adoration. There 
 had never been so perfect a being, in her 
 opinion, as Dora. Miss Moore looked puzzled, 
 and scarcely pleased, at this ardent affection ; 
 but Mr. Templemore was both amused and de- 
 lighted, and took evident pleasure in watching 
 and fostering its growth. He would jestingly 
 ask Dora to tell him which of the two, Eva or 
 Fido, loved her most, or could do best without 
 her society. And when Dora would leave the 
 room, or the garden, and Eva, howsoever ab- 
 sorbed, would soon look up from her book or 
 her playthings, shake her curls, and ask, 
 " Where is Cousin Dora ? " Mr. Templemore 
 would reply, with a smile : 
 
 " Come, Eva, I see it is Fido's affection 
 which is the stronger of tire two, after all ; he 
 never lets Cousin Dora out of his sight, pru- 
 dent dog, and you do."
 
 wsmmfigsBSsm 
 
 1 f'Wy. 'tf-p,., 
 
 DORA AND llll. CHILD i:\UK III.M ADIEU AT THE GATE. 
 
 p. 125.
 
 MR. TEMPLEMORE REVISITS DEENAH. 
 
 125 
 
 •' But Fido does not love Cousin Dora half 
 so much as I do," Eva would cry, in hot indig- 
 nation ; and throwing down her book or her 
 doll, she would go in pursuit of this much- 
 loved cousin, to Mr. Ternplemore's evident sat- 
 isfaction. 
 
 Mrs. Courtenay put only one construction 
 upon all this, and felt both amazed and indig- 
 nant when Mr. Teinplernore suddenly went 
 away one morning. Before going he spoke to 
 Dora. 
 
 "You have bewitched Eva," he said, with a 
 kind smile, " so I need only ask you to go on 
 with that magic, the secret of which I will not 
 attempt to fathom. I shall only trouble you 
 with two requests : be so good as to teach 
 Eva to wait on herself as much as possible, 
 and not to grow up into a helpless young lady ; 
 also, if she should be unwell, to send for Doc- 
 tor' Le Roux 'first, then to telegraph to. me. 
 The rest I leave to you ; and now, before we 
 part, forgive me to have laid this task upon 
 you— I sometimes feel I have been selfish ! " 
 
 "How so?" composedly asked Dora. " I 
 really could not expect a better situation than 
 that I have in your family, Mr. Templemore." 
 " Pray do not talk of it as a situation," he 
 said, looking slightly disturbed. 
 
 " What else is it ? " she replied, with a smile 
 of quiet pride. " Of course you do not look 
 upon me merely as a person to whom you 
 give a certain amount of money — nor do I 
 think of myself merely as one who receives it; 
 but for all that, Mr. Templemore, I ajn the 
 governess of your child, and I am paid for 
 being so." 
 
 Mr. Ternplemore's dark cheek flushed, and 
 he bit his lip, but he said nothing. 
 
 " I hope you are not displeased with my 
 frankness?" composedly resumed Dora, who 
 saw very well that he was. 
 
 " Oh ! not at all," replied Mr. Templemore, 
 but he thought : " Miss Courtenay is a proud 
 woman — a very proud woman ! " 
 
 And now it was time for him to go. He 
 would not let Eva accompany him to the sta- 
 tion, Dora and the child bade him adieu at 
 the gates of Les Roches. The day was bleak 
 and very dreary — such, at least, it seemed to 
 Dora, as she gave him her hand, .and wished 
 him a happy journey. - But if the sweet sun- 
 shine of spring had been in the sky, Mr. Tem- 
 plemore could not have looked brighter and 
 more genial than he looked as he bade them, 
 farewell. He kissed Eva two or three times, 
 indeed, and with evident grief, but grief under 
 which seemed to flow a strong current of joy. 
 Dora stood and looked at the carriage which 
 bore him away, like one in a dream. She felt 
 no wish to lament his departure, no tempta- 
 tion to regret his presence, but there fell a 
 coldness upon her like that of a shadow which 
 suddenly shuts out a strong sun. She felt 
 both lone and chill,' and 'turned back to the 
 house in silence, till Eva's sobs and tears 
 roused her to the effort of consoling the 
 child. 
 
 But Eva's grief was a childish grief — it did 
 not last. When she had got all the comfort 
 she could out of Dora, she raised her head 
 from her young governess's shoulder, dried 
 her tears, looked about her, and said, with a 
 little tremulous sigh, 
 
 " Cousin Dora, I think I shall go to aunt 
 now." 
 
 " Very well, my dear, do so." 
 
 She put down the child, who jumped lightly 
 on the floor, shook her dark curls, and with 
 them, no doubt, some portion of her sorrow; 
 then opened the door of the school-room, slip- 
 ped out, and left Dora alone. 
 ■ She could not help going back to the past, 
 and to some of the dreams by which that past 
 had been haunted. She could not help com- 
 paring the romance of life with that of reality. 
 How fair a beginning she had had ! She had 
 read novels very like it. A rich man in dis- 
 guise discovers a poor girl in some obscure
 
 126 
 
 DORA. 
 
 nook, and removes every thorn from her path. 
 He holds a magic wand, and life becomes 
 sweet and easy before the unconscious maiden. 
 Then, having won her heart, unaided by the 
 prestige of wealth and rank, he takes her 
 some day to a noble dwelling, and says, " 'Tis 
 mine." How pretty ! And it was her story. 
 That pleasing commencement she had had, 
 and to make its romance more complete, the 
 rich man in disguise was a sort of feudal 
 enemy. But alas ! the fair ending of the tale 
 was wanted. 
 
 " Life is not a ballad or a novel, after all," 
 thougbt Dora, amused at her own disappoint- 
 ment, and glancing round at the maps and 
 globes, which showed her how wide a gap 
 lay there between the first and the last pages 
 of her book ; " the rich man is very kind, but 
 it is not a wife he wants, 'tis a governess. He 
 has a foolish sister-in-law, whom he cannot 
 trust his child with, and as the poor girl is a 
 lady, and cheerful, and can teach what she 
 knows, he is pleased to have her with his little 
 daughter, whilst he goes and spends the winter 
 in a house which is his, but might have been 
 her brother's. That is life, and that is why, 
 too, biography is so disappointing. The first 
 pages are always full of wonderful promise, 
 but the last have lost the charm ; the beauty 
 of the talc departs with youth, and returns no 
 more." 
 
 Here a black-and-tan paw, gently scratch- 
 ing Dora's knee, drew her attention. She 
 looked down smiling, and saw a pair of full 
 • eyes mutely begging for a lap. 
 
 " Yes, Fido, you shall be petted," she said, 
 taking him up ; and as Fido luxuriously made 
 a ball of himself, and soon snored with pleas- 
 ure, Dora' thought, "God bless him ! — he has 
 a good kind heart. It was like him to cheer 
 a dying woman by removing this Bad thought 
 from her mind. She died, knowing that the 
 creature who loved her would not be 
 forsaken. God bless him ! he was kind to me 
 
 too. I am sure it made him happy to see me 
 drawing at the Musee, and thinking myself a 
 bit of a genius. I can remember many a smile 
 and many a look in which, if I had read them 
 rightly, I might have detected the pure, heart- 
 felt joy of a good man. I can pay him back 
 now, and I will. I will be happy, and I 
 will be cheerful — were it only for his child's 
 sake." 
 
 The opportunity for fulfilling this resolve 
 came almost immediately. The door opened, 
 and Eva entered the room, with a sad, long 
 face. 
 
 " Cousin Dora," she said, with a profound 
 sigh, " aunt is busy, and — and I am very mis- 
 erable." 
 
 Miserable! Dora laughed the declaration 
 to scorn. Miserable ! — why, Mr. Templemore, 
 if he knew it, would be quite angry. Be- 
 sides, was he not coming back ? Miserable ! — 
 she would not hear of such a thing. But, un- 
 fortunately, Eva thought herself bound to be 
 miserable, and Dora soon found out that she 
 owed this idea to Miss Moore, who had taken 
 some pains to impress on the child that she 
 must in duty make herself unhappy, because 
 of her father's departure. Dora did not con- 
 tradict openly — there was no need to do so — 
 but she swept the morbid fancy away ; then, 
 putting Fido on his cushion, she sat down to 
 the piano, and began to play ; whilst Eva so 
 far forgot her grief as to dance, waving her 
 arms as she had seen little girls do in panto- 
 mimes^and making some erratic and abortive 
 attempts to stand upon one toe. As she was 
 in that picturesque attitude, the door opened, 
 and Mrs. Court enay entered the room. She, 
 too, came to be miserable, for she thought 
 Dora very ill-used by Mr. Templemore; but 
 on seeing Eva thus dancing to her daughter's 
 music, she looked so bewildered, that Dora, 
 who had turned round, asked with a smile : 
 
 " What is it, mamma ? " 
 
 " I am glad you are both co cheerful,"
 
 MRS. LUAN'S RETURN. 
 
 127 
 
 replied Mrs. Courtenay, still looking bewil- 
 dered. 
 
 " Yes, we are cheerful," said Dora, with a 
 bright, proud smile, " and we mean to go on 
 being cheerful, too, mamma." 
 
 Mrs. Courtenay's countenance beamed again 
 on hearing this. 
 
 " My dear, I am so glad ! " she exclaimed, 
 raising her voice — " so glad ! " 
 
 Dora laughed, and turned back to the piano, 
 and Eva waved her arms, again and again 
 Stood on her toe, whilst Mrs. Courtenay ut- 
 tered little screams of delight, and Miss Moore, 
 who heard these doings from afar, felt shocked 
 and scandalized. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIII. 
 
 Time bad passed, and brought few changes 
 in Dora's life. She had done with Eva one 
 evening, and stole up to her own room, as she 
 often did at that hour. It was very cold, but 
 a bright moon shone in the wintry sky, and 
 standing in the deep recess of her window, 
 Dora looked at the sharp icicles which hung 
 from the stone angles of the fountain in the 
 court. 
 
 " So am I," thought Dora. 
 She did not feel dull, she did not feel un- 
 happy, but she felt torpid like that . frozen 
 water. 
 
 " My dear, here is a letter for you," said her 
 mother, coming in. 
 
 Dora turned round quickly ; John Luan had 
 written a week ago, the letter might be from 
 Mr. Templemore. It was from him — a friendly 
 letter, as usual, and enclosing a check. 
 " My quarter's salary," she said. 
 "How nice!" exclaimed Mrs. Courtenay; 
 " and then that pretty English maid Mr. Tem- 
 plemore sent for you and Eva. Dora, you had 
 a fairy for your godmother." 
 
 " Had I ! " asked Dora ; for memory flew 
 back with a sort of passion to Madame Ber- 
 
 trand's rooms, and the old church, with its 
 gal-den high up in the buttresses, to the Musee, 
 with its pictures, and to long happy evenings, 
 which must return no more. " Have I not 
 buried my dead yet ? " she thought, scorning 
 her own weakness. 
 
 " My dear, you will tear that check," un- 
 easily said Mrs. Courtenay, as she saw her 
 daughter crushing the paper in her little ner- 
 vous hand, with unconscious force. 
 
 Dora laughed, and who that heard her girl- 
 ish laugh would have guessed how much 
 strength and how much pride lay within it.- - 
 clear ringing sound ? 
 
 " Are you coming to the drawing-room ? " 
 resumed Mrs. Courtenay ; " poor Miss Moore 
 does prose so when we are alone." 
 
 " I shall join you presently," said Dora, 
 cheerfully, " but I must go down and look at 
 some drawings first. I shall not be long," 
 she added, gayly, on seeing Mrs. Courtenay's 
 blank face. 
 
 She went at once, and on her way down she 
 met that pretty English maid, whose preseuce 
 was, in Mrs. Courtenay's opinion, one of the 
 glories of her daughter's lot. 
 
 Fanny curtsied, and stood by respectfully 
 whilst Miss Courtenay passed. 
 
 " Fanny is very civil and very pretty, and I 
 have not a fault to find with her," thought 
 Dora, looking at the girl's blooming face and 
 smiling blue eyes ; " but I suppose I am hard 
 to please, for I do not like Fanny, and would 
 rather be without her." 
 
 Mr. Templemore, before leaving, had placed 
 his library at Dora's disposal, and she had 
 spent some pleasant hours with its silent ten- 
 ants. But now she was not inclined for a 
 book, she wanted something more vivid, some- 
 thing to charm the eye as well as to feed the 
 mind, and she found it in one of Mr. Temple- 
 "j more's many portfolios. The hours Dora 
 spent thus were very hippy hours in their 
 way. Surrounded by mementoes of Mr. Tern-
 
 1'28 
 
 DORA. 
 
 plemore, she could not help thinking of him 
 now and then ; but the old illusions, the old 
 friendship even, she forgot, or thought that 
 she did forget. She might be mistaken. Her 
 self-subjection was not, perhaps, so complete 
 as she imagined it to be — but she was far too 
 proud to be unhappy. 
 
 Perhaps love does not makes its victims so 
 very wretched, after all. Perhaps it is rather 
 a state of mild and bearable suffering than 
 one of distracting pain. There are many rea- 
 sons why the patient's pangs should be con- 
 cealed ; and when they are revealed, it is gen- 
 erally because they have become intolerable. 
 It is then that the world sees despair, and the 
 agony of grief, and draws its hasty conclu- 
 sions concerning the tragic nature of love. 
 "We may be sure there are many calm lulls to 
 that sorrow, many hours when it is forgotten, 
 and life and its blessings are prized in their 
 fulness. Love in itself can never be a curse ; 
 though it may be in love's destiny, and no 
 doubt is to lead to some of the sharpest tor- 
 ments which a human being can experience. 
 But when there is and can be no hope, there 
 can be no acute suffering, and so it was with 
 Dora. So she now lingered over a view of 
 Tompeii, and as she looked at the lone and 
 desolate streets and roofless houses, and lis- 
 tened to the stormy wind blowing around Les 
 Roches, she thought how time with the same 
 resistless force had swept away man and his 
 generations from the (lend city. " Yes," she 
 eaid-to her own thoughts, " we are before that 
 mighty conqueror as dried leaves on the path 
 of a strong gust, and surely it is impossible to 
 think of these things, and indulge in vain il- 
 lusions or dangerous reverie." 
 
 Dora felt very calm just then, full of phi- 
 losophy and of that wisdom which comes 
 from thought, and has not stood the test of 
 experience. The wind was strong, as we said, 
 and it did not let her hear the wheels of a 
 carriage on the gravelled path outside. She 
 
 did not hear unaccustomed sounds in the 
 house at that hour, she heard nothing till the 
 door of the room in which she sat opened, 
 and Mrs. Luan stood before her. 
 
 " Aunt ! " cried Dora, starting to her feet in 
 much surprise. " Is it really you ?— are you 
 really come ? " 
 
 " Yes," replied Mrs. Luan, nodding ; " Mr. 
 Templemore asked me. He knew it would 
 please you, he said." 
 
 " How kind ! " exclaimed Dora in glad sur- 
 prise. " Do you stay long, aunt ? Is John 
 coming ? " 
 
 "No," shortly replied Mrs. Luan. "Mr. 
 Templemore did not ask him." 
 
 " Of course not," said Dora with a gay 
 laugh ; " but he could go to Madame Ber- 
 trand, you know, and I long to see John 
 again." 
 
 "And Mr. Templemore," said her aunt, 
 " when is he coming ? " 
 
 " Really, aunt, I don't know ; " and her 
 face, bright as sunshine, seemed to Jidd, 
 " Really, I don't care." 
 
 Mrs. Luan's brain was not a clear one. A 
 dreadful fear now seized her. Had Dora's 
 heart turned the wrong way? She gave her 
 so strange and moody a look, that her niece 
 was startled. 
 
 "Aunt, what is it?" 
 
 " Xothing, but I wish I had not lost the let- 
 ter — Mr. Templemore's letter ; it was beauti- 
 ful — and all about you." 
 
 Dora's deep blush did not speak much in 
 favor of poor John ; and Mrs. Luan, whom 
 her one idea could render clear-sighted, read 
 its meaning. 
 
 " I must go and see Miss Moore now," she 
 said, prudently leaving Dora to the powerful 
 auxiliary of her own thoughts. " Will you 
 come ? " 
 
 "When I have put away this portfolio," 
 answered Dora. 
 
 But she did not follow her aunt at once.
 
 INDIGNATION OF DORA'S AUNT. 
 
 129 
 
 She stood with a smile on her lips, and a 
 happy light in her eyes, forgetting the easy 
 wisdom of five minutes back. Ah ! what a 
 thing is the present moment, that subtle por- 
 tion of time which is either past or future, 
 and which is gone before we can say 'tis here. 
 In vaiu Dora had read and looked. Neither 
 book nor picture now gave her their lesson, or 
 yielded her their homily. In vain they had 
 told her how generations had come and gone, 
 how creeds had changed, how the sun of some 
 nations had set in the darkness of an eternal 
 nisrht, and that of other nations had arisen 
 and reached its meridian glorious and splen- 
 did — there was something stronger than it all 
 in the heart of the dreaming girl. 
 
 " What could there be in that lost letter ? " 
 she thought, as she closed the door of the 
 study behind her. 
 
 She stood in the darkness of a narrow pas- 
 sage, but thence she could see the square 
 stone hall brightly lit, and the broad staircase. 
 Suddenly the front door opened, and Jacques, 
 the servant, showed in a tall handsome young 
 man. For one moment Dora remained amazed 
 and mute, the next she eagerly came forward. 
 
 " John ! " she said, joyfully ; " John Luan ! " 
 
 He turned round quickly and took her ex- 
 tended band, and looked at her with a happy, 
 beaming face. 
 
 " God bless you ! " he said ; then he added, 
 "you are as pretty as ever." 
 
 "Of course I am," gayly answered Dora. 
 "But what a cheat aunt is to say you were 
 not coming ! " 
 
 John Luan changed color, and looked so- 
 bered at once. 
 
 " Is my mother here ? " he asked. 
 
 " She has just arrived, and is up-stairs with 
 mamma and Miss Moore. Did you not travel 
 together ? " 
 
 "No," sulkily replied John. Before Dora 
 could make any comment, a door above open- 
 ed, and Mrs. Luan, who had probably heard 
 
 her son's voice, appeared at the head of the 
 staircase. 
 
 There was a moment's silence, and during 
 that interval, brief though it was, Dora saw 
 and guessed much. She saw the brightness 
 which her aspect had called up pass away 
 from John's face, and a strange sullen like- 
 ness to his mother appear there in its stead — 
 a likeness which grew deeper and stronger as 
 Mrs. Luan and he exchanged looks. She saw 
 this, and she guessed that mother and son 
 had deceived each other ; though how far the 
 deceit had been carried — how John had said 
 he was going to Scotland, and Mrs. Luan that 
 she was going to Dublin ; how John had come 
 to ask her to become his wife, and Mrs. Luan 
 to prevent her from consenting; and, above 
 all, how she had come to Les Roches without 
 the slightest invitation from its master, Dora 
 could not divine. She had always thought 
 that the Obstacle to John's suit rested with 
 herself; she had never suspected that it lay 
 with Mrs. Luan. 
 
 " And did each of you not know that the 
 other was coming ? " she could not help ex- 
 claiming. 
 
 " Come, come, I see we have caught and 
 surprised you," gayly replied John Luan, re- 
 covering his composure. " And is aunt caught 
 too ! Where is aunt ? " 
 
 " Why, John, I thought you were in Scot- 
 Iand!" exclaimed Mrs. Courtenay's voice up- 
 stairs ; " what a shame of Mrs. Luan to im- 
 pose upon me so ! " 
 
 John laughed, and went up to Mrs. Cour- 
 t-nay, who, in the same breath, introduced 
 him to Mi.-'s Moore, and informed him that he 
 would be delighted at Madame Bertrand's, 
 who was the dearest old thing, an 1 would 
 take such care of him. John's reply concern- 
 in -r the shortness of his stay, and the advan- 
 tages of hotels, did not reach Dorn. Sh 
 not believe that this was a concerted plan be- 
 tween John and his mother, and she stood
 
 130 
 
 DORA. 
 
 amazed and perplexed at the foot of the stair- 
 case, with her hand on the banisters, and her 
 eyes downcast. On looking up, at length, she 
 Baw Mrs. Luan standing alone, almost in the 
 same attitude as herself. Dora looked at her 
 steadily as she went up the staircase ; but Mrs. 
 Luan never moved nor raised her sullen eyes. 
 " How moody she looks ! " thought Dora. 
 
 "Aunt," she said, on reaching her, and 
 gently touching her hand as she spoke, " why 
 did not John tell you he was coming ? — and 
 why also did you not tell him ? " 
 
 Mrs. Luan looked up, and there was a con- 
 fusion in her gaze which did not seem to come 
 from Dora's question — the confusion of a dull 
 mind, to which even light and clear matters 
 appear perplexed and strange. 
 
 " He can't stay," was her only answer ; " he 
 can't afford it, you know." 
 
 There was nothing else to be got from her. 
 Dora saw it, and thought, "Poor John, he 
 came to see me, and his mother tells me he 
 cannot afford to marry; as if I did not know 
 it — and as if I wanted him ! " This much she 
 understood — this much and no more. 
 
 It was quite true that John could not stay ; 
 his time was not his own — he too said so. 
 He was very full of his prospects, for he 
 had been promised an appointment of a 
 hundred a year, which he seemed to con- 
 sider a small fortune. He was to be the 
 medical attendant of a wonderful society 
 for the improvement, or the benefit, or the 
 perplexity of young women ; he was to have 
 a cottage and a garden, and plenty of time, 
 for the young women were only to be invalids 
 when they could not help it ; so that, as every 
 one else in the neighborhood was, on the con- 
 trary, to be in delicate health, Doctor John' 
 Luan would enjoy every opportunity of estab- 
 lishing a large practice, and of earning a 
 handsome income. He seemed so sure of 
 
 • :il this, he In 1I..1I . h.ni :.,::, ■ v.Iih his 
 blue eyes and bis florid complexion, there 
 
 was something so young and yet so per- 
 fectly manly about him, that Miss Moore, 
 spite Dora's reserved manner, had no doubt 
 but John Luan was a favored admirer. How 
 could he be otherwise ? Surely Miss Courtenay 
 never thought she could do better ! 
 
 Some vague suspicion of the same kind 
 lurked in Mrs. Luan's mind. Either she was 
 not quite convinced of Dora's secret liking 
 for Mr. Templemore, or she doubted its depth 
 and durability, for she never left her son's 
 side. But spite all her watching, John found 
 means to see Dora alone. He would not 
 mind her gravity, or read its meaning. He 
 knew she did not love him, for love gives 
 keenness even to the dull ; but John was not 
 exacting or romantic; let Dora marry him, 
 or promise to marry him some day, and he 
 was content. He was matter-of-fact in love, 
 as in most things, and considered that to have 
 the woman he was fond off, was the great 
 point in matrimony. "The rest will come 
 with time," was his philosophic conclusion. 
 And as he meant to be kind, affectionate, 
 and devoted, he may be excused if he was 
 also easily satisfied. 
 
 " I wish I could like him," thought Dora, 
 who knew better than John himself how good, 
 how kind, how true was her cousin. But she 
 could not, it was not in her power, and never 
 had lover's wooing less chance of success 
 than John Luan's, when he suddenly came 
 upon her the next morning in the garden. 
 The day was mild and gray. One of the 
 last days^of winter, with something of spring 
 softness in the air. John found Dora in the 
 flower-garden, near the house, with Eva 
 trundling her hoop. Mrs. Luan, unconscious 
 of her danger, was in the dining-room at the 
 other end of the chateau. 
 
 Dora availed herself of the opportunity to 
 urge on John a matter which had long lurked 
 in her mind, and which the preceding day's 
 occurrence had brought back very forcibly. '
 
 HIS PROPOSAL OF MARRIAGE. 
 
 131 
 
 " John," she said, " how has aunt been 
 whilst she was with you ? " 
 
 John stared, for his mother enjoyed perfect 
 health. 
 
 " Why, well, of course," he answered. 
 
 Dora hesitated. 
 
 " You were never struck with anything ? " 
 she asked. 
 
 " Struck with what ? " 
 
 " With any oddity or peculiarity ? " 
 
 John stared again. His mother had always 
 been peculiar. 
 
 " In short," said Dora, with a strong effort, 
 " you have no fear that her mind is at all 
 affected ? " 
 
 If John could have been angry with Dora, 
 he would have been angry then. He was so 
 indignant, and so much pained, too, that his 
 cousin stammered an excuse. This pacified 
 him at once. 
 
 " You must think nothing of the kind," he 
 said, good-humoredly ; "and you must listen 
 to what I have to say, please. I have liked 
 you all my life. • Whilst you had money I 
 was silent. We are both poor — I can speak. 
 You know my position. I can afford to marry 
 now. Will you share my lot ? " 
 
 " No, John, thank you," replied Dora, with 
 a grave smile. " I like you dearly, but not 
 as I should like you for that." 
 
 But John, who had expected this, would 
 not be disheartened, and he said so. 
 
 " No, Dora, I will not take your denial. I 
 have thought of it years, and I am sure I 
 could make you happy — very bappx ! I knew 
 you would say no, but I believea, and still 
 believe, that you will end by saying yes ! " 
 
 He spoke resolutely, and Dora looked at 
 him in perplexity. Was John a prophet? 
 Was she really to conquer the present so far 
 as to become, some day, the wife of the good- 
 humored friend and cousin she now gazed on ? 
 The prospect almost appalled her. Yet it 
 might be. She, too, might — like many a girl 
 
 before her — reject her first lover, then turn 
 back to him, and be glad of the refuge of that 
 true, faithful heart. But integrity would not 
 allow her to indulge John Luan in an illusion 
 which, whilst it bound him, would leave her 
 free, and she said so. 
 
 " And what need you care if I do not mind 
 it ? " he answered, impatiently. " I tell you 
 stranger things than this have come to pass. 
 Just tell me if it be not strange that you, Mr. 
 Courtenay's niece, and Paul Courtenay's sister, 
 should now be governess to Mr. Templemore's 
 child ? Did you not detest the man's name ? 
 Did you not always vow that, if poverty struck 
 you, you would be a seamstress, and not a de- 
 pendant in a rich man's house ? And yet here 
 you are, to all seeming pleased and happy in 
 your position. According to your account, Mr. 
 Templemore is white as snow, and we were to 
 blame — not he. That little girl dotes on you, 
 and you dote on her, and you look very happy 
 and contented — all of which, if I did not see 
 it, I should deem incredible. Yet so it is. 
 Why, then, tell me that I must not hope ? " 
 
 Dora, who had turned red and pale repeat- 
 edly whilst he spoke, felt silenced by his blunt 
 and not unreasonable argument. Yet she ven- 
 tured on one objection. 
 
 " I am happy here, as you say, John ; and 
 as my task is one which will take years, why 
 should I leave it ? " 
 
 " It is a long lane that has no turning ! " re- 
 plied John, a little sulkily. 
 
 Again Dora felt silenced, and Eva, by coming 
 up, and leaving her governess no more, did 
 not allow either to renew the subject. John, 
 indeed, no more cared to speak further than 
 Dora to hear him. He had said his say, and 
 not being an eloquent man, he could add 
 nothing to his blunt wooing. It satisfied him 
 that Dora should know he loved her, and 
 wished to marry her. The rest would come. 
 Her rejection he would not consider as final. 
 He was his mother's son in many things — in
 
 132 
 
 DORA. 
 
 obstinacy, not to say stubbornness, as well as 
 in abrupt, inelegant speech. And Dora would 
 rather not pursue a theme which ' grated on 
 her ear like a discordant note in music. She 
 thought highly of her cousin, she was sure of 
 his affection, but she also felt that to be loved 
 thus could never make her happy. She re- 
 quired that something more which, to exact- 
 ing youth, is like the crown of love, the grace, 
 the poetry, the touch of romance, which mast 
 exist, whether they be merely in a girl's feel- 
 ings, or really in the man she loves. 
 
 John could waken no admiration, no en- 
 thusiasm in her heart ; he appealed to none of 
 these faculties which attend on every strong 
 feeling, and deepen its intensity, or add to its 
 force. He was plain John Luan to her, and 
 with a sigh Dora felt he must remain so ; her 
 cousin, her early friend, but no more. She 
 had felt almost certain of it before he spoke — 
 she was sure without a doubt now that he had 
 spoken. The man who, in so deep and urgent 
 a matter, could find no more persuasive ac- 
 cents than poor John had found to plead his 
 cause, could never rule her heart. The fault 
 might be hers, but the fact remained, and it 
 was clear and strong, and not to be disputed 
 or resisted. 
 
 With such feelings upon her, Dora welcomed 
 the child's presence as a Godsend ; she was 
 glad even when Mrs. Luan came down. That 
 lady, indeed, looked confounded on seeing her 
 son with Dora, but on perceiving that Eva 
 was with them too, her brow cleared ; nothing 
 could have taken place, and lest anything 
 should take place she left them no -more. 
 Her task of watchfulness was soon over. 
 John went away that same afternoon, and he 
 bade Dora adieu in Les Roches, and his 
 mother accompani..! him to the station, and 
 came bach looking sulkily triumphant, as was 
 her wonl whenever she had achieved some 
 little success. 
 
 There is always something momentous to a 
 
 young girl in an offer of marriage, whatever 
 may be her feelings toward the man by whom 
 it has been made. It almost always marks a 
 crisis in the story of her life ; it is an epoch in 
 her youth, toward which she looks back some- 
 times with amusement, sometimes, too, with 
 regret, but which she cannot well forget. In 
 vain Dora had known for years that she was 
 dear to John Luan's heart, in vain her only 
 source of wonder was that he had taken so 
 long to speak, in vain too his wooing had 
 been both plain and brief, something of that 
 wooing, such as it was, remained behind him 
 when he was gone, and made Les Roches 
 seem cold and dull. She did not repent her 
 refusal, she could not believe she ever should 
 regret it, and yet she felt that one of her 
 chances of happiness as a woman was gone. 
 John Luan was not the right one, but it is not 
 always the right one who comes in life, he 
 often goes elsewhere or he dies early, or lives 
 unwedded, or has a wife anfl three children 
 when one sees him first; in short, even a 
 beauty has and can have but a certain amount 
 of lovers, and even a beauty must make up 
 her mind to the sad and unpleasant fact that 
 amongst- these the right one may never be. 
 Some secret voice told Dora this, and though 
 she was too brave and proud to fear the lone- 
 ly life which would probably be her lot, she 
 was too honest not to feel that if she could so 
 far have conquered her feelings it might have 
 been well for her to have become John Luan's 
 wife. 
 
 Some gJgvity, therefore, appeared on her 
 countenance, and Mrs. Luan, unaccustomed 
 to see such a sign there, grew uneasy, and 
 watched her niece both closely and stealthily. 
 But if Dora spoke less than usual on the day 
 that followed John Luan's departure — if she 
 looked, as she was, abstracted and thoughtful, 
 the little cloud soon passed away, the bright- 
 ness returned, the happy, smiling eyes got back 
 their light, and the rosy cheek its bloom.
 
 RETURN OF EVA'S FATHER. 
 
 133 
 
 " My dear, how well you look ! " Mrs. Cour- 
 tenay said, admiringly. 
 
 "Because I am well," was the gay reply — 
 " well and happy." 
 
 She felt so well aud so light, that she won- 
 dered at it herself, and never guessed the cause. 
 There is a great, a powerful renovator, who 
 visits us every year, giving back to the old the 
 dreams of youth, and to the young sweet and 
 restless illusions — one whose breath clears the 
 sullen winter sky, whose steps cover the green 
 earth with flowers, whose mere aspect is as the 
 beauty of lost paradise — Spring, the youth of 
 nature, the divine messenger of love, the en- 
 chanting promise of joys that never come in 
 their fulness. It was not in Dora's power to 
 resist the voice of this sweet deluder. He 
 came one day in a soft shower, and birds be- 
 gan to sing, and buds broke forth into foliage 
 on the boughs. Violets blushed in the shade, 
 cowslips and primroses followed the cold-look- 
 ing snowdrop. The gardener let in the sun 
 to the fair captives in the green-house, and 
 every thing about Les Roches looked sweet 
 and enchanting. 
 
 If the little world around Mr. Templemore's 
 chateau was restricted in extent, it was full of 
 beauty. A narrow but pleasant river flowed 
 through it with a soft murmur, tall trees grew 
 on its banks, and bent over it with sylvan 
 grace ; reeds, grasses abounded there. Farther 
 on a path wound in the shade, and here, near 
 the rocks and the waterfall, was the spot which 
 Dora loved. The little green reces.?, with 
 many a tangled weed, and many a trailing ivy- 
 bough, in which stood the stone bench, old 
 and gray. A hundred years and more had that 
 bench stood there. It had seen the ancien 
 regime, _ and gay gentlemen, and powdered 
 ladies, with long trailing silk skirts; it had 
 heard the love-making of two or three genera- 
 tions. Mademoiselle Scudery's Clelie had been 
 forgotten upon it, then Florian's pastorals, then 
 the grim Moniteur of the stern Republic and 
 
 Napoleonic bulletins of wonderful victories. 
 And, ancient though it was, its days were not 
 numbered yet. More love, more reading, more 
 pleasant or fond converse it was yet to know, 
 whilst the trees gave it their shade, and parted 
 in a bright view of the sunlit chateau on its 
 airy height. 
 
 On the bench Dora and Eva sat, tired with 
 wandering, one delicious afternoon. The child 
 rolled herself up in a ball, and leaned against 
 her young governess. She looked at the cha- 
 teau through half-shut eyes, and talked in the 
 dreamy, rambling fashion of imaginative chil- 
 dren. Dora heard, but did not listen. Now 
 and then, indeed, she caught something about 
 Fanny, and Jacques, and Minna, all mingling 
 together in strange confusion, but her thoughts 
 were far away. This spring day had sent her 
 back to other springs already lost and gone, 
 young though she still was, and their pale 
 spectres and faded verdure came back to her 
 with mingled joy and sorrow in their as- 
 pect. 
 
 " Oh ! if one could forget ! " she thought, 
 with something like passion — "if one could 
 but forget ! " 
 
 A cry and a bound from Eva roused her. 
 She started, and looking up, saw the child in 
 her father's arms. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIV. 
 
 Dora was surprised, and scarcely felt more 
 than surprise. Perhaps the image of Paul 
 had been too recently with her for Paul's sis- 
 ter to forget at once that this was her lost 
 brother's rival. Perhaps absence and time 
 had not been ineffectual. With something 
 like triumph she returned Mr. Templemore's 
 greeting, and thought, as she looked at him, 
 aud felt her own coldnes?, 
 
 " I am cured ! — I am well ! " 
 
 " How well you both look ! " he said, glan- 
 cing from her to Eva.
 
 134 
 
 DORA. 
 
 " And I know so many things ! " cried Eva, 
 ardently. 
 
 " Do you ?— well, I hope your temper is 
 improved." 
 
 " But Eva has a very good temper," seriously 
 said Dora. 
 
 He did not reply, but looked at Eva, who 
 shook her curls, and seemed unconscious, as 
 children can seem when it suits their purpose, 
 this being one of those weapons of defence 
 with which we are all provided, from the beetle 
 upward. Once more Mr. Templemore be- 
 stowed his attention upon Dora ; he was full 
 of courteous inquiries, and still rejoicing at 
 her calmness, and thinking, " Is it so ? — is it 
 really so soon over ? " she heard him with 
 grateful composure. Little did Dora suspect 
 that Mr. Templemore was full of resentment 
 and wonder, in which she had some slight 
 share. Mrs. Luan happened to be the first 
 person he" had seen on entering Les Roches. 
 He found her established in his house as a 
 guest. Had she come self-invited ? It seemed 
 unlikely. Miss Moore disliked her — he knew 
 it. Had Dora — had Mrs. Courtenay taken so 
 great a liberty ? He did not wish to question, 
 still less to make Mrs. Luan feel that she was 
 no welcome visitor. She was a low-browed, 
 sulky woman, but she was Dora's aunt, and 
 the late Mrs. Courtenay's sister, and for a 
 while, at least, he must endure this unbidden 
 guest, and unless chance favored him, not even 
 know through whom she had been forced 
 upon him. But this was not Mr. Temple- 
 more's only cause of annoyance. Miss Moore 
 had written to him and told him of John 
 Luan's visit, and, according to her account, 
 the young man was a poor but favored ad- 
 mirer. Was he therefore threatened with 
 losing his governess, just when he felt' least 
 inclined to part with her ? Of this, too, Mr. 
 Templemore betrayed nothing. He spoke 
 very pleasantly, as was his wont, and gave 
 Dora some good news — there was a chance 
 
 of the 'Redmore Mines paying dividends 
 again. 
 
 " It is only a chance," he added, smiling ; 
 " but even a chance of money has something 
 golden and pleasant about it." 
 
 They parted on reaching the house. Dora 
 went up to her room, and found her mother 
 waiting for her. 
 
 " Well ? " she said, excitedly. 
 
 " There is a chance of the Redmore Mines 
 paying dividends." 
 
 "Is there? — how nice! And Mr. Temple- 
 more ? " 
 
 " He is coming to the school-room this even- 
 ing, to see how Eva has got on." 
 
 And as she said this, Dora's grave look, 
 added so plainly, " I am the governess, you 
 know," that her mother's face fell a little, 
 spite the news of the Redmore Mines. " Yes, 
 I am the governess," thought Dora, as she sat 
 with Eva in the school-room, waiting for Mr. 
 Templemore ; " let us hope my patron will be 
 satisfied." 
 
 The evening was mild, the window was 
 open, and through it the eye caught a dark 
 glimpse of the flower-garden, and beyond it 
 of the trees by which it was enclosed. The 
 scent -of a bed of wall-flowers rose strongly on 
 the air, and a long silver streak of moonlight 
 came into the room, and fell on that part of 
 the floor which the light of the lamp did not 
 reach. 
 
 " There's papa ! " cried Eva, joyously ; " I 
 smell his cigar. Now, what will you question 
 me in ? " she added, eagerly, as Mr. Temple- 
 more entered the room ; " history, geogra- 
 phy-" 
 
 " You overpower mc," he interrupted ; " I 
 am not learned, you know." 
 
 " I am," declared Eva, shaking her dark 
 curls. 
 
 " Then I think I shall take you upon trust. 
 It will spare us both trouble." 
 
 Eva looked so disappointed, that Mr.,Temple-
 
 AN INTERVIEW WITH MRS. LUAN. 
 
 135 
 
 more relented, asked to know the date of the 
 Norman invasion, and had half a dozen centu- 
 ries added to it by his little daughter. lie 
 laughed, but Dora blushed, and uttered a re- 
 proachful " Eva ! " 
 
 " Dear Miss Courtenay, that is nothing," he 
 said, gayly ; " I consider dates a trifle in his- 
 tory. But, alas ! for facts, who can get hold 
 of them ? I was reading about the gunpow- 
 der plot the other day. Well, it seems that 
 yise King Jamie and his minister, Sir Edward 
 Coke, took the trouble to garble and alter the 
 written confessions of that wretched Guy 
 Fawkes and his accomplices with their own 
 royal and ministerial hands, and that account, 
 thus altered, they published to the world, who 
 was allowed to have none other. It is de- 
 plorably hard to get a true thing, and not 
 more so in history than in anything else. I 
 am not fond of snuff, but if I were, what 
 should I feel on learning that guano is sold 
 for it in London ? The king and the trades- 
 man are cheats, both of them, and what are 
 we poor customers and students to do ? " 
 
 But Eva did not like all this. " Do ques- 
 tion me, papa," she urged ; " I know geog- 
 raphy — " 
 
 " No, I will have nothing to do with that. I 
 am in the carping mood — let us stick to plain 
 English, and try and not wander thence." 
 
 Accordingly, an examination beginning with 
 the parts of speech, and ending with syntax, 
 took place. It proved highly satisfactory. 
 
 "So far the child is all right, thanks to 
 you, Miss Courtenay," said Mr. Templemore ; 
 " but," he added, with a sigh, " how shall we 
 guard her against the perils of choice elocu- 
 tion on the one hand, or the equal dangers of 
 slang on the other? I mean as she grows up 
 to the critical age when maidens have to steer 
 between this Charybdis and that Scylla. We 
 must trust her to Providence, I s.uppose — 
 poor little Eva ! how she stares, unconscious 
 of the snares lying before her ! There, child, 
 
 that will do — go to bed and sleep — go to bed 
 and sleep." 
 
 But he had to hear Eva's waltz, to praise it, 
 to thank Dora, and pay her some compliments 
 before he left. He went, though it was early 
 yet; but of course he could not spend his 
 evening with her. Yet it seemed hard he 
 should go so early. Doctor Richard used to 
 stay till it was eleven, and not think it late. 
 " But then I was not the governess," thought 
 Dora. 
 
 Yes, that was it — her position was changed, 
 and, with all his courtesy, Mr. Templemore 
 could not treat his daughter's governess as he 
 had treated Miss Courtenay 5 he could not, in 
 justice to her, spend a whole evening in the 
 school-room, and indulge in her society, much 
 as he liked it. The world and its laws and 
 proprieties divided them not merely then and 
 thus, but at every other time and in every 
 other way. At the same time, if he left her 
 thus early, it was to take an active interest in 
 her welfare, which Dora would scarcely have 
 appreciated had she known of it. 
 
 Mr. Templemore wanted to speak to Mrs. 
 Luan about her son, and he had asked her to 
 meet him in his study. She came, as stolid- 
 looking as ever. Mr. Templemore declared 
 his purpose at once. 
 
 " My dear madam," he said, kindly, " you 
 must excuse my troubling you at so undue an 
 hour, but I greatly wish to speak to you on a 
 subject which interests us both. Is there not 
 an attachment between your son and Miss 
 Courtenay ? If so, I shall only feel too happy 
 to favor it by forwarding his views in life. 
 Might I not, through my influence here with 
 some of the companies in which I am a large 
 shareholder, for instance, procure him some 
 appointment which would enable him to 
 marry?" 
 
 Mrs. Luan had listened to him thus far in 
 mute consternation at this strange perv. 
 of all her plans ; but when she heard the omi-
 
 13G 
 
 DORA. 
 
 nous word '■ many," all her suppressed anger 
 and fear broke forth. 
 
 "No, no I " she cried, aghast at the danger, 
 "there is no attachment; and, please, you 
 must not do that— you must not '. " 
 
 ••I hope I have not distressed you?" he 
 said, gravely. 
 
 •• Xo, no ; but you must nc 
 
 She was less excited, but still much moved. 
 Mr. Templemore looked at her quietly, though 
 keenlv. " It is that sullen, stupid woman who 
 opposes the marriage," he thought. But he 
 -ilenced, and only renewed his apologies 
 at his interference. Mrs. Loan heard him 
 lien rose to go. When she stood at the 
 door she paused and looked back. 
 
 " John must not come any more," she said. 
 •• You will not bring him, will you "r " 
 
 ■• Certainly not," he replied ; and he thought 
 — -What an idiot'. " 
 
 Alas ! how often we fling on others that re- 
 proach of folly ; and if we but knew the 
 truth, and read the future, how often we 
 should be mute. 
 
 He had spoken gravely and positively, yet 
 Mrs. Luan was disturbed. She did not want 
 John to marry her niece. Xo appointment 
 could reconcile her to the fact of Dora's penni- 
 less condition. If John got a good appoint- 
 ment, why, he should also get a wife with 
 money, and not take one without it. So there 
 was a heavier cloud of sulkiness on her brow 
 than usually sat there when she went up to 
 the drawing-room. She found Mrs. Courtenay 
 seated before a table, with cards spread before 
 her. Patience, rather neglected of late, had 
 resumed its attractions on Mr. Templemore's 
 return. She nodded significantlv to Mrs. 
 Luan, and said, with a profound assumption 
 of mystery, 
 
 • I did it three times — for a wish — and 
 three times I succeeds 
 
 . Luan did not answer, perhaps she did 
 not even hear her. She had a magic more 
 
 certain than that of her credulous little sister- 
 in-law, and she could rely upon it. 
 
 There is many a happy lull in the affairs 
 of men ; days follow Jays in delicious monot- 
 ony, and one is so like the other, that, look- 
 ing back upon them, they lose their separate 
 existence, and blend in one calm image of the 
 past. But of these serene intervals, history, 
 public or private, can take no account, and it 
 is a pity. For hence springs a strange look 
 of unreality. Catastrophe comes quick on 
 catastrophe. Empires seem to perish faster 
 than we can read of their destruction, mighty 
 revolutions are accomplished before we well 
 know whence they sprang, and battle suc- 
 ceeds battle, till we grow callous, and read 
 of thousands killed with happy equanimity. 
 
 In the history which deals with one human 
 life we have the same effects and the same 
 results. Existence there seems made up of 
 keen sufferings or ecstatic joys ; the medium 
 world, in which even the most fortunate or 
 the least happy must move now and then, 
 vanishes from our view, lost in the dark shade 
 or the strong light of the picture. It is so, 
 and we cannot help it. The subtleness of 
 daily life eludes us ; its evanescent charm is 
 one we never can secure in its fulness. 
 Glimpses we may have ; but glimpses are not 
 the whole truth, that is beyond our reach, and 
 ever remains thus, divine and unapproachable. 
 
 There came a great repose over Dora Ccitr- 
 tenay's life about this time. It lasted one 
 week — no more, but it was sweet, and she 
 never forgot it. She saw little of Mr. Temple- 
 more, but that little sufficed her. His friend- 
 ly and open manner, that said so plainly, 
 " Friends we are — friend, and no more," did 
 her good. It made her feel brave and strong, 
 and at the same time secure in her strength. 
 His society, also, broke on the dulness of her 
 life. It gave food to thought, and yet it 
 nursed up no fond and dangerous illusions. 
 
 "I know this will not last," she often
 
 THE INTENDED MARRIAGE. 
 
 137 
 
 thought, " I know some change must come ; 
 but whilst it lasts I feel happy — is not that 
 much •'. " ' 
 
 It was much indeed, very much ; but the 
 change, however, came more quickly than 
 Dora had expected. 
 
 Mr. Templemore had joined her on§ even- 
 ing in the garden. He never did so, and 
 though Eva was with him, Dora felt intuitive- 
 ly that he had something particular to say. 
 If such was the case, he began very wide the 
 mark. 
 
 " Miss Courtenay," he said very gravely, 
 "has it ever occurred to you to regret not 
 having been born in antediluvian times ? " 
 
 •■Never,'' replied Dora, smiling, and she 
 thought " he has nothing to say, after all ; he 
 is only going to indulge in one of his usual 
 flights of fancy. " 
 
 '• Then let me inform you that I bitterly 
 regret belonging to these degenerate days," 
 resumed Mr. Templemore. "Now, do con- 
 sider, Miss Courtenay, what delightful crea- 
 tures there were fomerly : lizards thirty feet 
 long or so. Everything was on so grand a 
 scale then ! Think how entertaining it would 
 be to see that light and graceful bird, the 
 Epiornis, pick up a live crocodile and fly off 
 with it ! Such grand battles on land and sea 
 there must have been, too. We have lost all 
 that now." 
 
 " Thank Heaven ! " 
 
 "No — no, I must convert you; Eva, run 
 and get me the paper on the table in my 
 study. I must show Miss Courtenay a draw- 
 ing of the Epiornis." 
 
 Eva went readily, and Dora, looking at Mr. 
 Templemore, thought : 
 
 "Now he is going to say it." 
 
 And she was right — he began at once. 
 
 " Dear Mi;s Courtenay, I have sent away 
 Eva because I wish to say a few words to you 
 out of her hearing. To begin at the very 
 uning: I am going to get married." 
 
 Dora felt stunned. She had suspected I 
 she had felt it coming on all along, and yet 
 when it came it found her helpless. All her 
 strength, all her bravery, yielded to that blow, 
 and there ran through her such a thrill of 
 pain that it made her turn sick and cold. 
 
 " I have been engaged for the last year," 
 continued Mr. Templemore, " and I am almcit 
 ashamed to say that Eva has delayed my mar- 
 riage all that time. She was very, very deli- 
 cate then, and she took so violent a dislike, 
 founded on jealousy, to the lady I was going 
 to marry, that her health was endangered. 
 Since then I have tried to conquer her un- 
 reasonable aversion — I have always failed; 
 but she is strong and well now. I neither 
 can nor will sacrifice my happiness, and that 
 of another dearer by far than my own, to the 
 caprices of a child. I have for the last half 
 year weaned myself from her society, and 
 accustomed her to live without me, and be 
 happy. I hope that she will learn to bear 
 with what is inevitable, and I must now ask 
 you to use your influence over her, which is 
 great, in order to teach her submission, should 
 she be inclined to rebellion." 
 
 <; I shall do my best," replied Dora, in a 
 low voice. 
 
 Alas ! she too needed that lesson. 
 
 " As yet Eva knows nothing," he resumed ; 
 " she does not know, for instance, that I was 
 to marry Mrs. Logan." 
 
 He went on, but Dora heard no more. 
 Mrs. Logan l-r-it was Florence — Florence 
 Gale, her brother's faithless love, who was 
 to marry her brother's happy rival ! It was 
 she ! Oh ! she could have raised her hands 
 appealingly to heaven, and asked if this was 
 just. She could have done it in the dreary 
 bitterness of that hour. 
 
 He did not perceive her emotion — the \ 
 ness of the evening concealed it from his 
 view. He went on talking, and after awhile 
 Dora heard him again. She returned to that
 
 138 
 
 DORA. 
 
 sense of actual existence which had been sus- 
 pended in her for a few moments. Again she 
 saw the garden, and a starry sky, and again 
 he stood by her, and his voice spoke and told 
 her calmly what it was so hard to hear. 
 
 " Mrs. Logan and I are cousins — rather far 
 removed, indeed, but cousins still. When I 
 came home after my wife's death, I found her 
 at her father's house near Deenah. Her hus- 
 band had just died, and she looked such a 
 child in her weeds. But you know her, Miss 
 Courtenay — I need not tell you what a delight- 
 ful, ingenuous creature she is. Apart from 
 the affection I feel for her, it does me good 
 to be near her. She takes ten years away 
 from me. But I must not trust myself with 
 that subject. Suffice it to say that we met 
 daily, that we became strongly attached, and 
 that but for my perverse little Eva, we should 
 now be married. Mrs. Logan has endured 
 the child's caprices with the patience of an 
 angel ; but I cannot allow this strange state 
 of things to go on any longer, and — we are to 
 be married next month." 
 
 " And what am I to do, Mr. Templemore ? " 
 asked Dora, after awhile. 
 
 " Will you kindly break the news to Eva to- 
 morrow, and tell me how she has borne it ? Not 
 that it will make the least difference," he added, 
 quickly ; " but it will be a great relief to me 
 if the child will only be reasonable and good." 
 
 Dora was silent. She felt too desolate and 
 heart-sick to say a word. 
 
 " You have great influence oyer her," he re- 
 sumed. " Will you kindly use it for this pur- 
 pose, and also to prevent her, if this unfortu- 
 nate dislike still exists, from displaying it to 
 Mrs. Logan when she comes ? " 
 
 " Here ? " abruptly said Dora. 
 
 ''Not here," he answei-ed, "but near here. 
 Her husband, poor fellow, died in a little villa 
 down the road, which he bought two years ago. 
 It was in coming to see Mrs. Logan that I was 
 smitten with Les Roches, and took it on a long 
 
 lease for Eva's sake. It is in order to give her 
 temper one more trial that Mrs. Logan is kind- 
 ly coming. She will stay a month in her villa, 
 then return to Ireland, where we are to be 
 married. I have been preparing Deenah the 
 whole winter, and I trust we shall have the 
 pleasure of seeing you there some day, Miss 
 Courtenay ; but I dare say that my little Eva 
 will have to remain here a long time yet." 
 
 It was plain, though he did not say so, that 
 Mr. Templemore did not expect Eva's dislike 
 of his bride to be conquered at once. But 
 Dora did not think of that. She thought that 
 when he had asked her to become Eva's gov- 
 erness, and given her mother a home, he had 
 never contemplated that these two strangers 
 should intrude on his family circle. Eva's 
 jealousy was the key to the mystery. With 
 Miss Moore to watch over her health, and Dora 
 to educate her, he could marry, be happy with 
 his young wife, and yet not feel that he had 
 sacrificed his child entirely. 
 
 " He will visit Les Roches now and then," 
 she thought, " and see Eva, as he could never 
 see her if she were in a school, for instance ; 
 and when other children are born to him he 
 will care less for her jealousy, and Eva must 
 bear her fate, or be forever an exile from her 
 father's house. Poor Eva ! our case is pretty 
 much alike ! " 
 
 "Where are you? " cried Eva's voice at a 
 little distance. "I cannot see you — and — " 
 
 " I am afraid," suggested her father, going 
 toward her. 
 
 " Allow me to put a question, Mr. Temple- 
 more," said Dora ; " when is Mrs. Logan com- 
 
 ing?" 
 
 " To-morrow," he replied, hastily. " Well, 
 
 Eva, did you find the Epiornis ? " 
 " I did ; but how can you see it ? " 
 "By going in to look at it, of course." 
 They entered the school-room, where a lamp 
 
 was burning with a mild radiance, and Mr. 
 
 Templemore showed the print of the Epiornis
 
 MRS. LOGAN AND EVA. 
 
 139 
 
 to Dora, and again wished he had been born 
 in antediluvian times ; and seemed so happy 
 and so light-hearted, that Dora would have 
 been very blind indeed if she had not known 
 it was because Mrs. Logan was coming the 
 next day. She was not jealous, she had no 
 right? to be jealous, and some natures are too 
 proud to be jealous, but she suffered keenly. 
 If it had been any woman but that one — the 
 false, light mistress of her lost brother ! But 
 it, was she, and Dora must a second time see 
 manly love bestowed on that little bit of pretty 
 flesh and blood, so brainless and so heartless. 
 She must see it. She could not fly from her 
 torment. It would meet her daily and hourly, 
 till they left to get married, and Les Roches 
 returned once more to its dulness and its si- 
 lence. 
 
 All this Dora thought and felt, whilst Mr. 
 Templemore, happy man, went on talking of 
 the Epiornis, and indulging in flights of fancy, 
 which made Eva laugh till she was tired. 
 
 " Poor Eva ! " thought Dora, as she listened 
 to her — " your trouble is yet to come." 
 
 She felt for the child, and when Mr. Temple- 
 more left them at length, she resolved to tell 
 her the news. 
 
 " She will sleep upon it," she thought, " and 
 waken with her grief half spent to-morrow; 
 whereas, if I tell her in the morning, she will 
 fret or sulk all day." 
 
 Accordingly, Eva, instead of going to bed 
 at once, was summoned to her governess's 
 room, and, imwo/ited familiarity, taken on her 
 knee, and pressed to her breast in a tender, 
 though silent embrace. Eva, far from guess- 
 ing that these were tokens of coming calamity, 
 felt delighted — not, to be quite frank, at the 
 unusual fondness she received, but at a long- 
 coveted and long-denied privilege — the en- 
 trance of Cousin Dora's room. How beautiful 
 looked that rather austere apartment to her 
 childish eyes ! The lofty, square bed, the old 
 carved prie-dieu, the Spanish pictures of devo- 
 
 tion, all dimly visible by the light of a lamp 
 placed on the toilet-table, impressed Eva. 
 Through the open window the court, with 
 other windows with lights in them, was partly 
 visible, and in the stillness of the evening the 
 little gurgling voice of the fountain, which 
 household noises covered all day, could be dis- 
 tinctly heard. 
 
 " Eva," began Dora, " I have something to 
 tell you. I have news — good news," she 
 added, with a sigh — " Mrs. Logan is coming 
 to-morrow." 
 
 Eva looked very sulky. 
 
 " She is coming," continued Dora, ignoring 
 that look and its meaning, " and Mr. Temple- 
 more told me this evening that he was going 
 to marry her. I hope you are glad, Eva, for 
 of course this will add to his happiness." 
 
 Eva showed neither grief nor gladness at 
 the tidings, but she looked more sulky than 
 ever. At length the truth came out with an 
 impetuous burst of tears. 
 
 " I hate Mrs. Logan ! " 
 
 " Hush ! " said Dora, severely — " let me 
 never hear such words again." 
 
 Eva stood in great awe of her governess. 
 She did not dare to persist in her declaration 
 of hatred toward Mrs. Logan, but threw her- 
 self back upon weeping. 
 
 " There, there, that will do — I am not so 
 very angry," remarked poor Dora, with a sigh ; 
 " but you must be good, you know, and I shall 
 expect you to behave unexceptionably to Mrs. 
 Logan to-morrow." 
 
 Eva made no promise, and Dora asked for 
 none. She could not in her heart blame Eva 
 for her dislike of Mrs. Logan ; moreover, she 
 knew her power over her pupil, and that she 
 could insure external obedience at least to any 
 reasonable command ; perhaps she scarcely 
 cared to ask for more. This matter being over 
 much more quickly than Dora had expected, 
 she rang for Fanny, gave Eva to her care, and 
 remained alone.
 
 140 
 
 DORA. 
 
 " I suppose there are plenty of women in 
 my case," she thought, with a sigh, "only 
 they do as I do — they keep their secret, and 
 they bear with their fate." 
 
 She sat, as Eva had left her, leaning back 
 in her chair, and listening to the murmur of 
 the fountain below. She felt languid and 
 listless, rather than very wretched ; for, after 
 all, we must endure our sorrows, and fight our 
 battles. We cannot desert that grim captain, 
 Grief, and enlist under other colors. Dora's 
 present mood dealt not so much with Mr. 
 Templemore as with that past which he had 
 so darkly influenced. She thought of Paul, 
 and his lost love, and his early death ; she 
 thought of the light, faithless creature who 
 had urged him on to exertions beyond his 
 strength, then quietly and carelessly put him 
 by. She went over that sad story, and brought 
 to life that buried past, and something between 
 bitterness and sorrow filled her heart as this 
 question rose within her : 
 
 " Why are the prizes of life ever granted to 
 some, and ever denied to others ? " 
 
 Dora Courtenay was in one of those moods 
 when we forget time, and take no account of 
 its course. She sat thus, dreaming very sadly, 
 and very uselessly, when her door opened, and 
 Mrs. Luan entered the room. She locked the 
 door, came up to her niece, and stood before 
 her speechless, but her sallow face inflamed 
 with passion. 
 
 " Dora," she at length stammered, " is it 
 true ?— is it ? " 
 
 " What ? " asked Dora, doubtfully. 
 
 "Is he going to marry her? — that silly 
 black-eyed chit — is he ? " 
 
 "Why, how can you know that?" asked 
 Dora, much startled. 
 
 " You have told Eva— she said it to Fanny 
 — I heard them." 
 
 Dora had sometimes thought that her sullen, 
 Bilent aunt went about the house eavesdrop- 
 ping — she was sure of it now. She blushed 
 
 with displeasure and shame, and could not 
 help exclaiming, 
 
 " Oh ! aunt, how could you do that ? — how 
 could you ? " 
 
 " How dare he tell you ? " asked Mrs. 
 Luan, stamping her feet and clinching her 
 hands in her passion ; " how dare he ? He 
 shall never marry her ! " she added, taking 
 off her cap and flinging it on Dora's bed ; 
 " never ! Do you think I have forgotten how 
 she treated Paul ? I say, he shall never marry 
 her ! " 
 
 As idle as the wind which now rose and 
 swept around the house sounded this threat in 
 Dora's ear. But she shut the window, for her 
 aunt might be heard, and this was surely to 
 be avoided, if it were possible. 
 
 " Dear aunt," she said, soothingly, " what is 
 it to us whom he marries ? Our position here 
 is not changed. She is his cousin, and they 
 have been long attached ; we have no sort of 
 right to object to his choice." 
 
 She spoke kindly, as if Mrs. Luan were a 
 child who required soothing ; and Mrs. Luan 
 let her speak, and neither revolted nor remon- 
 strated. Her useless passion was over, and 
 she was already thinking how to act. Dora 
 easily persuaded her to go to her room, and 
 even accompanied her to the door. " Poor 
 aunt ! " she thought, as she came back to her 
 own apartment ; " even she cannot forget 
 Paul and his wrongs. Ah ! it is hard ! — very 
 hard ! " 
 
 It was hard, and in her prayers that night 
 Dora put up a petition, asking that she might 
 not dwell on the past to the verge of sin. 
 
 Whilst she strove and wished to forget, Mrs. 
 Luan, who, to do her justice, had about as 
 much religion as an atheist — not that she 
 knew it, poor soul ! but her mind was so con- 
 stituted — sat in her room meditating on her 
 plans. Oh ! if Dora — if any one in that house 
 could have known how far these plans of that 
 sullen, silent woman extended ! She had a
 
 THE LITTLE RED-RIDING-HOOD. 
 
 141 
 
 ruthless nature, made for conflict, and stop- 
 ping at nothing that could insure success. She 
 now set herself to rob a woman of her happi- 
 ness, a man of his liberty, and both of peace, 
 as calmly as if she had been a great nation 
 making war on a savage tribe, or annoying a 
 neighbor. With the serenity of the just, she 
 said to herself that hers was a good, a praise- 
 worthy, a rightful course. Was she not saving 
 her s*on from a poor marriage, providing hand- 
 somely for her niece, and giving Mr. Temple- 
 
 i 
 more a good, amiable, and accomplished wife, 
 
 a hundred-fold above that silly Florence Gale, 
 with her black eyes ! True, Mr. Templemore 
 loved the one, and not the other ; but Mrs. 
 Luan knew best what was good for him, and 
 took upon herself the part of Providence, with 
 the calmness of conscious rectitude, and some 
 of the insolence of long impunity. 
 
 What she did, or rather what she resolved 
 to do, as she sat thus alone that evening, 
 brooding over the future, hundreds do daily, 
 and with the same mental hypocrisy. Hear 
 them when-they are detected. Their motives 
 were the loftiest and the purest. They were, 
 or meant to be, benefactors of humanity, and 
 especially of that portion of it which they se- 
 lected for injury. Who of them confesses 
 that greed, ambition, or revenge, was the real 
 motive? Not one. And so, whilst Dora 
 slept, her aunt sat and planned for her good. 
 
 CHAPTER XXV. 
 
 Mrs. Logan arrived whilst Dora was in the 
 garden with Eva and Fido. Miss ft ^re came 
 to them all breathless with the new b. She 
 had been suffering from a secret the whole 
 winter, and her relief w^as commensurate with 
 the past infliction. So whilst Eva trundled 
 her hoop, and looked unconscious, Dora lis- 
 tened patiently to the praises of Florence 
 Gale. 
 
 " The only woman whom I could endure to 
 see in my dear lost sister's place," emphati- 
 cally said Miss Moore, whose regard for Eva's 
 future step-mother was much enhanced by 
 Eva's dislike of her, and the necessity it 
 created of her prolonged guardianship. " And 
 so pretty," she continued ; " you will admire 
 her so, Miss Courtenay." 
 
 " I know Mrs. Logan, and have known her 
 for years," composedly said Dora. 
 
 If she had declared that she was on terms 
 of intimacy with a Royal Highness, Miss 
 Moore could scarcely have looked more amazed 
 than she now did ; but something in Dora's 
 tone sobered her enthusiasm, for after awhile 
 she left Eva's governess to her own thoughts. 
 
 Eva still looked unconscious — perhaps she 
 had not minded her aunt's discourse; perhaps 
 she wished to forget all about Mrs. Logau. 
 
 " This is a wood, you know, Cousin Dora," 
 she said, as they entered the shady part of 
 the grounds; "and suppose I am little Red- 
 riding-Hood, going off to grandmamma's cot- 
 tage, you know ; and suppose the wolf is there 
 before me, and you are not here, Cousin Dora, 
 or if you are, why, you are a lady walking in 
 a wood, and I am a little girl, and you know 
 nothing about me. Mind, you know nothing 
 about me." 
 
 To be known nothing about, to be unguided, 
 unwatched, ready to be devoured by the cruel 
 wolf, was evidently exquisite enjoyment to 
 Eva. 
 
 " The very child feels it," thought Dora, 
 with a sigh, " there is a wild sort of pleasure 
 in independence, even though it should lead 
 us to danger. Oh ! Eva, I feel as you feel. I 
 have a home here which ought to be a happy 
 one, aucfcis not. Yes, I too long for the wood 
 and its perils. Anything, Eva, anything for 
 liberty ! " ' 
 
 In the mean while Eva trotted on demurely, 
 acting her little part, but the wolf came sooner 
 than she and Bora expected. He came as
 
 142 
 
 DORA. 
 
 they turned the corner of the alley, under the 
 aspect of Mrs. Logan, sitting by Mr. Temple- 
 more's side on the old stone bench. She was 
 prettier than ever. Dora saw it at a glance. 
 Never had her cheeks worn a rosier bloom, 
 never had her dark eyes had a more laughing 
 lustre. The goddess Hebe herself could not 
 have looked brighter or younger than Mrs. 
 Logan looked as she rose and came toward 
 Dora with the sunniest of smiles on her rosy 
 lips. 
 
 "Dear Dora," she said, with that warmth 
 which she could always put in her voice and 
 in her manner, though there was so little of 
 it in her heart, "I am so glad to see you 
 again ! " 
 
 And she pressed Dora's hand very cordially. 
 As Dora stood with her hand clasped in that 
 of Mr. Templemore's future wife, she fell into 
 a strange, sad dream. This was Florence, the 
 .Florence whom her brother had so loved, 
 whom he had entirely forgiven, and toward 
 whom he had been so indulgent. Her look, 
 her smile, her voice brought back the past, 
 and with it some of its feelings. For his sake 
 Florence had been dear, after a sort of fashion. 
 For his sake she had felt something like ten- 
 derness toward this light, frivolous little 
 creature, and though he had been so cruelly 
 wronged, for his sake still she could not look 
 on her quite coldly. 
 
 This woman, such as she was, had been a 
 portion, a very dear one, alas ! of her brother's 
 heart; how could Dora forget this, and feel 
 •t fully toward her because she was in 
 a few weeks to become Mr. Templemore's 
 wife ? 
 
 "I will not be unjust," she thought, with a 
 swelling heart. " I will not be ungejKrous or 
 mean." 
 
 Bui though her greeting was frierfdly, it was 
 
 not cheerful. This Mrs. Logan did not per- 
 
 • ceive. She was -not more clear-sighted than 
 
 lie had ever been. Her utter want of sense 
 
 and penetration redeemed the frivolity of her 
 nature, or at least excused it. She was per- 
 fectly satisfied with Dora's manner, and amia- 
 bly stooped to bestow a loving kiss on Eva, 
 who, forgetting her part of little Red-riding- 
 Hood, stood looking on mute and sulky. But 
 if the wolf himself had been attempting to de- 
 vour her, Eva could not have uttered a more 
 piercing scream, or flung herself away more 
 resolutely than she now did at that proffered 
 caress. 
 
 Dora, who witnessed such a burst of temper 
 for the first time, remained amazed. Mrs. 
 Logan looked piteous, and Mr. Templemore 
 turned pale with anger. 
 
 " Eva ! " he said, almost sternly, " beg Mrs. 
 Logan's pardon at once." 
 
 But Eva glared at Mrs. Logan, and looked 
 wicked with mingled temper and passion. 
 She looked as Dora had seen her father look 
 for a moment when the cheating of the Dubois 
 was exposed, and the likeness was so strong 
 that it brought back the day, the room, and 
 the guilty pair, and his face all before her 
 with the vividness of reality. 
 
 "Eva ! " said Mr. Templemore again. 
 
 Dut Dora now interfered. She sat down on 
 the bench, and she took Eva on her knee. 
 From her heart she pitied the child, and some- 
 thing of that pity Eva read in the eyes of her 
 young governess, for when Dora said reproach- 
 fully, but with more sadness than reproach in 
 her tone : 
 
 " Oh ! Eva, Eva ! is this your promise ? " 
 
 Eva burst into tears, and, clinging to her, 
 sobbed pitifully, " I — I — am very sorry — but 
 — but I was — frightened — I could not help it, 
 Cousin Dora ! " 
 
 This was a very lame excuse indeed, but 
 Mr. Templemore, who 'wanted to be satisfied 
 with it, said cheerfully : 
 
 " Well, Eva, behave better another time, 
 and do not be frightened? That is all." 
 
 Eva hung her head without answering ; and
 
 THE DROOPING TREE. 
 
 143 
 
 to prevent a renewal of the scene, Dora took 
 her hand, and saying it was time for her music- 
 lesson, she led her away, followed by Fido. 
 
 " Fido, too ! " plaintively exclaimed Mrs. 
 Logan, whom the supercilious little King 
 Charles had never favored with his liking. 
 
 " Yes, Fido too," answered Mr. Temple- 
 more, half amused and yet half vexed at 
 Dora's empire. "Miss Oourtenay is a Circe, 
 whom all creatures love and obey." 
 
 Some admonition, however, Dora seemed 
 to bestow on her pupil. 
 
 Mr. Templemore saw the child look up as 
 if pleading for forgiveness ; then Dora stooped 
 and kissed her, and they walked on. He bit 
 his lip, though he smiled ; it was very pleasant 
 that there should be such tenderness between 
 Dora and his child, but why must Florence be 
 detested ? 
 
 "Now, that's too bad of Dora ! " said this 
 lady, looking injured. 
 
 She spoke in a pretty, childish way ; and as 
 gently as if he were addressing a child, Mr. 
 Templemore said, 
 
 "Our misfortune is not Miss Courtenay's 
 sin." 
 
 Mrs. Logan pouted, but persisted in her dec- 
 laration that it was too bad. But even as she 
 said it her rosy face broke into smiles ; and 
 with nothing but good-humor in her black 
 eyes, she said merrily — 
 
 " I suppose I am talking nonsense, as 
 usual." 
 
 Yes, she was as usual talking nonsense ; 
 but as usual, too, she looked lovely whilst the 
 silly and unmeaning words fell from her lips. 
 This was her secret ; and many a wiser man 
 than Mr. Templemore was, could not have 
 helped succumbing to the charm. If she 
 smiled, the goddess of cheerfulness herself 
 could not have looked brighter than she did. 
 When she chose to be silent, she had a pen- 
 sive grace, almost verging on poetry. Her 
 gravity, even though it was in reality no more 
 
 than ennui, seemed to have a meaning in it. 
 Mr. Templemore, indeed, had not known her 
 a year without ascertaining some of the de- 
 ficiencies of this pretty creature ; but she was 
 a pretty creature, and he was to marry her in 
 a month, and willingly he shut his eyes and 
 ignored what it was not quite pleasant to 
 "scrutinize too closely. He had, moreover, a 
 method of dealing with her which Florence 
 was too shallow to detect, but which was very 
 convenient. Mr. Templemore seldom or never 
 argued with Mrs. Logan ; he seldom or never 
 explained anything to her; he rarely contra- 
 dicted her. He heard her, he was amused by 
 her, and he did his best to please her, accord- 
 ing to her own tastes — not to his. Of course 
 this promised him many a vacant hour for the 
 future, but Mr. Templemore had perceived this 
 after he had been engaged some time, and he 
 was both too wise and too much in love to de- 
 plore it very deeply. So when Florence sup- 
 posed that she had been talking nonsense, 
 and looked exquisitely pretty as she said it, 
 Mr. Templemore retained the latter fact and 
 dropped the former, and looked at her with 
 tender admiration as they walked away. 
 
 The morning's excitement had made Eva 
 feverish. So leaving her with Fanny, Dora 
 stole out into the grounds before sunset. She 
 wanted to commune in peace with her own 
 wearied thoughts — away from Mr. Temple- 
 more and Mrs. Logan. But it was not to be. 
 She had scarcely walked ten steps before Mr. 
 Templemore stood before her. How gay and 
 cheerful he seemed, with how bright a smile 
 he threw away his cigar, and coming toward 
 her, said, with the very look and tone of Doc- 
 tor Richard — 
 
 " Do tell me what you think of that tree, 
 Miss Courtenay, and what its slender trunk 
 and drooping boughs suggest?" Without 
 giving her time to answer the question, he at 
 once resumed : " That tre<> is a nymph, who 
 being pursued and overtaken by the god Faun,
 
 144 
 
 DORA. 
 
 raised her hands and implored Diana. The 
 goddess of the silver bow relieved the fugi- 
 tive's distress by bidding her take root and 
 grow here. And see how the poor frightened 
 njmpk keeps ever looking round at her pur- 
 suer ! She has forgotten, I suppose, that he is 
 gone — gone forever, with all the pretty things 
 of heathen fable. I wonder, Miss Courtenay, 
 what has become of these heathen gods and 
 goddesses, who were so mighty once? — can 
 you tell ? " 
 
 "No, Mr. Templemore,'' she gravely re- 
 plied ; " but you are mistaken about that tree. 
 It is a tree, and has a tree's life, and a tree's 
 hopes and fears. I saw it last autumn with a 
 few green and yellow leaves quivering on it 
 still. It was no nymph then, as you seem to 
 think. It was a poor tree, conscious cf winter 
 and frost and snow, and it stood thus, seem- 
 ing, as you say, to turn, it was to. listen for the 
 coming of the wind that was to wither its last 
 green boughs." 
 
 Dora spoke sadly, more sadly than she 
 knew, for looking at that tree she thought, " I 
 too am rooted to my fate, and come storm, 
 come sunshine, I must bear it and stay here." 
 The whole day long she had thought over her 
 lot, and she had found no remedy to it. Ne- 
 cessity, that hard task-mistress, kept her 
 chained to Les Roches. Means of escape, in- 
 deed, were at her command; but to marry 
 John Luan was surely a worse evil than to see 
 Mr. Templemore with Mrs. Logan. " It will 
 last a month — no more," she thought ; " and 
 before the month is out, I may have found 
 something else— something which will give 
 me bread, and not inflict this torment upon 
 mc." 
 
 "That girl is not happy," thought Mr. 
 Templemore; "but what can ail her?— is it 
 that John Luan? " 
 
 He was half vexed at the thought; he would 
 have liked to fill the house with' sunshine just 
 then, and, lo and behold, you two evil-bodin"- 
 
 figures, little frowning Eva and her melancholy 
 governess, were already marring his coming 
 happiness. 
 
 . Unconscious of the construction Mr. Temple- 
 more put on her unusual gravity, Dora was 
 walking back slowly toward the house, and he 
 was walking by her side. Both were silent, 
 both walked with downcast eyes, and both, as 
 they emerged from the grounds into the flower- 
 garden, saw not the group already gathered 
 there. Miss Moore and Mrs. Courtenay sat on 
 garden-chairs near the house; Mrs. Logan, 
 wondering at Mr Templemore's absence, went 
 about the flower-garden as restless as a bird 
 on the wing, and wherever she went Mrs. 
 Luan went too, like a big but silent blue-bottle 
 fly. 
 
 " Why, there is Mr. Templemore, with Miss 
 Courtenay, I declare ! " exclaimed Mrs. Logan, 
 evidently amazed. 
 
 " Yes — they have been to the summer-house, 
 you know," stolidly said Mrs. Luan. 
 
 "Summer-house!" echoed Mrs. Logan, 
 coloring ; " why, there is none here, Mrs. 
 Luan." 
 
 " There ought to be, you know. Perhaps 
 they were in the school-room." 
 
 Mrs. Logan tapped her foot, and looked at 
 Mrs. Luan with profound contempt. 
 
 " The school-room is behind us, and they 
 are in front — pray, don't talk nonsense, Mrs. 
 Luan," she said, very superciliously. 
 
 " I don't mind it — let it be the summer- 
 house or the school-room, I can trust Dora 
 with Mr. Templemore, you know," said Mrs. 
 Luan, buzzing on stolidly ; " I did not like it 
 at first, because one must always mistrust 
 widowers or single men — but not Mr. Temple- 
 more, you know." 
 
 " Really, Mrs. Luan, you amaze me ! " ex- 
 claimed Mrs. Logan, turning crimson. " Mr. 
 Templemore and I have been engaged for the 
 last year ! " 
 
 " He did not tell us so, you know ; and, on
 
 THOUGHTS CONCERNING PAUL. 
 
 145 
 
 the whole, I think widowers are worse than 
 single men. Paul always said so." 
 
 Paul's name silenced the angry reply which 
 rose to Mrs. Logan's pretty lips. " She owes 
 me a grudge for Paul's sake," she thought, 
 giving her companion a furtive look ; " and she 
 only says all this to vex me." So, with cool 
 impertinence, and the sweetest of smiles, she 
 retorted : 
 
 "Dear me, I should not have thought a 
 widower like Mr. Templemore so objectionable. 
 Suppose he married Dora ? " 
 
 " Oh ! we should all have liked that very 
 much, of course," replied Mrs. Luan, with 
 perfect candor ; " and he admires Dora so 
 much, for he told me so; but would he have 
 married her, you know ? " 
 
 " Just so," replied Mrs. Logan, with a merry 
 little laugh. 
 
 "Because he might only have flirted with 
 her, you know," persisted Mrs. Luan, buzzing 
 on ; " and we should not have liked that at 
 all." 
 
 Mrs. Logan had no time to answer or ques- 
 tion, for Mr. Templemore and Dora were now 
 too near, but she felt both indignant and con- 
 founded. What had Mr. Templemore and Miss 
 Courtenay been doing out in the grounds ? 
 Not sitting in the summer-house, since there 
 was none ; but then what did it mean about 
 the school-room? There is nothing more 
 dangerous than a mixture of truth and false- 
 hood, and both these elements were so mingled 
 in Mrs. Luan's rambling remarks, that Mrs. 
 Logan was incapable of detecting the wheat 
 from the chaff. Mr. Templemore had seen a 
 good deal of Dora, and he had not told her or 
 her friends that he was engaged. How did 
 she know that he had not flirted with his 
 daughter's governess? 
 
 Mrs. Logan being quite capable herself of 
 flirting, though engaged, could not help sus- 
 pecting her betrothed of a similar weakness. 
 
 Besides, she grudged Dora Mr. Tcmplemore's 
 10 
 
 evident admiration. She resolved to watch 
 them both, and to read the signs of past or 
 present flirtation in their looks. She read 
 nothing there. They came toward her, un- 
 conscious of all harm, and Mrs. Logan, being 
 silly, but by no means mistrustful, thought, 
 on seeing them both so calm and grave : 
 
 " I wonder if that old worry did it to tease 
 me ? But no, she is too great a fool ! " 
 
 Satisfied with this contemptuous opinion of 
 Mrs. Luan, she laughingly discarded Mr. Tem- 
 plemore, and passing her arm within Dora's, 
 led her a few steps away, to have a confi- 
 dential chat. 
 
 " Miss Moore says Eva is poorly," she said, 
 looking piteous. " Is it not provoking ? There 
 never was such a little worry ! She does it 
 on purpose, you know. But is it not nice to 
 meet again, Dora ? Do you remember the 
 catalogue ? " 
 
 Dora looked at her in indignant surprise ; 
 but Mrs. Logan's black eyes were as full of 
 glee as if there were no grave in Glasnevin. 
 
 " I must bear that, too," thought Dora. 
 " Well, he forgave her, and so must I." 
 
 "What a blessing that you have under- 
 taken that little monkey ! " resumed Mrs. 
 Logan. " What should I have done but for 
 that ? " she asked, shaking her head from 
 right to left, and from left to right, in amaze- 
 ment at her own predicament. " She falls ill 
 to vex me, you know. However, Mr. Temple- 
 more is tired of it, and we are to be married 
 in a month. Is it not dreadful? It quite 
 frightens me. Mr. Logan did just as I wished ; 
 and Mr. Templemore is very kind, but still it 
 is dreadful, you know ! " 
 
 Mr. Templemore now joined them. How 
 happy, how genial he looked ! 
 
 " He likes her so," thought Dora ; " and so 
 did Paul. Be it so, and may he never waken 
 and discover that he has made a mistake! 
 May he never repent, or have cause to for- 
 
 give 
 
 t»
 
 UG 
 
 DORA. 
 
 She soon left them. They could not want 
 her society, aud she needed solitude. She 
 entered the school-room, to be quiet and alone 
 there ; but a little snivelling sound, proceed- 
 ing from a dark corner, betrayed the presence 
 of Eva. 
 
 " Eva," she asked kindly, " why are you 
 here alone ? " 
 
 " I am not alone," sobbed Eva ; " Fido is 
 with me ! " 
 
 " Why did you not come to me in the 
 garden ? " soothingly asked Dora, sitting down, 
 and drawing the child toward her, whilst 
 Fido came creeping to her feet. 
 
 " You — you were with Mrs. Logan ! " was 
 Eva's broken and reproachful reply. 
 
 Dora sighed. She could not tell the child 
 that she need not be jealous of her affection, 
 so far as Mrs. Logan was concerned ; but she 
 could soothe her poor little wounded heart 
 with more than her usual share of love and 
 caresses. She took Eva on her lap, and whilst 
 the dog curled round on a cushion at their 
 feet, she sat by the open window, and looked 
 up at a pale evening sky. The sound of voices, 
 above which rose every now and then the 
 silvery laugh of Florence, came to her ear 
 very distinctly. Mrs. Luan, indeed, was mute, 
 but Mrs. Courtenay chatted freely and mer- 
 rily. She had at first been much affronted 
 with Mr. Templemore for being engaged to 
 Mrs. Logan, and her manner to that lady had 
 also been both odd and perplexed during the 
 earlier part of the day. Poor Paul's faithless 
 mistress, and Dora's happy rival, she natu- 
 rally detested ; but then she must be very 
 polite and attentive to Mr. Templemore's fu- 
 ture wife. 
 
 The contest between two such opposite feel- 
 ings ended, of course, in favor of kindness and 
 good feeling ; but for once her mother's pleas- 
 ant little voice, blending so gayly with Miss 
 Moore's, and Mr. Templemore's and Florence's 
 merry laughter, grated on Dora's ear. She 
 
 thought of Paul — of Paul a second time re- 
 placed and forgotten. 
 
 " And is it thus with the dead ? " she said 
 to her own sad heart ; " they have fought 
 bravely, generously, but others reap the sweet 
 rewards of victory — and who thinks of them ? " 
 
 Alas ! is it not always so ? When peace 
 comes after disastrous war, how many are 
 there who, midst the joy of its advent, remem- 
 ber the slain ? They lie on distant battle- 
 fields, their cold faces turned to the sky, their 
 nerveless hands still clasping the useless sword 
 or gun ; and who thinks of the ten hours' 
 fight which ended thus? Some have crawled 
 away to lonely spots for a drop of water ; 
 they slumber, hidden midst grass and flowers, 
 by sweet bubbling streams ; but are they more 
 forgotten in their solitude than the heaps of 
 dead, which say where the fighting was hot- 
 test ? And it is surely well that they all sleep 
 so soundly. Let them never waken to tax 
 man with his ingratitude, or feel that their 
 blood was shed in vain ; let them never know 
 that careless Nature will yield her flowers, and 
 verdure, and sweet waters to men more for- 
 tunate, though not more deserving, than they 
 were. 
 
 Some such answer came to Dora as she sat 
 thus with the child in her arms, and the dog 
 at her feet. It had been hard for Paul, but he 
 had prevailed — that " had " was over, and sure- 
 ly bis was now a divine, an eternal present 
 soaring forever beyond such mortal evils. 
 
 "And to you also that rest will come," said 
 
 a tender voice; "then fight the good fight, 
 
 remember the reward, and grudge not the cost 
 
 or the toil." 
 
 t 
 
 CHAPTER XXVI. 
 
 It was designedly that Mr. Templemore had 
 ignored Eva since the morning's scene, but he 
 now suddenly remembered her existence, and 
 raising his voice, he said :
 
 THE SCHOOL-ROOM. 
 
 147 
 
 "Where is Eva?" 
 
 Eva did not answer, and Mrs. Courtenay 
 said : 
 
 " I dare say she is with Dora. I don't see 
 Fido ; they are sure to be all three together." 
 
 " What a siren ! " exclaimed Mrs. Logan. 
 
 " Eva, you must go," whispered Dora. 
 
 " I can't," moaned Eva. 
 
 " I can't " meant " I won't," but Dora felt 
 very lenient, so she raised her voice and said : 
 
 " Eva is here, Mr. Templemore, but she is 
 feverish, and I think she had better not go out 
 to you." 
 
 " Very well — I shall go to her," replied Mr. 
 Templemore, cheerfully. 
 
 He went to the open window by which Dora 
 was sitting, and standing outside, he said : 
 
 " I hope you are not sleepy, Eva, for Fanny 
 is going to bring a light, and I shall let you see 
 those odd letters, as you call them, which you 
 were so inquisitive about yesterday." 
 
 Eva became lively at once, as the eager 
 question of "Where are they? " testified. 
 
 " Coming," gayly answered her father, " for 
 here is Fanny." 
 
 So Fanny came with a lamp, which she placed 
 on the table, and Mr. Templemore, sitting on 
 the window-ledge, smilingly opened a roll of 
 papers before Eva's view. The happy leisure 
 of wealth was not wasted upon him. He was 
 a student, and a close one. It so happened 
 that he had not found one poor patient in 
 Rouen since his return, so, having time to spare, 
 he bestowed it on the tempting but arduous 
 pursuit of deciphering cuneiform inscriptions. 
 Here was a puzzle after his own heart. The 
 table in his study was covered with the copies 
 of the strange arrow-headed characters — books 
 in which the labors of Grotefend, Oppert, 
 Menant, and Sir Henry Rawlinson were set 
 forth, made a goodly pile near the drawings. 
 All these had excited the curiosity of Eva, and 
 even roused that of Mrs. Logan. She. had even 
 asked to know "what all that was about? " 
 
 " Only Darius," he had carelessly replied. 
 Mr. Templemore knew better than to talk to 
 his betrothed of the great rock of Behistan, 
 not merely because she was ignorant of its ex- 
 istence, but because her frivolous little mind 
 could take no sort of interest in Darius, or the 
 god Ormuz and his dwelling-place. 
 
 " Only Darius ! " she repeated with a little 
 laugh. "What an old bore that Darius must 
 be!" 
 
 Pretty women are still pretty women when 
 they make silly speeches — and Mr. Temple- 
 more looked fondly at the sinner. Unluckily 
 she now left Miss Moore, and overheard him 
 talking of this same inscription to Dora. He 
 had brought it out, indeed, to show it to Eva, 
 but he included Eva's governess in the remarks 
 he made on this subject. He spoke of the 
 great rock on the frontiers of Media, of the 
 lofty tablet inaccessible as an eagle's eyrie, on 
 which the conqueror inscribed the glories of 
 his race, the vastness of his empire, and that 
 Persian attribute, his hatred of falsehood ; and 
 Dora, though as ignorant of this subject as Mrs. 
 Logan, listened with attention, put a few ques- 
 tions, and was not answered with an " Only 
 Darius ! " 
 
 " He talks to her ! " thought Mrs. Logan. 
 
 She stood in the garden a little behind Mr. 
 Templemore, who did not see her. But how 
 well and how vividly Florence saw the picture 
 framed by the window of the school-room ! 
 A pale globe and a black slate in the back- 
 ground ; on the central table a bronze lamp 
 with a pure white flame, burning like a cap- 
 tive spirit in its crystal prison, and by the 
 window in front Dora leaning back in her chair 
 with Eva on her lap, and looking over the 
 child's head at the papers spread out for them 
 both by Mr. Templemore. 
 
 " That's the school-room," said Mrs. Luan, 
 whom Mrs. Logan thought far away, and who 
 stood by her elbow. 
 
 Florence started. She was stung to the
 
 1-18 
 
 DORA. 
 
 very heart. Yes, that was the school-room, 
 and Mr. Templemore had chosen a governess 
 who was both pretty and young for his child. 
 He had chosen a girl with bright hair, and 
 eyes both soft and bright— whose face lit with 
 unconscious sunshine when he spoke, and with 
 whom it was plain he liked speaking. Yes, 
 that was the school-room — there was no sum- 
 mer-house, but there was a school-room ! 
 Faith and trust, so easy to the large-minded, 
 and especially to the large-hearted, are very 
 hard to the narrow and the cold. Mrs. Logan 
 was too shallow to be a mistrustful woman, 
 and too pretty to be a jealous one ; but when 
 mistrust and jealousy unexpectedly came to 
 her, she had no generous belief, no proud con- 
 sciousness, to help her to repel either enemy. 
 Their first attacks found her helpless, and 
 rapidly conquered her. 
 
 Mrs. Luan plucked her sleeve. 
 
 " That's the school-room," she whispered 
 again ; " and Dora's sitting-room is this way." 
 
 Mechanically Mrs. Logan followed her. Do- 
 ra's sitting-room had a glass door opening 
 on the gardeu, and as this was not closed, 
 they entered it. Even in the moonlight Mrs. 
 Logan saw that this was a very charming 
 apartment. She had never seen it before ; it 
 was newly furnished. Mr. Templemore had 
 therefore prepared it for Eva's governess. 
 
 Florence could not understand this. She 
 had never had a child, and not being one of 
 those women in whom the parental feeling is 
 innate, she had no just conception of the love 
 a fond father like Mr. Templemore could bear 
 bis little daughter. That he should have a 
 whole suite of rooms prepared for Eva and 
 her governess was incredible to her. She for- 
 got that he might have meant to seclude him- 
 self and his young bride from all unpleasant 
 contact with his jealous child, as much as to 
 please or honor Dora ; she only felt that Dora 
 was treated "like a princess," and she could 
 not tolerate the fact — especially she could not 
 
 understand it. In her indignation and amaze- 
 ment she said aloud : 
 
 " I shall certainly ask Mr. Templemore the 
 meaning of all this ! " 
 
 " She's Paul's sister, you know," sharply re- 
 marked Mrs. Luan. 
 
 Mrs. Logan felt sobered at once. She had 
 written some fond, foolish letters to Paul for- 
 merly ; true, he had returned them, but sup- 
 pose a stray one, or that lock of her hair 
 which he had certainly kept, or that photo- 
 graph which had gone down with him to his 
 grave (but Florence did not know this), had 
 remained in Dora's possession, and should be 
 produced against her to Mr. Templemore, who 
 was so convinced that she had been forced 
 into marrying Mr. Logan, and that he was her 
 first love ! It would not be pleasant ; and 
 some such threat Mrs. Luan must intend by 
 again bringing up Paul's name when it had 
 really no business to be uttered. So Mrs. Lo- 
 gan took the hint, and as her little secret had 
 been kept up to the present, she resolved to 
 watch Dora, indeed, but to do so with silent 
 prudence, which, alas ! was the very thing 
 that Mrs. Luan wanted. 
 
 " I wonder if Mr. Templemore has done 
 with his Darius," she petulantly exclaimed. 
 
 And she abruptly entered the school-room, 
 but she found it dark and silent. The lamp 
 was gone, the window was closed, and it was 
 plain that Dora and Eva had left by the other 
 door. Mrs. Logan went back to the garden, 
 and found Mr. Templemore looking for her. 
 
 "Where have you been ? " he asked. 
 
 " Looking at Miss Courtenay's rooms," she 
 replied, with a bitterness she cculd not help 
 displaying, but which he so little expected to 
 find in her tone, that he did not detect it 
 there. 
 
 " Eva is very feverish," he said, anxiously. 
 " I hope she is not going to be ill again." 
 
 " And I feel sure she is— just to vex me," 
 wa.s the short reply.
 
 THE TWO PORTRAITS. 
 
 149 
 
 Mrs. Courtenay, who was close by with Miss 
 Moore, unluckily remarked: 
 
 " But Eva is really an amiable child, Mrs. 
 Logan — she took to Dora at once." 
 
 " Oh ! but I cannot compare or compete 
 with Miss Courtenay, you know." 
 
 " Why don't you -win her like Dora?" good- 
 naturedly replied Mrs. Courtenay. " She cut 
 up her white silk to dress a doll for Eva, a 
 bride she was, and of course, childlike, Eva 
 fell in love with both doll and giver." 
 
 "A bride ! " repeated Mrs. Logan. " What 
 a strange idea, Mrs. Courtenay ! " 
 
 "Very natural, you know. Even little 
 girls think of marriage, and as for grown-up 
 ones, they hear of nothing else — especially 
 when they are pretty. Indeed, I think they 
 have no comfort of their lives till they are 
 really married. And as they must go through 
 it, why, it is like extracting a tooth, the 
 sooner it is over the better." 
 
 Mr. Templemore laughed at Mrs. Courte- 
 nay's philosophy of marriage, but as the gar- 
 den was getting chill, he suggested that they 
 should all go in. Only Miss Moore accom- 
 panied him to the drawing-room, however; 
 Mrs. Courtenay confessed she was sleepy, and 
 Mrs. Luan had already silently vanished. 
 
 The drawing-room of Les Roches was a 
 large, old-fashioned apartment, with ancient 
 furniture, a room which Florence had always 
 liked. Her father having suddenly married 
 again, and been presented with twin son3 by 
 his second wife, Mrs. Logan's expectations of 
 fortune were no longer what they had once 
 been. Her present income of a few hundreds 
 and her little villa near Les Roches, did not 
 satisfy her. She liked a chateau like Les 
 Roches (especially to date her letters from), 
 or a beautiful place like Deenah, with a lake 
 and waterfalls, to live in. She liked lofty 
 ceilings, and large rooms, and old furniture ; 
 not that she really admired these things, but 
 because she had heard them praised, and 
 
 especially because they represented affluence 
 and ample means. 
 
 The drawing-room of Les Roches was, 
 therefore, a favorite apartment with Mrs. 
 Logan, but for once it had lost its charm ; 
 and as she entered it, and sank into one of 
 its deep chairs, there was something as like a 
 frown on her smooth brow as it was possible 
 to see there. But Mr. Templemore, who had 
 never seen the fair Florence do more than 
 raise her fine dark eye-brows in childish won- 
 der, and who had no experience of anything 
 like displeasure from this light but naturally 
 amiable little creature, now read nothing save 
 a slight degree of gravity on her fair, white 
 forehead. 
 
 So whilst Miss Moore discreetly sat as far 
 away from them as politeness permitted, he 
 did his best to amuse and entertain his fair 
 mistress. Mrs. Logan could not resist him. 
 The cloud passed away from her face, her 
 pretty mouth relaxed, her cheeks got back 
 their dimples, and her laughing black eyes 
 looked as full of fun as if she had been the 
 wittiest of women. Hers was not indeed the 
 brightness of Dora, that fine light from within 
 which gave so wonderful a glow to her whole 
 countenance, and transfigured it as if by 
 magic ; but it was brightness too, it was 
 gayety, it was mirth, and Dora herself had 
 often felt its power. A comparison between 
 these two women now rose to Mr. Teuiple- 
 more's mind, not for the first time, indeed, 
 though it had never been spoken before ; but 
 as his ill-luck would have it, he expressed it 
 now. 
 
 Without saying a word he rose, went to a 
 cabinet, opened a drawer, and drew out some- 
 thing with which he came back to Mrs. Lo- 
 gan's side. If Mr. Templemore had flung a 
 pearl necklace or a diamond bracelet on the 
 lap of Florence, and informed her that it was 
 destined to Mrs. Templemore, all would have 
 been well between them. But though his
 
 150 
 
 DORA. 
 
 intentions on that score were as liberal as 
 even Florence could wish them to be, the 
 subject was one utterly remote from his 
 thoughts just then. He quietly placed an 
 old morocco case in her hand, and without 
 noticing how the sparkling light died out of 
 her black eyes, he bade her open it. 
 
 Florence obeyed with a pouting lip, expres- 
 sive of disappointment, but smiled as she saw 
 a lovely enough miniature of herself in pow- 
 dered hair and pink satin. 
 
 " But' that is not my portrait," she said 
 after a while. 
 
 "No — it is like you, but it is not your por- 
 trait. I bought it at a sale in England, on my 
 way here, so struck was I witb the .likeness. 
 It is a good enamel, too, though not equal to 
 this," and taking it back from her, he handed 
 her Nanette's legacy. Mrs. Logan's color 
 rose. 
 
 "Dora sat for this," she said quickly. 
 "You made her put on that blue dress and 
 that old lace, but she sat to you for this por- 
 prait." 
 
 "Did you put on pink satin and sit to me ? " 
 he asked, amused at the question. 
 
 " You had it done from my photograph," she 
 persisted. 
 
 "My dear child," he said good-humoredly, 
 " do you not know an old enamel from a new 
 one, or ancient style of painting from modern ? " 
 
 " I suppose not," replied Mrs. Logan, ap- 
 parently once more quite good-tempered; but 
 at heart she was unconvinced. She looked at 
 Dora's portrait, as she would' call it, and she 
 saw not, or she would not see, that though this 
 was Dora's hair, these were not Dora's eyes. 
 " She sat to him," she thought ; " she sat in 
 the school-room. Thi3 is Dora herself when 
 she smiles, or is pleased and happy. I have 
 seen her look so again and again when Paul 
 was by." 
 
 Alas ! the dead young beauty who had sat 
 for that portrait, and smiled as it was painted, 
 
 had long been dust ! She had gone away with 
 her smiles, and the painter on whom, perhaps, 
 they were bestowed had gone with her. The 
 bright hair, the soft blue eyes, the snowy skin 
 which Mrs. Logan gazed at with quick breath 
 and angry eyes, need never waken love or 
 jealousy now, whatever mischief they might 
 have worked in their day. 
 
 " Is it not lovely ? " asked Mr. Templemore. 
 
 He thought of the painting, but Mrs. Logan 
 was convinced he meant the woman. 
 
 " Very," she replied. "Are enamels brittle ? " 
 
 " I should be sorry to trust this one with a 
 fall." 
 
 " Then take it — I am so awkward, you 
 know." . 
 
 He held out his hand, but before Mrs. Lo- 
 gan's had surrendered it to him, the portrait 
 had fallen on the floor. 
 
 " Oh ! I am so sorry !." she exclaimed, look- 
 ing as innocent and as frightened as a child ; 
 but she stealthily stretched out her little foot, 
 in the hope of finishing the work of destruc- 
 tion. " Don't look at it," she entreated, pre- 
 venting him from stooping with a pretty, des- 
 potic gesture; "I am sure it is in pieces ; and 
 I do not want to be ' scolded. Don't, Miss 
 Moore ! " she screamed, in her little childish 
 way, as this lady approached them to lend 
 her assistance ; " Mr. Templemore will be so 
 angry." 
 
 " No, no," he said, trying not to look as an- 
 noyed as he felt; " but you must' let me pick 
 it up, Florence." 
 
 Again he stooped, again Mrs. Logan tried to 
 prevent him, and, as ill-luck would have.it, in 
 the attempt she upset a small table on which 
 he had placed the other portrait. . 
 
 " I give it up," ruefully said Mr. Temple- 
 more, throwing himself back in his chair, and 
 laughing, spite his vexation ; " I have no doubt 
 my lady in blue is damaged, and my lady in 
 pink cracked through — I give it up." 
 
 Mrs. Logan was silent, and so disconcerted
 
 !i : ; HI 
 
 HP 
 
 ' 
 
 " OH, I AM S <> 90BRY." 
 
 p. 150.
 
 MRS. LOGAN AND MISS MOORE. 
 
 151 
 
 at this accident, that she no longer opposed 
 Miss Moore's good-natured attempt to pick up 
 the fallen portraits. 
 
 "Oh! dear," said Mis3 Moore, "the poor 
 lady in pink is quite spoiled ; but, I declare, 
 the lady in blue has not a scratch ! " 
 
 " Oh ! all right, then," cheerfully cried Mr. 
 Templemore; "I can get another pink lady 
 any day at a sale, but my blue lady altra, 
 cosa ! " 
 
 Mrs. Logan's breath was gone to hear this, 
 and she rolled her black eyes in utter bewilder- 
 ment. Mr. Templemore, unconscious of the 
 construction she put on his words, looked at 
 the two portraits very attentively, shook his 
 head over the lady in pink, and smiling com- 
 placently at the lady in blue, went and put 
 them both away in the cabinet, locking the 
 drawer and taking out the key — not quite so 
 useless a precaution as he fancied it to be. 
 Mrs. Logan was utterly confounded. Her 
 mind could not very well conceive feelings she 
 was incapable of entertaining. She could not 
 believe that the only value Mr. Templemore 
 really set on his enamels was an artistic value, 
 having not the faintest reference to the regard 
 he felt for the persons they happened to re- 
 semble. She did not understand that if the 
 lady in blue had been like Mrs. Luan herself, 
 her portrait would have been as precious in 
 his eyes as it now was, bearing this strong 
 likeness to Dora. All this was incomprehen- 
 sible to her, and was not even made apparent 
 by what would have proved it to another 
 woman : Mr. Templemore's unnecessary frank- 
 ness. No, this was rather an aggravation of 
 his offence than any attenuation. Mrs. Logan 
 was silly, and she knew, but did not mind it. 
 She was accustomed to be treated like a pretty, 
 childish, foolish thing by Mr. Templemore, and 
 she liked it, for she had sense enough to know 
 that, manlike, he loved her none the worse for 
 it. She was so pretty, that she could be any- 
 thing she chose, and yet charm him and every 
 
 one else besides. But it now occurred to her 
 that Mr. Templemore might consider her so 
 silly as to think he could do or say anything 
 in her presence with impunity. "He thinks I 
 can't see through him, that is it," was Mrs. 
 Logan's indignant conclusion. " I am not so 
 stupid though as you fancy, Mr. Templemore. 
 Wait a while — wait a while!" 
 
 Unconscious of the storm which was brood- 
 ing in Mrs. Logan's heart, Mr. Templemore 
 turned back to her with a smile, and had just 
 sat down by her side, when the door of the 
 drawing-room opened, and Dora appeared on 
 the threshold, rather pale and grave. 
 
 " Mr. Templemore," she said, a little hesi- 
 tatingly, " will you come — Eva is really very 
 feverish ? " 
 
 He started and turned pale. 
 
 " It is nothing — nothing ! " he exclaimed ; 
 " but I am going. Pray excuse me, Florence. 
 Miss Courtenay, I am going with you." 
 
 And with that hasty excuse he was gone. 
 The drawing-room door closed on them both. 
 He had gone at her bidding, and she had 
 come for him like a fair and evil enchantress, 
 to lure him away from his liege love. But, 
 no, to do her justice, Florence indulged in no 
 such poetic fancies ; she had not a particle 
 of imagination, never thought of spirits good 
 or evil, and was wonderfully suited to those 
 days of prose. Her only conclusion, there- 
 fore, was the indignant one : 
 
 " Dora is about the most artful and auda- 
 cious girl /ever knew ! " 
 
 How little we do know of each other; after 
 all, in this bright, clear world, where every 
 thing looks so open, and is so secret and mys- 
 terious ! If Dora had come herself to call 
 Mr. Templemore, if she had undergone the 
 needless pain of seeing him seated by the 
 side of Florence, it was because she would 
 not forget, not even for a moment, the tie 
 that bound him. 
 
 " 1 shall remember it again and again," she
 
 152 
 
 DORA. 
 
 had said to herself in stoic self-subjection. 
 " I shall not forget, or shun the inevitable." 
 
 " I hope poor Eva is not going to be ill 
 again," exclaimed Miss Moore, looking much 
 concerned. 
 
 " Yes, she is, just to vex me," resignedly 
 said Mrs. Logan. "But if the marriage is 
 put off again," she significantly added, " it 
 shall be for good, you know, Miss Moore." 
 
 " Oh ! but Mr. Templemore will not have 
 the wedding-day put off," exclaimed Miss 
 Moore, eagerly. " I know it ; he has said so 
 again and again." 
 
 " Oh ! it is a matter of perfect indifference 
 to me ! " said Mrs. Logan, leaning back in her 
 chair, and folding her hands on her lap. " It 
 shall be the 'Tth of May, or it shall not be at 
 all. I don't care, you know." 
 
 She spoke with as much seeming indiffer- 
 ence as if the 7th of May had been the day 
 fixed for a picnic or a dinner-party, and not 
 for the most important event in her life. 
 Again Miss Moore attempted to mend matters 
 by declaring that Mr. Templemore would cer- 
 tainly go distracted if the *7th of May did not 
 make him the happiest of men. 
 
 "Yes, yes, I know," said Mrs. Logan, a 
 little superciliously, for she was now bent on 
 seeming shrewd, and not silly ; " but I must 
 have facts, not words, you know, Miss Moore. 
 I suppose Eva gets ill every now and then, 
 and Miss Courtenay comes for Mr. Temple- 
 more, who sits up and goes distracted, eh ? " 
 
 This speech was so unlike Mrs. Logan's 
 usual discourse, that Miss Moore stared at her 
 in 6ilent amazement. 
 
 "No," ered, at length, "Eva has 
 
 had very good health siuce Miss Courtenay 
 has been with o ." 
 
 Mm Logan Bmiled incredulously, closed her 
 pursed up her lips, and altogether 
 looked eo significant, that Miss Moore felt 
 not merely amazed, but bewildered. 
 
 "Is he going to remain long away? "re- 
 
 sumed Mrs. Logan, raising her voice, and 
 looking haughty. " Because I am going, Miss 
 Moore." 
 
 " No, pray don't ! " entreated Miss Moore. 
 " Eva will get well," — to Eva's ill-health she 
 attributed Mrs. Logan's evident displeasure — 
 " and it will be all right again, you know, 
 dear ! " 
 
 She spoke as soothingly as if she were ad- 
 dressing a child. It was the tone most people 
 adopted with Mrs. Logan when they were at 
 all intimate with her. But Mrs. Logan, who 
 if she was silly, was by no means so childish 
 as she chose to appear, now resented Miss 
 Moore's manner as a deadly affront, and turn- 
 ing upon her with sparkling eyes, said, in a 
 tone which had nothing of the child in it save 
 its temper and naughtiness : 
 
 " You had better not, Miss Moore. I am 
 not quite so silly as some people think. My 
 eyes are quite open. I assure you I am wide 
 awake, Miss Moore." 
 
 And she opened wide and rolled ber black 
 eyes in a manner which fairly confounded 
 Eva's aunt. Indeed, she was quite awestruck 
 on hearing Mrs. Logan hold out so formidable 
 a threat as that implied by the statement that 
 she was not silly, and that she was wide awake. 
 For when foolish people set about being clever, 
 and people of dull perceptions have made up 
 their minds to be particularly clear-sighted, 
 there is scarcely any amount of mischief which 
 may not be expected. This Miss Moore, though 
 not very bright herself, was cleai'-headed enough 
 to guess. She felt that danger was at hand, 
 though she was too much taken by surprise to 
 know from what quarter it sprang. She still 
 considered Eva's unlucky illness to be the cause 
 of Mrs. Logan's wrath, and would probably 
 have made some other exasperating reference 
 to the subject, if Florence had not forestalled 
 Tier by declaring that she was not going to wait 
 Mr. Templemore's pleasure any longer. The 
 haughty words were scarcely uttered when Mr.
 
 DRS. PETIT AND LEROUX. 
 
 153 
 
 Teinplemore entered the room. With a face 
 full of concern he said : 
 
 " Eva is ill. I am anxious about her. I am 
 going for Doctor Leroux." 
 
 " Now ? " exclaimed Mrs. Logan. 
 
 " Yes, even if he cannot come I shall be glad 
 to speak to him." 
 
 He looked so anxious, that Mrs. Logan for- 
 got her suspicions, her displeasure, and even 
 her resolve of keeping her eyes open. But so 
 many unusual emotions had brought on a ner- 
 vous mood, which now betrayed itself by an 
 hysterical burst of tears, and the declaration 
 that she, Mrs. Logan, was perfectly miser- 
 able. 
 
 " My dear Florence," kindly said Mr. Temple- 
 more, taking her hand, "you are not to blame. 
 The poor child alone is guilty, but is excus- 
 able, because she is a child. We are innocent, 
 and suffer for her sin even more than she does. 
 I had hoped, indeed, that we could spend part 
 of the summer here, but this last attempt is 
 too unfortunate. We must remain in Deenah, 
 and Eva, and Miss Moore, and her governess 
 stay in Les Roches." 
 
 " Much the best plan," put in Miss Moore, 
 rather eagerly. " Eva will grow out of it, you 
 know." 
 
 " I hope so," replied Mr. Templemore ; but 
 never was hope uttered in a more despondent 
 tone than this. 
 
 "I think I must go," moaned Mrs. Logan, 
 pressing her hand to her brow ; " my head 
 aches so. And yet I should have liked to 
 wait till you came back with that Dr. Petit." 
 
 " Petit ! " cried Mr. Templemore with a start 
 — " God forbid that man should ever come 
 near Eva ! " 
 
 " Ho can you be so prejudiced ? " pettishly 
 said Mrs. Logan ; " you know he did me a 
 world of good. And as for the other man, I 
 hate him ! — he has such a nose, and such a 
 long, scraggy neck. I wonder you can have 
 any confidence in him." 
 
 Mr. Templemore looked half amused and 
 half indignant. 
 
 " I know," he said, " that when Petit luckily 
 fell ill, you got well. I know, too, that when 
 you are my wife, that man, of whom I have a 
 perfect horror, shall never attend you. As to 
 Leroux's neck and nose, you must be mistaken ; 
 they cannot be so bad as you imagine, else how 
 could he have got his diploma, you know? " 
 
 Mrs. Logan was very much affronted at Mr. 
 Templemore's banter. 
 
 " I know — I understand," she said, indig- 
 nantly ; "but as /have no faith in your Le- 
 roux, you will not wonder that I do not stay to 
 hear his opinion of 'Eva." 
 
 " There is no necessity for your doing so," he 
 gravely replied ; " Eva is not so very ill, I dare 
 say, but I am, as usual, nervous, and too anx- 
 ious. I shall see you home, if you are go- 
 ing." 
 
 Mrs. Logan knit her smooth brow, and raised 
 her arched eyebrows. Did Mr. Templemore 
 want to get her out of the way ? But she had 
 said she would go, and she would not retract. 
 So within a few minutes she was walking down 
 the road that led to Rouen, with her arm rest- 
 ing on Mr. Templemore's. The way was short, 
 but the night was fair and mild, and love is a 
 great enchanter. A few kind words which 
 Mr. Templemore said, unconscious of the force 
 the turmoil in Mrs. Logan's little mind gave 
 them, lulled to rest the tempest Mrs. Luau had 
 first wakened there. Besides, it was a really 
 delightful arrangement, if they were to live in 
 Deenah, and Eva and Dora — the governess, he 
 had called her — in Les Roches. And then he 
 would not care much about Eva, if they had 
 children. Tes, it was all right, after all; and 
 as Mrs. Logan's nature was not merely light, 
 but buoyant, she bade her lover a very cheer- 
 ful good-night as they parted at the door of 
 her villa, 
 
 " I shall be sure to send early to know 
 about Eva," she said, airily. " Good-night,"
 
 154 
 
 DORA 
 
 and she skipped into the house, and closed the 
 door behind her. 
 
 Mr Templemore walked through the nar- 
 row front garden, whence the scent of flowers 
 rose sweetly on the night air, and he went 
 down the road, feeling very sad and thought- 
 ful. He was too just to be angry with Flor- 
 ence for not loving a child who hated her ; but 
 how careless she was, and how little she 
 thought of hiding her indifference ! She would 
 sleep very soundly that night. It was natural, 
 but it was hard. Hard, too, in some respects, 
 was the fate that lay before him. 
 
 " She is a sweet, childish little creature," he 
 thought ; " I must prize her as I would a beau- 
 tiful flower, and not exact from her the bril- 
 liant or enduring qualities of a gem. But — but 
 I might have chosen more wisely." And Mr. 
 Templemore sighed, as many a man has sighed 
 before the marriage-day. 
 
 CHAPTER XXVII. 
 
 Doctor Leroux was not within, so Mr. 
 Templemore had to come back without him. 
 He went up at once to Eva's room. Dora sat 
 by the bed of the child, half bending over her, 
 and telling her little stories to send her to 
 sleep. 
 
 "And so" — Mr. Templemore heard her say- 
 ing, as he opened the door — " the poor prince 
 was wounded by the giant, and — " 
 
 "No, he was not," impetuously interrupted 
 Eva ; " he shan't be wounded. Don't let him 
 be wounded, Cousin Dora ! " 
 
 " Well, my dear, shall it be the giant ? " 
 
 " Yes, I hate him. Kill him, Cousin Dora ! " 
 
 " I don't mind if I do. And now suppose 
 he is dead and buried — and suppose a little 
 girl I know goes to sleep." 
 
 " I can't," moaned Eva. " Tell me another 
 story." 
 
 Hut as Dora was going to comply, Mr. Tem- 
 plemore came forward. He found no change 
 
 in Eva. Her flushed cheeks and dilated black 
 eyes still told him the same story that had 
 sent him forth. Strong mental excitement 
 had put Tier into that state. When he and 
 Mrs. Logan left, Eva would probably get well 
 again; but till then she would probably be 
 subject to attacks, both dangerous and wasting 
 with so susceptible a child. 
 
 " It is a hard case," he could not help saying 
 to Dora. " I have every blessing life can give, 
 save one. And I am powerless ; a child's 
 unreasonable feelings are too strong for me." 
 
 His clouded brow and troubled look struck 
 Dora. He too was unhappy, and his sorrow 
 allowed of no remedy. He could not have 
 both Mrs. Logan and his child, and Eva must 
 be sacrificed. 
 
 " Poor Eva ! " thought Dora, looking down 
 at the little flushed face on its white pillow. 
 
 He saw the kind look, but did not read its 
 meaning. 
 
 " Dear Miss Courtenay," he said, anxiously, 
 " it is late ; you must not stay sitting up with 
 Eva. Where is Fanny ? " 
 
 " I sent her away." 
 
 " But you may want assistance. Better have 
 Miss Moore." 
 
 " She is not quite well, and aunt will stay 
 up with me." 
 
 He looked, and in a remote part of the room 
 he saw Mrs. Luan nodding in an arm-chair. 
 Still he was not satisfied. 
 
 "You cannot stay up," he said — "it really 
 will fatigue you." 
 
 " I think Eva will soon fall asleep," quietly 
 replied Dora.— "Will you not, Eva ? " 
 
 She gently touched the child's hot cheek 
 with her hand, and at once Eva seized that 
 cool hand, and laying her head upon it, looked 
 up at her young governess with something in 
 her dark eyes of the silent, faithful love of a 
 dog for-its master. 
 
 "She is falling asleep," whispered Dora. 
 " Her eyelids look heavy."
 
 MRS. LUAN'S DREAM 
 
 155 
 
 She would not stir, for fear of rousing the 
 child, but sat patiently with Eva's cheek rest- 
 ing on the hand which the two little childish 
 hands also fondly clasped. Mr. Templemore 
 stood at the foot of the bed, looking at them 
 both with a sort of pain. Why did not his 
 child love the woman he was going to marry 
 as she loved her governess ? Why could not 
 that good-natured Florence, whom he loved, 
 be the mother of his little daughter as well as 
 this Dora Courtenay, whom, alas ! he did not 
 love. 
 
 "You have bewitched my little Eva," be 
 said to Dora. " I wonder if she would allow 
 you to draw away your hand now ? " 
 
 Dora made the attempt, but a fond, jealous 
 murmur from the child, who was only half 
 asleep, bade her desist. Mr. Templemore 
 smiled, and stooping, kissed Eva. If he had 
 not feared offending Dora, he would not have 
 minded to kiss as well the pretty band on 
 which his child's head rested so trustingly. 
 But he had a warm, generous heart — too gen- 
 erous not to feel grateful, and too warm not to 
 express it. 
 
 "Dear Miss Courtenay," he said, looking at 
 her earnestly, " God bless you for all your 
 goodness to this poor motherless little givl, 
 who, I fear, will never have any mother save 
 you. Miss Moore loves her, but she is not 
 judicious." 
 
 Dora looked at him silently. 
 
 "Yes," she thought, "Florence has got the 
 father, but I have got the child." 
 
 " I have a favor to ask," he continued, in a 
 low tone; "I trust nothing will happen to- 
 night, but if that feverishness should come on 
 again, pray promise me that you will call me — 
 I shall sit up late in the study." 
 
 " I feel sure there will be no need to do so," 
 confidently replied Dora ; but she gave him 
 the required promise, and on that assurance 
 he left her. 
 
 Eva was very fast asleep indeed when Dora 
 
 drew her hand away, and left her. She went 
 up to her aunt, gently touched her shoulder, 
 and as Mrs. Luan awoke with a bewildered 
 stare, Dora raised her finger in token of si- 
 lence, nodded toward the bed, to imply that 
 all was well there, then pointed to the door ; 
 but Mrs. Luan had been so fast asleep, that 
 she had no conception of her niece's meaning, 
 and it required a whispered explanation xo 
 make her understand at last that Dora no 
 longer needed her presence. The fact at 
 length reached her mind ; she rose, and walk- 
 ing stealthily across the room, left it, and 
 noiselessly closed the door behind her. 
 
 Dora went back to Eva's little cot, and 
 bending over it, she looked long at Mr. Temple- 
 more's child. 
 
 "He has all but given you to me," she 
 thought ; " but if I were Florence he should 
 give you to none. If I were Florence I would 
 have won your heart whether you liked it or 
 not, and made you mine before I became his. 
 Oh ! if I were Florence you should love me 
 more than you love Mr. Templemore himself, 
 and he should never be able to part us in his 
 affection — to say ' I give this much to one, and 
 that much to the other.' " 
 
 Her eyes were dim with useless tears. For 
 she was not Florence — that happy, careless 
 Florence, who had fallen asleep over a novel, 
 whilst Paul's sister — Cousin Dora, the govern- 
 ess — sat up with Mr. Templemore's child. 
 Yet she, too, slept. The gentle comforter 
 came to her in the deep chair where she had 
 seated herself to watch Eva's slumbers ; he 
 came and never ceased shaking his dewy pop- 
 pies over these two, Dora and the child, till 
 bright dawn had left the sky, and a sunbeam 
 stole in upon them through the muslin cur- 
 tains of the window. Dora woke first; but 
 scarcely had she really awakened, and really 
 come back from the torpor of sleep to the 
 quick sense of life, when she met the look of 
 Eva's black eyes. She nodded gayly to her.
 
 156 
 
 DORA. 
 
 " Well, young lady," she said, " how are 
 you this morning? Quite well, it seems to 
 me!" 
 
 "You did not finish that story about the 
 prince and the giant," was Eva's answer. " I 
 want to know how it ended." 
 
 "It shall end as you please, Eva," answered 
 Dora, with an easy compliance rare in authors ; 
 "the giant shall kill the prince — no — well, 
 then, the prince shall kill the giant." 
 
 "And marry the princess," suggested Eva. 
 
 " And marry the princess," kindly replied 
 Dora. 
 
 "And so you did really sit up with Eva, 
 after all, Miss Courtenay ! " reproachfully said 
 Mr. Templemore's voice. 
 
 Dora looked round and saw him standing 
 behind her chair, and behind him again Mrs. 
 Luan in her night-cap. 
 
 "I slept — I did not watch," deprecatingly 
 replied Dora ; " and I think Eva is well, Mr. 
 Templemore." 
 
 Yes. He went and sat by her ; he took her 
 hand, he looked, he questioned, and his con- 
 clusion was that Eva was well again. This 
 had been but a slight attack. 
 
 "And who knows," he added hopefully — 
 " who knows, Miss Courtenay, but it may be 
 the last ? " 
 
 He looked down so fondly at Eva, it was so 
 plain that no lover's happiness would fill the 
 void left by her absence, that for his sake and 
 from her heart Dora wished it might be a3 he 
 hoped. 
 
 " But when that day comes," she thought, 
 "you and I part, Eva. When your little 
 childish love goes, as is but right it should go, 
 to your father's wife, you shall see your last 
 cf Cousin Dora." 
 
 As if answering her thought, Mr. Temple- 
 more said gravely, "I dare not expect so 
 happy a result just yet, and I think that in 
 "ican while we must be very cautious." 
 
 II" looked at Dora, and Dora guessed his 
 
 meaning. Eva was to see as little as possible 
 of Mrs. Logan. She nodded assent, and, after 
 a while, Mr. Templemore left the room. 
 
 " What a storm there was last night ! " said 
 Mrs. Luan, taking off her night-cap and fling- 
 ing it across the room. 
 
 "A storm !" exclaimed Dora, amazed. 
 
 " Yes, how it rolled and rolled, and rattled 
 and rattled!" said Mrs. Luan, shaking her 
 head as if it still ached with the noise ; " there 
 never was such a storm, I think." 
 
 " Aunt, you must be mistaken. True, I 
 slept, but I also woke now and then, and the 
 moon shone, and the sky had not a cloud." 
 
 " Why, I came and looked at you; I was 
 here the best part of the night, and I tell you 
 the blue lightning did nothing but play about 
 Eva and you. Of course, you were both 
 asleep." 
 
 Dora went up to her. 
 
 " My. dear aunt," she said gravely, " you 
 must not talk so. There was no storm. Put 
 on your cap — it was all a dream ! " 
 
 Mrs. Luan looked at her sullenly, but she 
 did put on her cap, as Dora bade her ; and, 
 after a while, she said sulkily : 
 
 " Yes, I suppose so — it was all a dream — 
 all a dream ! " and, to Dora's relief she left the 
 room. * 
 
 As soon as she had left Eva in Fanny's 
 care, Dora went to her mother's room. She 
 found Mrs. Courtenay up and dressed, and 
 very cross. 
 
 " There never was such an old fidget as your 
 aunt," she said — Mrs. Luan was two years her 
 junior — "she did not sleep all night, I sup- 
 pose, and she would not let me sleep either. 
 She came in and out of my room, talking of 
 the thunder and the lightning till she almost 
 drove me wild." 
 Dora was much concerned. 
 
 " I wish she were with John," she said — 
 " indeed, I am anxious about her ; and I came 
 to ask you, mamma, to stay with her as much
 
 HER MENTAL AND MORAL PECULIARITIES. 
 
 157 
 
 as you can, and cheer her — also you could no- 
 tice if these strange fancies continue." 
 
 " My dear child, your aunt had strange fan- 
 cies before you were born, and your aunt will 
 have strange fancies till she is in her grave. 
 Her fancy just now seems to run on thunder 
 and lightning, but I remember how it was 
 cheese for seven months. Everything, she 
 declared, tasted of cheese, or was cheese ; 
 when that passed away she raved about cats, 
 and had five of them in the house. We were 
 run over with kittens for I don't know how 
 long. They were very pretty, but great 
 thieves, and I think that cured your aunt of 
 them. However, I shall try and cheer her a 
 bit, poor thing ! I fancy she is vexed at Mr. 
 Tempi ernore's marrying that little flirt ; and it 
 is provoking when we had made up our minds 
 that it should be you, you know ! " 
 
 " Mamma, pray do not," entreated Dora, 
 looking both mortified and pained. 
 
 " Very well," resignedly said Mrs. Courte- 
 nay ; " of course, if you don't like it, or didn't 
 like him, there is nothing to be said or done ; 
 but, as I said, I shall cheer Mrs. Luan." 
 
 Mrs. Courtenay evidently considered the 
 task of cheering Mrs. Luan a charitable sort of 
 bore, but also one which lay within her power. 
 Howsoever right the former conclusion might 
 be, the latter one rested on a great mistake. 
 Mrs. Luan did not want being cheered, for 
 the more Mrs. Courtenay forced her company 
 upon her, the more she shunned and tacitly 
 declined it. In vain her kind little sister-in- 
 law followed her about, " cheering " her ; Mrs. 
 Luan gave her a wary look out of the corner 
 of her sullen eve, and dropped her when Mrs. 
 Courtenay was least on her guard, or could 
 not follow her. This she did several times, 
 till Mrs. Courtenay, perceiving her object, 
 got affronted, and gave up cheering her un- 
 gracious, thankless relative. 
 
 " She runs away from me as fast as if she 
 were a spider, and I the housemaid with the 
 
 broom ! " indignantly thought Mrs. Courte- 
 nay; and the comparison was far more apt 
 than she imagined it to be. Mrs. Luan was 
 no longer the blue-bottle buzzing in Mrs. Lo- 
 gan's heedless ear. They had changed parts. 
 One lady was the foolish fly, and the other 
 the cunning spider by whom it was to be en- 
 snared. 
 
 There is a terrible power in " one idea." A 
 power which is often the stronger that it is 
 embodied in a narrow mind. No fancy, no 
 imagination, no tenderness, could divert Mrs. 
 Luan from a purpose once conceived ; and this 
 tenacity, which is always dangerous, was the 
 more formidable in her, that no strong moral 
 law controlled it. She had but a weak sense 
 of right and wrong, and she had done nothing 
 to make that weak sense stronger. The evil 
 she did she also loved, and the deeper she 
 sank into that slough, the better she liked it. 
 In her was fulfilled the terrible progression of 
 sin; for however deficient, or erratic, or unrea- 
 sonable was her mind, there was sin in her, as 
 there often is even in the insane — not, indeed, 
 when they are actually insane, but because their 
 sin has helped their insanity. All moral evil 
 is a want of reason, since there can be no evil 
 where there is perfect reason ; but unless that 
 want be total — and it is rarely so — there is 
 guilt. So says the law, and with it the com- 
 mon-sense of every country. Her will, her 
 interest, had been Mrs. Luan's rule of life, and 
 she now reaped the fruit of this selfish doc- 
 trine. When a strong and criminal tempta- 
 tion came to her, she could not resist it, or, at 
 least, her power to do so was very restricted. 
 She was accustomed to be reckless in small 
 things, and she knew not how to be careful or 
 timorous, even though the stakes were heavy. 
 The end in view was all she saw, or cared to 
 see — the abyss between her and that end she 
 both ignored and contemned. It was nothing 
 to her, she was not to be the victim. In that 
 dark pit she would throw Mr. Templcmore,
 
 158 
 
 DORA. 
 
 Florence, Dora even, if it were needed — and 
 Mre. Luan did not care, provided she prevailed. 
 She did not, indeed, put the matter in that 
 light, there was no need to be so tragic about 
 it ; and as Mrs. Luan had no imagination, she 
 could not exaggerate to herself the conse- 
 quences of her actions, nor perhaps conceive 
 them in all their bearings. She saw but one 
 thing, and thought of but one thing : " Dora 
 shall not marry John," and its corollary, " Mr. 
 Templemore shall marry Dora ! " 
 
 In that mood, and with that thought, she 
 watched and waited for Mrs. Logan. 
 
 CHAPTER XXVIII. 
 
 No inquiry concerning Eva was sent in by 
 Mrs. Logan the next day. Mrs. Logan's head 
 ached, and she lay moaning on the sofa, and 
 forgot all about Eva. Nay, she thought her- 
 self ill-used because Mr. Templemore did not 
 come to ask what ailed her ; and when he ap- 
 peared at length, she burst forth into reproach- 
 ful lamentations, and was silent concerning his 
 child. 
 
 " She has not much reason to love her," 
 thought Mr. Templemore; but he thought, too, 
 that for his sake, at least, she might have re- 
 membered the little sinner. 
 
 "You might, at least, have sent round to 
 know how I was, since you were too much en- 
 gaged with Darius to come ! " said Mrs. Logan, 
 very tartly. "Fanny, or Miss Courtenay— 
 any one ! " 
 
 This was said with considerable imperti- 
 nence, and Mr. Templemore colored deeply; 
 but he looked at some flowers in a stand, and 
 counted their petals, before he trusted himself 
 to say. 
 
 " Florence, thai is not right." 
 
 Mrs. Logan was reclining on the sofa in 
 her pretty sitting-room ; but though the shut- 
 were closed, and the room was darkened, 
 
 Mr. Templemore could see her color rise as he 
 spoke thus, very gravely. 
 
 " I believe you have a great regard for Miss 
 Courtenay ! " she exclaimed, sitting up, and 
 forgetting her headache. 
 
 " Very great," he replied, gravely. 
 
 " I believe you admire her as well." 
 
 " Very much." 
 
 Mrs. Logan's dark eyes flashed 
 
 " Mr. Templemore," she said, " do you think 
 I am going to allow that ? " 
 
 "And pray why should you not?" He 
 spoke with irritating calmness. " I thought," 
 he continued, " that you and Miss Courtenay 
 were old friends." 
 
 "I detest her!" cried Mrs. Logan — "you 
 like her, Eva likes her — " 
 
 " And Fido likes her," he suggested, with a 
 smile. 
 
 " Who would not admire so perfect a 
 creature ? " asked Mrs. Logan, enraged at his 
 composure ; " only, if your feelings are so 
 strong on the subject, Mr. Templemore, why 
 don't you marry her? Just tell me that? 
 Why don't you marry her ? " 
 
 He rose and looked at her. 
 
 " Florence ! " he said — " Florence ! " He 
 was angry — deeply angry ; and this, joined to 
 a quick sense of her own imprudence, brought 
 Mrs. Logan to her senses. Not knowing what 
 to do, she burst into tears, and as it was the 
 first time she had ever done so, she was at 
 once forgiven. "But never do it again," he 
 said, wiping her tears away — " never do it, my 
 dear child." 
 
 Mrs. Logan liked being called " my dear 
 child," and being treated like a silly little 
 thing, so she smiled, shook her head, and 
 said: 
 
 " Well, you know, I like Dora very well, only 
 she is awfully clever. She overpowers me." 
 
 " Not with speech, surely ? " 
 
 "Oh ! she is silent witli me; but she talks 
 to you."
 
 FLORENCE'S JEALOUSY. 
 
 159 
 
 Mr. Templemore bit his lip. So he must 
 have a jealous Florence as well as a jealous 
 Eva ? But he would not resent this speech, 
 and prudently rose to go. 
 
 " You are in a mighty hurry," Florence said, 
 ironically. 
 
 " I received a telegram from my solicitor 
 this morning, and I must answer it; but I 
 shall come again after dinner, to see if your 
 headache is better." 
 
 Again Florence was pacified. A telegram 
 from Mr. Templemore's solicitor could only 
 refer to marriage settlements. She smiled 
 one of those sweet, bright smiles which none 
 who saw could help loving, and sinking back 
 on the sofa, she said, coaxingly, 
 
 " Mind you come early." 
 
 " Very early," replied Mr. Templemore, and 
 he too smiled ; but as the door closed upon 
 him, and he walked through the little garden 
 to the road, and thence on to Les Roches, he 
 thought with some bitterness : " She is a child, 
 and she has a child's want of reason, as well as 
 a child's artlessness, so I must make up my 
 mind to that." It was easy to say it — easier 
 than to act up.on it. The thoughts that came 
 to Mr. Templemore's mind just then, whether 
 he liked it or not, were not pleasant visitors. 
 They were importunate, and though he bade 
 them begone, they would not be denied. 
 " You have been hasty," tbey said, " and now 
 it is too late to repent, and you feel it. The 
 child of seven may outgrow her folly, but the 
 child of twenty-seven will never be wiser than 
 she is to-day. You must expect no ripening 
 of reason, no sweet maturity of thought, none 
 of the wise and tender graces which come to 
 woman instead of beauty and its bloom. This, 
 indeed, you have in its fulness. Then remem- 
 ber it, and since your choice is both deliberate 
 and free, be content. 
 
 Mr. Templemore had too much of that phi- 
 losophy which is the gift of experience, not to 
 abide by this conclusion, and what was more, 
 
 not to be in some sort satisfied with it. We 
 say in some sort, because be had already 
 passed that early and fervent stage of love in 
 which the content is perfect, and the fond il- 
 lusion complete. He could not help it. The 
 wakening had come gently, gradually, without 
 the least bitterness, and, what was better still, 
 without removing Florence from his heart. 
 She was not the divinity she had been for a 
 few months, but she was a beloved woman, 
 soon to be a wife, and whose faults and im- 
 perfections Mr. Templemore was inclined to 
 view with a tender and lenient eye. Happy 
 Florence, if she had known it. Her hold was 
 strong and deep. Her whims, her jealousy, 
 her little selfishness, even, could not shake it. 
 She might make imprudent suggestions, and 
 waken dangerous comparisons, with perfect 
 impunity. It was in vain that Mr. Temple- 
 more both liked and admired Dora ; the 
 thought that this girl, and not Florence, was 
 the right one, could not come to his mind, or 
 move one fibre of his heart. 
 
 Florence had a glimpse of that truth when 
 Mr. Templemore left her, but it was a glimpse, 
 and no more, aud it soon vanished in darkness. 
 Had he really received a telegram, or was this 
 an excuse to leave her and go back to Dora, 
 and talk about cuneiform inscriptions with 
 her ? Then why had he said that he would 
 come in the evening ? Probably to keep her 
 within, and prevent her from seeing what went 
 on at Les Roches. Xo sooner had this fancy 
 taken hold of Mrs. Logan's mind, than her 
 headache was gone. She sat up, found out 
 that she was quite well, ate a hasty dinner, 
 that also she was quite equal to, and went off 
 to Les Roches. 
 
 " The family had not done dinner," so said 
 Fanny, who came out bright and Bmiling to 
 show Mrs. Logan in. But that lady would not 
 be shown in ; her head ached again, and the 
 air would do her good. Where was Miss Cour- 
 tenay ? In the school-room ? Xo, Miss Cour-
 
 100 
 
 DORA. 
 
 tenav and Miss Eva dined with Mr. Temple- 
 more and Miss Moore to-day. 
 
 " Because I was not here ! " thought Flor- 
 ence, turning away with an angry blush. She 
 felt peevish and fretful, too, because Mr. Tem- 
 plemore did not come out to her at once ; and 
 she walked up and down the garden, thinking, 
 " He does it on purpose, or, " He is staying to 
 talk with Dora ; " whilst Mr. Templemore, 
 who was ignorant of her presence, was on his 
 way to her house. But even if she had known 
 this, would Flc ence have been satisfied ? She 
 was in the mood when nothing pleases, and 
 when everything irritates. She walked, for 
 the sake of shade, near the old chateau ; its 
 massive walls looked both cool aud strong, and 
 its long black shadow stretched over the 
 ground, with the conical roofs of its turrets 
 and the tall chimney-stacks of its high roof 
 cut out in clear black lines, that faded away 
 as they reached the green ring of trees that en- 
 closed the flower-garden. But this way was 
 both bright and beautiful — though the flowers 
 in the parterres, stirred by a pleasant breeze, 
 danced gayly in the light of the declining sun, 
 all these sweet and delightful details of culti- 
 vated nature were thrown away on Mrs. Logan. 
 She looked sulkily around her, and walked at 
 random, like a foolish, purposeless little fly, 
 whilst the spider watched her opportunity, and 
 spread her web in the background. 
 
 "I'suppo e : : \ will never have done din- 
 ner!" thought Mrs, Logan, in high displeasure 
 at the slowness of Mr. Templemore and his 
 family. " Ii is so pleasant to talk to Dora ! " 
 
 In this mood she turned hack to the house; 
 as she approached it she saw Mrs. Luan sitting 
 on a gai bair. 
 
 "Sodiim I Mrs. Logan. 
 
 " No, but it make.' my head ache. They talk 
 30!" 
 
 Tin eyi 
 
 "About w! 1 I ed. 
 
 " Oh ! Darius, you kno 
 
 From the spot where she stood Florence 
 could see into Mr. Templemorc's study. His 
 table was covered with books. She looked at 
 them resentfully. Her jealousy was roused, 
 and it applied to things as well as to persons. 
 It displeased her that within a few weeks of 
 his marriage, and on a day when her head 
 ached, Mr. Templemore should have time for 
 Darius and cuneiform inscriptions. A gener- 
 ous woman, however much she may be her 
 husband's inferior, cannot feel so. She may 
 pine to be like him — she can never long to 
 bring him down to her own level. But Mrs. 
 Logan was not a generous woman, and she 
 now querulously wondered at Mr. Templernore's 
 strange tastes. Was she to be bored with 
 books and Eastern inscriptions after her mar- 
 riage ? Mr. Logan had been a great nuisance 
 with boatiug, and a new fancy of his — hurling ; 
 but really Mrs. Logan preferred either taste to 
 learning. 
 
 " I shall be sick of my life with Darius ! " 
 she thought, a little sullenly. " And what do 
 they say about Darius ? " she asked. 
 
 " I don't know," slowly replied Mrs. Luan. 
 " They say Darius, but do they mean Darius, 
 you know ? " 
 
 Florence stared, .then turned crimson. Of 
 course, that was it ! Darius and cuneiform 
 inscriptions were the cloak these two used to 
 converse freely in the presence of witnesses. 
 For jealousy, not the fitful, capricious dawn, 
 but the full and burning reality of the passion, 
 suddenly invaded her as Mrs. Luan spoke, and 
 with it came the blindness, the want of reason, 
 and yet the perfidious subtlety of that pitiless 
 feeling. 
 
 " So they talk of Darius ! " she said, laugh- 
 ing. " In the study, I suppose ? " 
 
 " No, but they did last night, you know — 
 when he came up to Eva's room after you were 
 gone." 
 
 Mrs. Logan shook from head to foot with 
 anger. She had a violent temper, though few
 
 THE SCHOOL-ROOM STAIRCASE. 
 
 161 
 
 even of those who knew her best suspected it, 
 so well was it hidden under the veil of frivo- 
 lous gayety and pretty childish ways — so seldom 
 was the wicked, spirit roused from the dark 
 corner where he could lie sleeping for weeks 
 and months undetected. 
 
 " And they were alone ! " she at length 
 gasped forth. 
 
 " Oh ! no," replied Mrs. Luan, not seeming 
 to perceive her emotion, " I was asleep in a 
 chair." 
 
 Yes, she was sleeping, and the child no doubt 
 slept too — and that was how they mauaged. 
 They made opportunities in Eva's room up- 
 stairs, in the school-room below,- in the study, 
 in the garden — anywhere. She was deceived, 
 betrayed, and wronged before marriage ! Per- 
 haps he meant to jilt her ; perhaps, if he had 
 no such intention, to supplant her was Dora's 
 aim ; or was it a mere low, vulgar flirtation, in 
 which he risked his truth to her, and Dora her 
 fair name ? How could she know ? — who 
 would tell her ? Not Mrs. Luan ; Dora was 
 her niece. No, she would tell nothing — and 
 yet she was so stupid ! Could it not be got 
 out of her ? 
 
 " How kind of you to sleep ! " she said, 
 tauntingly; " it is so convenient for the third 
 person to sleep ! " 
 
 " But I can both see and hear when I am 
 asleep," sharply retorted Mrs. Luan — " oh ! so 
 well ! " 
 
 "Come, come," replied Mrs. Logan, with 
 gentle banter, and passing her arm within Mrs. 
 Luan's, she led her away from the house as 
 she spoke ; " you can't make me believe that, 
 Mrs. Luan — no, no. I am not brilliant, but 
 you can't make me believe that. You could 
 not repeat a word they said." 
 
 " I tell you I can," persisted Mrs. Luan ; and 
 looking triumphantly at Mrs. Logan, she add- 
 ed : " He told Dora she was to be a mother to 
 his motherless little girl." 
 
 Deadly paleness overspread Mrs". Logan's 
 11 
 
 face, and she bit her lip ; but Mrs. Luan, who 
 could sec and hear in her sleep, did not seem 
 to be so quick in her waking hours, for she 
 stared before her, and looking profoundly 
 stupid, was aware of nothing. 
 
 " Yes," bitterly said Florence, " she is to be 
 the mother of his child — to live here like a 
 queen in Les Roches; and, as Eva falls ill 
 when she sees me, he is to come here alone, 
 and I am to wait at Deenah. I am to be the 
 lady in pink, who can be broken and trod on 
 with impunity, and she is to be the precious 
 lady in blue, who is to be kept in a cabinet, 
 and whom it were death to lose — I see — I un- 
 derstand." 
 
 These bitter and stinging remarks Mrs. Luan 
 heard with perfect composure. 
 
 " What a beautiful evening ! " she said. 
 
 " Indeed, Mrs. Luan, you are not going to 
 escape me thus ! " cried Florence, in a rage ; 
 but her wrath fell down in a moment as she 
 saw the cunning look in Mrs. Luan's eyes. 
 " I shall never find out anything that way," 
 thought Florence — " never." So she laughed, 
 and said, merrily, " That's a good joke, too, to 
 want me to believe that Mr. Templemore cares 
 a pin for Dora. Why, don't you see he is 
 making fun of her ? " 
 
 She looked at Mrs. Luan, and Mrs. Luan 
 looked at her. Each wanted to deceive the 
 other, and each, to her own woe, succeeded. 
 
 The best parts in the drama of life are not 
 always given to the greatest or the noblest 
 actors. The mean, the frivolous, often ascend 
 the stage and fill it with the story of their 
 tragic wrongs. A heavy woe lay before Flor- 
 ence. A cruel snare was being spread for her ; 
 she was but a weak, frivolous, and jealous lit- 
 tle woman, incapable of a great or an heroic 
 feeling, yet she was to suffer as if she had 
 been a high-minded heroine, and to be sacri- 
 ficed as ruthlessly as any innocent Iphigenia. 
 But the Greek princess gave herself up to the 
 knife, and never thought of revenge ; and Mrs.
 
 162 
 
 DORA. 
 
 Logan was bent upon it, and though she was 
 too shallow not to fall at once into the trap 
 laid for her by her enemy, she was yet cunning 
 enough to hide her thirst and longing for ven- 
 geance. Mrs. Luan, indeed, was not in the 
 least deceived by Mrs. Logan's affected skepti- 
 cism ; but then, being only an obstinate and 
 relentless woman, and by no means a clever 
 or a shrewd one, she could not read Mrs. Lo- 
 gan's heart ; and thus each fell into the toils 
 of the other — and a jealous young beauty, as 
 silly as she was pretty, and a selfish, narrow- 
 minded woman, in whom the long-nursed love 
 of self was fast turning into confirmed insanity, 
 became the arbiter of a proud and innocent 
 girl's fate, and held in their hands the weal 
 or woe of the master of Les Roches. 
 
 "Why do you let him treat Dora so?" 
 sulkily asked Mrs. Luan — " why don't you in- 
 terfere ? " 
 
 Mrs. Logan laughed. 
 
 " Dora can take care of herself — besides, he 
 means no harm." 
 
 " Yes, but John would not like it — I am 
 sure John would not like about that staircase 
 in the school-room — I don't." 
 
 In a moment Mrs. Logan understood it all, 
 or thought that she understood it. Mrs. Luan 
 thus half accused her niece to her because she 
 was jealous of Mr. Templemore for John's 
 sake, and, thanks to that jealousy, the foolish 
 woman could be made to betray every thing. 
 
 " What staircase ? " she carelessly asked. 
 
 " Why, you see, Eva is often ill ; and, to 
 save time, Mr. Templemore goes up the stair- 
 case in the school-room, or Dora comes down 
 to speak to him. It is such a round the other 
 way; but I say John would not like it." 
 
 .Mrs. Logan looked amazed, then contempt- 
 uous. 
 
 " Nonsense," she said—" you dreamed that. 
 I don't believe it." 
 
 "Oh!" I dreamed it, did I?" exclaimed 
 I. 'i hi, uiih sodden wrath, and shaking 
 
 her head at Florence. " Did I dream that you 
 jilted Paul, eh ? I suppose, too, you will tell 
 me there was no thunder last night, and that 
 I did not see the blue lightning whilst he was 
 with Dora ? " 
 
 Mrs. Logan stepped back, and looked so 
 startled that Mrs. Luan grew calm at once. 
 She smoothed her heavy brow — she smiled. 
 
 " Why, Florence," she resumed, " you are 
 not frightened, are you ? But just see, by- 
 and-by, if there be not a staircase in the 
 school-room." 
 
 Florence could not answer at once ; her 
 throat felt parched and dry. The staircase 
 was the confirmation of Mr. Templemore's 
 guilt — thus he could have interviews with 
 Dora which servants could not know of. He 
 had but to cross the hall to go from bis study 
 to the school-room. He could watch his op- 
 portunities, or make them undetected ; and 
 when Dora could not come down to him, he 
 could go up to her under that convenient pre- 
 tence of Eva's illness. 
 
 " So that is it," she thought ; " that is it- 
 she wants to marry John some day, and yet 
 to flirt with my husband in the mean time ; 
 but I shall put a stop to the one, and let her 
 manage the other — if she can ! — if she can ! ' 
 
 Mrs. Luan was looking at her with sullen 
 triumph ; but Florence only said, with feigned 
 indifference : 
 
 "I don't care about that staircase — he 
 never goes up it, I am sure." 
 
 " Will you watch to-night, and see him ? " 
 asked Sirs. Luan, eagerly. 
 
 Mrs. Logan dropped her a mocking curtsy. 
 
 " Thank you — you would go and tell them, 
 and would they not have a laugh at my ex- 
 pense, that's all ! " 
 
 " I should not tell — I don't want to — I only 
 want you to put a stop to it. There's no 
 harm, but John would not like it." 
 
 " Then let John prevent it ! " 
 
 " You will not ! "
 
 "COME AND SEE." 
 
 163 
 
 " How can I ? " asked Florence. 
 " Oh ! it is quite easy," coolly said Mrs. 
 Luan — " watch him, but don't show yourself, 
 and tell him the next day that he stays too 
 much with Dora. He'll say ' no.' Then pre- 
 tend to believe him, and make him promise 
 not to be so much with her, and he'll be 
 frightened, and think you know something, 
 and it will be all right, you know." 
 
 " But how can I come and watch ? " asked 
 Mrs. Logan, doubtfully. 
 
 " Oh ! it is so easy. I'll let you in by the 
 little garden-door, and we can see them in the 
 school-room. I'll go home with you, and he 
 need never know." 
 
 " Mrs. Luan, you might let it out ; and if 
 Mr. Templemore thought I had been watch- 
 ing him, he would never forgive me." 
 
 She looked so frightened at the thought 
 of discovery, that Mrs. Luan had something 
 to do not to laugh aloud at her simplicity. 
 As if she wanted her plot to be known. Oh ! 
 dear, oh ! dear, to think how stupid the world 
 was ; and they all thought her stupid — that 
 was the best of it ! 
 
 "Don't be afraid, Flo!" she said, patroniz- 
 ingly ; " he'll not know, unless you tell him." 
 " The fool ! — the idiot ! " almost angrily 
 thought Florence ; " does she think I am 
 afraid, that I will come and watch and hide, 
 and all for John's sake. No, if I do come, 
 and if it be so, let Mr. Templemore and Dora 
 quake, and let John, let any man marry her 
 after that if he will, or if he dare ! " 
 
 "Well," urged Mrs. Luan, "will you come 
 and see ? " 
 
 There was a subtle look in her dark eyes, 
 which might have warned a wise woman; but 
 the words " come and see," lured Florence 
 on. "To come and see," to confound Mr. 
 Templemore, to humble Dora, and semi her 
 forth like a new Agar, and to outwit that in- 
 solent Mrs. Luan, who only thought of her 
 stupid John. Yes, all these were temptations 
 
 which she knew not how to resist. Yet she 
 seemed to hesitate, and it was with reluctance, 
 with seeming terror that she said : 
 
 " Mr. Templemore will not know, will he ? " 
 "No — no," replied Mrs. Luan, laughing; 
 " I'll never tell him — never, never ! All right, 
 he shall not scold you." 
 
 " Oh ! dear, I hope not," said Mrs. Logan, 
 with a little shudder, and as if she stood in 
 mortal dread of Mr. Templemore's scolding. 
 
 But that fear, if she felt it, she hid well. 
 The sunniest of smiles beamed on her pretty 
 face when Mr. Templemore and she met on 
 his return to Les Roches. Temper and jeal- 
 ousy seemed to have left her as suddenly as 
 they had come. Mr. Templemore was grave, 
 indeed — perhaps he could not forget at once — 
 but Florence was all sweet, innocent glee. 
 He would have wished her to go in, maybe, 
 to remonstrate, but Mrs. Logan said the even- 
 ing was lovely, and asked to walk up and 
 down in front of the house. She felt a par- 
 ticular inclination for the ground-floor win- 
 dows of Les Roches, and especially for that 
 of the school-room where Dora sat with Eva. 
 
 The child had been good all day, and Mr. 
 Templemore dreaded to be so near her with 
 Florence. No sooner, indeed, did Eva see 
 her enemy, than, giving her a gloomy look, 
 she flung herself on Dora's lap, whilst Fido 
 uttered a sharp bark from a corner of the 
 room. Mrs. Logan stood still, and looked 
 ironically at Mr. Templemore, who colored 
 with vexation ; and Dora, unconscious of their 
 thoughts, looked at them with sorrowful resig- 
 nation. They stood before her in the red 
 sunlight arm-in-arm, a happy couple, gazing 
 at her in her nether gloom from the bright 
 siTcne heights to which love had borne them. 
 
 "Ami thus they will pass through life!" 
 she thought. 
 
 " I suppose I act like red on Eva ! " said 
 Mi 3. Logan, moving on. "Very flattering, is 
 it not, Mr. Templemore ? "
 
 164 
 
 DORA. 
 
 She laughed, and looked more amused than 
 vexed ; but her quick eyes had gone over the 
 school-room, and seen a door which might or 
 might not lead to a staircase. " I must find 
 it out," she thought. 
 
 There are days and hours of seeming suc- 
 cess, when our schemes are favored to the 
 fulness of our conception. True, that success 
 is more apparent than real, true failure were 
 the real blessing, but we do not know that till 
 it is too late, and we have paid the cost of 
 our triumph. The small ingenuity which con- 
 sists in plotting Mrs. Logan had as well as 
 Mrs. Luan. She now exercised it to her own 
 detriment. Eva was playing in the school- 
 room, where Dora sat watching her, and 
 answering her now and then as cheerfully as 
 she could, when the child's flippant speech 
 broke on her thoughts. 
 
 " Cousin Dora," said Eva, "I am going to 
 give Minna a bath." 
 
 " Very well, dear, but mind she does not 
 take cold." 
 
 " Oh ! I shall shampoo her, you know." 
 
 Dora did not answer, and Eva became very 
 silent. Suddenly Mrs. Logan came up to the 
 window and looked in. Dora was alone. 
 
 " Eva, come here," she said. 
 
 Eva did not answer. Dora looked round — 
 the child was gone. 
 
 " Eva," she called, uneasily ; but Eva did 
 not reply. 
 
 " Surely she did not go and give Minna a 
 bath near the waterfall," said Florence. 
 
 Dora started up. In a moment she was 
 out of the room. She did not run— she flew. 
 Tel she was scarcely out of breath when she 
 reached the little cascade. The grayness of 
 evening lingered around the spot, and the 
 little pool looked both dark and deep. Dora 
 knelt down, ana leaning both her hands on 
 the margin, she looked in. She saw the pe& 
 bi d, and the water Sowing smoothly over 
 it; and as she saw them, she heard Eva's 
 
 voice talking far away with Miss Moore. With 
 a sigh of relief she walked back slowly. 
 
 That slowness was favorable to Mrs. Logan. 
 No sooner was Dora out of sight than she en- 
 tered the school-room, opened the door, and 
 went up the staircase. Eva's room was the 
 first she saw. She gave it a rapid glance, 
 then, opening another door, she stood in 
 Fanny's room. This was not what Mrs. 
 Logan wanted. Eetracing her steps, she 
 crossed Eva's room again, and this time en- 
 tered Dora's. 
 
 She saw it well, spite the twilight. She 
 saw it, but was blind, and did not read its 
 meaning. That rather austere room, where 
 Dora had read, and prayed, and conquered her 
 full heart — where she had dreamed of the lost 
 past, of her brother's grave, whence she had 
 looked at the fountain in the court, and pre- 
 vailed over fond rebellious youth, told none of 
 its secrets to Florence. She only saw that it 
 held some valuable articles of furniture, which 
 she had secretly appropriated, and which Mr. 
 Templemore, unconscious of the fact, had ded- 
 icated to Dora's use. 
 
 " He knows that I wanted that carved prie- 
 dieu" thought Florence, angrily, " and those 
 old damask curtains, and he gives them to her 
 —to her ! " 
 
 How could she doubt his guilt after that ? 
 She did not. Burning with resentment, she 
 went down, and reached the garden as Mr. 
 Templemore came back with the flowers she 
 had asked him for, and Dora approached the 
 house with Eva. On seeing Mrs. Logan, the 
 child clung to her governess, and hid her face 
 in her garments. 
 
 " How flattering ! " exclaimed Mrs. Logan 
 shortly. 
 
 Mr. Templemore could scarcely repress a 
 sigh. These last two days had not been days 
 of happiness to him. Eva had been ill and 
 naughty, Florence irritable, and Dora sad and 
 grave. What discord had thus suddenly en-
 
 THE STORM. 
 
 165 
 
 tered his once happy home ; for whilst Flor- 
 ence had been amiable and sweet, he had 
 found even Eva's naughtiness endurable — but 
 now everything was a trouble and a pain. 
 Perhaps it was not unnatural that when Mrs. 
 Logan spoke of going, because she was sure a 
 storm was coming on, he was not very eager 
 to detain her. He said, indeed, that Les 
 Roches was safe since it possessed a lightning- 
 conductor ; but when Florence professed to 
 fear lightning-conductors, he only laughed, 
 and did not argue her out of her fear. It had 
 formerly pleased Mrs. Logan that her lover 
 should laugh at any foolish speech she uttered, 
 but now she felt affronted. Besides, did she not 
 see he wanted her to be gone ! Of course he 
 did, to go up that staircase to Dora. But she 
 would humor him, she would ; only maybe 
 he might repent it. He saw her leave, and 
 as they parted at the garden gate of her villa, 
 Mrs. Logan said tauntingly : 
 
 " Good-night. Don't sit up too late with 
 Dora." 
 
 He wanted to answer, but with another little 
 taunting laugh she was gone. He heard the 
 door of the villa open and shut again, and he 
 slammed the garden gate and walked home, 
 boiling with anger and vexation, and never 
 once suspecting that the pretty sinner was 
 walking leisurely behind him ; but whereas he 
 entered Les Roches by the front gate, Mrs. 
 Logan crept round to a low side-door in the 
 wall, where she was to find Mrs. Luan, accord- 
 ing to their agreement. 
 
 Mrs. Luan had lost no time. She had laid 
 her plaus with that superfluous cunning which 
 is one of the attributes of diseased minds ; and 
 she carried them out with ingenuity and suc- 
 cess. When Florence left Les Roches, Mrs. 
 Luan went up to Eva's room. She found 
 Fanny with the child, whom she was going to 
 undress. 
 
 " Eva," she said, " shall I show you the 
 shell box now ? — I am going to put it up." 
 
 " Oh ! do," cried Eva, darting away from 
 Fanny, " do show it to me, Mrs. Luan ! " 
 
 This shell box Eva had raved about for 
 days, so wonderful had been Mrs. Luan's de- 
 scription of it, and so persistently had it been 
 denied to all her longing entreaties. 
 
 " Wait, Fanny, wait ! " she cried ; " I shall 
 be back directly." 
 
 And Fanny good-humoredly complied, and 
 was willing to wait her little mistress's pleas- 
 ure. The shell box stood on Mrs. Luan's 
 table near a glass full of a clear and fragrant 
 liquid. It was a lovely box in Eva's eyes. For 
 it had a rose made of pink-colored shells on 
 its lid, and white flowers — strawberry-flowers, 
 on its side. 
 
 " Oh ! how beautiful ! " cried Eva. " Oh ! 
 what a box ! " 
 
 Now it so happened that Mrs. Luan be- 
 lieved in the box too, so she replied grimly : 
 
 " It is a box ! Worth any money ! " so say- 
 ing, she took the glass and sipped some of its 
 contents. 
 
 "I am so thirsty ! " hinted Eva. 
 
 " You can't have this," replied Mrs. Luan. 
 "They are my drops — not fit for little 
 girls." 
 
 But she put down the glass, and taking up 
 the box, muttered something about putting it 
 away in the next room. 
 
 Eva remained alone with Mrs. Luan's drops. 
 No more than her great mother and namesake 
 did she know how to resist temptation. She 
 looked round. Mrs. Luan was not coming 
 back ; she took a sip, then another, then she 
 almost drained the glass ; and having done 
 this, she ran back to her own room in guilty 
 glee. 
 
 " I have done it ! " she said to Fanny — " I 
 have done it ! " 
 
 " Done what ? " naturally inquired Fanny. 
 But Eva was not tempted to tell — she heard 
 Miss Courtenay in her room, and was mute. 
 
 Dora sat by her open window watching
 
 166 
 
 DORA. 
 
 for the storm which Florence had foretold. 
 It came at last. It was not a violent one, yet 
 occasionally a flash of lightning filled the 
 court, and touched the little fountain below 
 with sudden light; then a remote peal fol- 
 lowed, and a low rushing shower of rain. 
 
 " When that storm is over there will be 
 calmness," thought Dora. " I wonder why it 
 is not so with us. Why we are ever ready for 
 turmoil and torment !" 
 
 She had not time to pursue these thoughts ; 
 the door of her room opened, and Mrs. Luan 
 came in. 
 
 Dora looked at her in some surprise. Her 
 aunt never came to her room. What had 
 brought her this evening ? 
 
 " I feel that storm," said Mrs. Luan, sitting 
 down, evidently with the intention of remain- 
 ing some time. " I feel it in my head so." 
 She took off her cap and threw it on Dora's 
 table as she spoke. 
 
 " It makes your head ache, aunt ? " 
 
 " No, not ache ; but it puzzles me so." 
 
 She looked rather excited and bewildered. 
 
 " You would not like to sleep, aunt ? " said 
 Dora ; " maybe it would calm you." 
 
 " Sleep ! — why, what is the time ? " 
 
 A clock in the hall below answered the 
 question by striking eleven. 
 
 " Do you think they are all in bed ? " asked 
 Mrs. Luan. 
 
 " The house is very still, aunt." 
 
 " Yes ; but Mr. Templemore is in his 
 stud}-." 
 
 Dora did not answer this ; Mr. Templemore 
 s;it up late, and she knew it — but what about 
 it? 
 
 " I am sure Eva is ill ! " suddenly remarked 
 Mrs. Luan, staring at her niece. 
 
 " Sin- is very well, aunt." 
 
 " And I am sure she is ill with that storm 
 
 ill and alone, for Fanny is below." 
 
 A vague uneasiness tools hold of Dora. She 
 rose, she crossed her room, she entered Eva's, 
 
 closely followed by Mrs. Luan. They found 
 the child sitting up in her bed, with a wild 
 stare. 
 
 " Eva ! Eva ! what ails you ? " cried Dora, 
 alarmed. 
 
 But Eva did not answer. 
 
 " Go for Mr. Templemore," said her aunt ; 
 " he is in his study — go down the staircase, 
 and you will get to the study at once, you 
 know." 
 
 But though Dora had no suspicion of the 
 trap laid for Mrs. Logan, and in which she too 
 was to fall, she would not do this. To go 
 thus and call Mr. Templemore with alarm in 
 her looks, seemed to her like striking the 
 talisman in the Arab story — a deed to be de- 
 layed as long as possible. 
 
 " But the child is ill — quite ill," said Mrs. 
 Luan, stamping her foot angrily. " Go — go 
 at once!" 
 
 "No, aunt," replied Dora, firmly ; " there is 
 no need for that. I can see this is nothing. 
 Eva was frightened, and had the nightmare, 
 she is well now." 
 
 " You will not go down to the study and do 
 it ? " said Mrs. Luan, stamping her foot, and 
 shaking her head at her niece. " You had 
 better — mind, you had better, Dora." 
 
 " Aunt, I will not." 
 
 " Then I will." Mrs. Euan stepped toward 
 the door ; but Dora forestalled her, and lock- 
 ing the door, took out the key. 
 
 Mrs. Luan looked at her with insane fury in 
 her eyes. 
 
 " You'll rue that, Dora," she said ; " you'll 
 rue that ! I wanted to be the making of you — 
 but you'll rue that ! " 
 
 Dora did not heed the threat then ; but how 
 she remembered it later ! 
 
 "Aunt," she said soothingly, "what ails 
 you ? I am quite willing to ring for Fanny." 
 
 " Do if you dare ! " angrily, exclaimed Mrs. 
 Luan. Then she added, more gently, " What 
 is it to me ? "
 
 MR. TEMPLEMORE SURPRISED. 
 
 167 
 
 " Look ! " soothingly said Dora, " and see 
 how well Eva seems now." 
 
 " Why, so she does ! " exclaimed Mrs. Luan, 
 converted with suspicious facility; "and do 
 you know, Dora, I think I shall go to bed." 
 
 " Do, aunt, it will do you good ; and Eva is 
 falling asleep." 
 
 Mrs. Luan yawned, and looked very sleepy 
 as she rose and left the room. 
 
 Eva was falling asleep, as Dora had said. 
 She had sunk back on her little couch, and her 
 cheek lay on her pillow ; her eyes were closed, 
 her breathing came regularly through her 
 parted lips. " I suppose it was the storm 
 frightened her," thought Dora. And lest Eva 
 should waken again, she sat down by her and 
 watched patiently, listening to the low rushing 
 of the rain. And as she sat thus, Dora was 
 startled at hearing her name uttered by Mr. 
 Templemore's voice in the room below. She 
 rose, she opened the door, and listened. Yes, 
 it was he who was talking on the staircase. 
 
 ""For God's sake ! what is it ? " he exclaimed ; 
 " Eva is ill again ! " 
 
 " No ! no ! " eagerly replied Dora, unlocking 
 
 the door, and going down to meet him ; " she 
 
 was a little feverish, but she is fast asleep now." 
 
 The color returned to Mr. Templemore's pale 
 
 face, and he breathed a sigh of relief. 
 
 " Thank Heaven ! " he said ; " Mrs. Luan 
 frightened me." 
 
 Dora had come down with a light in her 
 hand. She still held it as she stood on the 
 last step of the staircase, and Mr. Templemore 
 saw the troubled, startled meaning which came 
 to her face as he spoke. 
 
 " Did you not send her ? " he asked. 
 " Xo," she answered. But the confusion of 
 her denial did not escape him. Without 88 ;. 
 ing a word, Mr. Templemore rang. Dora 
 thought it best to begin an explanation. 
 
 " I believe — " she said — but the words had 
 scarcely passed her lips when the door opened 
 abruptly. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIX. 
 
 " She's very cunning, is Dora," thought 
 Mrs. Luan, as she left Eva's room ; " but I am 
 more cunning than she is, you know." 
 
 And with a low laugh of triumph at her own 
 sagacity, she went down below andjoiued Mrs. 
 Logan. That lady stood alone, and in the 
 dark, in Dora's sitting-room, waiting impatient- 
 ly for the tokens of Mr. Templemore's guilt. 
 
 " Mrs. Luan," she angrily whispered, " it 
 must be all your invention. I have been here 
 this hour, and Mr. Templemore is not coming." 
 " But he will come, and Dora will come down 
 to him when Eva is asleep — and I say John 
 would not like it." 
 
 Repeated assertion is like the drop of water 
 whose ceaseless splash wears out the stone 
 beneath. Mrs. Logan was convinced, and 
 though she stayed to have ampler proof, she 
 did not need it. Still, Mr. Templemore came 
 not. 
 
 " I wonder where he is ? " whispered Mrs. 
 Luan. " Go out in the garden and see if there 
 be a light in his study." 
 
 Mistrust, feigned or real, held Mrs. Logan 
 back. 
 
 " Mrs. Luan," she said, " if ever Mr. Temple- 
 more learns through you that I was here to- 
 night, I'll — I'll make you repent it as long as 
 I live!" 
 
 And she did not stir. 
 
 Mrs. Luan laughed at the folly of the woman 
 who thought that she wanted to betray her to 
 Mr. Templemore. 
 
 " Then I'll go and see," she said, carelessly, 
 and as if to go were not what she wanted. 
 
 She went, and did not come back. At first 
 Mrs. Logan waited patiently, then she got irri- 
 tated and angry ; she did not venture to cross 
 the school-room; but opening the French 
 window, she entered the garden. It was rain- 
 ing fast, but Mrs. Logan did not mind the rain. 
 She looked at the window of Mr. Templemore's
 
 168 
 
 DORA. 
 
 study. A calm, steady light was burning there, 
 and showed her his bending figure. But as if 
 an enchanter's summons had suddenly dis- 
 turbed him, he rose, the study grew dark, then 
 the sehool-room was lit, and Florence distinctly 
 saw Mr. Templemore through the muslin cur- 
 tains. 
 
 " He's calling Dora," said Mrs. Luan's voice 
 in the darkness. " Do you hear him ? She'll 
 come ! — she'll come ! " 
 
 And even as she spoke Dora's figure was 
 seen by these two ; she had heard, and, to her 
 sorrow, obeyed the call. 
 
 " Is it not glorious ! " cried Mrs. Luan, 
 stamping in her glee, "to be thought a fool 
 and an idiot, and to play them off so ! He's 
 clever, and so is Dora, and yet you see ! — you 
 see ! " 
 
 Florence did not answer — she could not — 
 she felt stupid with amazement and grief. 
 She had still doubted, but now she saw it. If 
 she not love Mr. Templemore with romantic 
 affection, if Doctor Richard would have left 
 her cold and unmoved, if she required Deenah, 
 and Les Roches, and money, and its luxuries, 
 to give warmth to her love, still that love ex- 
 isted — not deep, not disinterested, but real. 
 That love, such as it was, now stung her to 
 take such revenge as the present opportunity 
 gave her. 
 
 " That will do," she whispered, " let us go, 
 now ; lead the way, and mind you never tell 
 him." 
 
 " No, no," said Mrs. Luan, laughing. "Never 
 fear, Flo, I shall never tell." 
 
 She led the way as Mrs. Logan bade her, 
 and whilst Bhe turned into the garden path, 
 Florence abruptly entered the house, and open- 
 ing the door of the school-room, burst in upon 
 Dora and Mr. Templemore. Eer clothes were 
 dripping with rain, her face was pale as death, 
 her eye's sparkled with jealous fury. 
 
 " I beg your pardon," she said, with a short 
 laugh. "I am very rude, I know, but I for- 
 
 got something here — a handkerchief, I be- 
 lieve — and so I came back for it. So sorry 
 to interrupt you, Mr. Templemore — and you, 
 too, Miss Courtenay, but I could not help it, 
 you see." 
 
 Amazement kept them both mute. Her un- 
 expected appearance, her looks, her tones, 
 were both menacing and mysterious. 
 
 " Florence, what is this ? " at length asked 
 Mr. Templemore, going up to her. 
 
 Mrs. Logan laughed in his face. 
 
 " Sorry to interrupt your tetc-d-tete with 
 Miss Courtenay," she said ; " but I really 
 could not help it, Mr. Templemore — besides, 
 it was raining outside, you know." 
 
 Mr. Templemore could not believe his ears 
 or his eyes. "Was this the gentle, playful 
 Florence, this pale woman whose looks of 
 jealous fury were bent now upon him — now 
 upon Dora ? His kitten had now turned into 
 a fierce young tigress ; and even in the confu- , 
 sion and dismay of the moment, he had a keen 
 sense of horror and disgust as he saw the ugly 
 transformation. Even then that absence of 
 moral beauty, which was the want of Mrs. 
 Logan's pretty face, though habitual good- 
 humor concealed it, was visible to him ; the 
 low brow, though so fair, the sensual mouth, 
 though so lovely, the ungenerous countenance 
 that could look so sweet, were all revealed to 
 him in one moment, and they filled him with 
 mingled anger and grief. There was resent- 
 ment, there was a sort of contempt, there was 
 ill-subdued scorn in his voice as he said : 
 
 "Florence, this is too much — this is too 
 much ! " 
 
 " So I think," replied Mrs. Logan, nodding 
 at him — "so I think," and she nodded at 
 Doya. 
 
 On seeing Florence enter — on hearing her 
 first words, Dora had felt stunned, but now in- 
 dignation roused her. She weut up to Mrs. 
 Logan, and in a low, even voice, she said : 
 
 " Mr. Templemore came here to see his
 
 MISS COURTENAY'S GRIEF. 
 
 169 
 
 6ick child ; may I ask what you conclude 
 thence ? " 
 
 She stood before Mrs. Logan pale and some- 
 what imperious, but also looking as much be- 
 yond the reach of anything that could sully 
 her honor as a regal lily on its stem. And as 
 she spoke, she laid her hand on Mrs. Logan's 
 arm, and she looked down in her face with a 
 glance so proud and clear, that if Florence 
 had not been very blind indeed, she must have 
 read its meaning — but she did not. 
 
 " Conclude ! " she ejaculated ; " dear me, 
 Miss Courtenay, I conclude nothing; only I 
 do hope that your future husband, whoever he 
 may be, will conclude nothing either from these 
 midnight meetings." 
 
 On hearing this insult from the woman who 
 had helped to send her brother to an early 
 grave, Dora drew back and smiled with utter 
 scorn ; but the smile died away on her lips as 
 the door opened, and answering Mr. Temple- 
 more's ring, Jacques and Fanny appeared on 
 the threshold. For on seeing them Mrs. Lo- 
 gan laughed aloud ; now, indeed, she held her 
 revenge ! 
 
 " Good-night, Mr. Templemore," she said in 
 French ; " I am sorry I interrupted your con- 
 versation with Miss Courtenay; but I am 
 going away, so you will both have plenty of 
 time." 
 
 She laughed scornfully, and left the room in 
 a glow of vindictive triumph. Jacques and 
 Fanny had both heard her ; she had had her 
 revenge. But she started back as she crossed 
 the threshold, for she found Mrs. Luan, who 
 had evidently been listening, and perhaps, too, 
 waiting for her outside the room. 
 
 " I promised to see you home," said Mrs. 
 Luan, grimly, "and I'll keep my word, I will — 
 I will — are you ready ? " 
 
 " No ! " sharply replied Mrs. Logan ; and 
 going up to Miss Moore, who was comiug 
 down the staircase, having left the drawing- 
 room in terror of the storm which was then 
 
 rolling above Les Roche?, she said bitterly, 
 " I have news for you, Miss Moore." 
 
 Mrs. Luan saw them enter the dining-room 
 together, and stood awhile looking after them ; 
 then with as black a face as she had ever 
 worn, she. entered the school-room. Jacques 
 was gone, but Fanny stood by Dora, who had 
 sat down on a chair by the table, pale as death, 
 and leaning her forehead on her hand. 
 
 " Miss Courtenay," said Mr. Templemore in 
 a tone of much emotion, " Mrs. Logan shall 
 apologize and retract. You shall have the 
 fullest satisfaction ! " 
 
 But Dora did not answer, or seem to hear 
 him. She sat with her eyes fixed, her lips 
 blanched. 
 
 " Disgraced ! " she said in a low voice — 
 " insulted and disgraced ! " 
 
 " On my word, on my honor, you shall not 
 suffer ! " he insisted, with some energy. 
 " There is no atonement you can suggest 
 which shall not be made to you for this ! " 
 
 "Atonement!" she repeated; "there is 
 none. Oh ! Mr. Templemore, your coming 
 here has undone me ! " 
 
 But he could not believe it — he would not. 
 
 " Who dare suspect you ? " he asked, red- 
 dening with indignation ; " you ! — you, Miss 
 Courtenay ! — it is impossible ! " 
 
 She did not answer — she could not argue. 
 She was stunned with a blow so cruel and so 
 unexpected. She felt faint, giddy, and power- 
 less — her head sank on her bosom, her arms 
 fell down by her sides, and if Mrs. Luan had 
 not supported her she must have fallen. 
 
 " I cannot bear it ! — I cannot ! " she said, 
 drearily. " Oh ! my God, did I deserve this ? " 
 
 Her despair touched Mr. Templemore's very 
 heart. Every argument he could think of he 
 used — every regret he could utter he now 
 spoke. But for once he was powerless. Dora 
 did not even hear him. 
 
 " Miss Courtenay," he said at length, with 
 some vehemence, "I tell you that Mrs. Logan
 
 170 
 
 DOKA 
 
 must apologize. She has not left the house 
 jet ; I will see her at once." 
 
 " Mrs. Logan is gone," quickly said Mrs. 
 Luan, looking rather scared. 
 
 " Gone in this storm ? — she who is so mor- 
 tally afraid of thunder and lightning ? Im- 
 possible ! " 
 
 And as Mr. Templemore uttered the words, 
 he looked up sharply at Mrs. Luan. She had 
 spoken with a vivacity which had surprised 
 him ; but even as he looked, the startled mean- 
 ing passed from her face ; it became, as ever, 
 dull, cold, and vacant. " I suppose all this 
 has excited her," he thought ; and he thought 
 no more, but left the school-room at once in 
 search of Mrs. Logan. Mrs. Luan followed 
 him with a furtive look, then, turning almost 
 fiercely on Fanny, she said : 
 
 " What do you stay for ? Go ! go ! " ** 
 She spoke so imperatively, that Fanny 
 obeyed the mandate at once, and went down 
 to the servants' room in some tremor, inform- 
 ing Jacques, in her broken French, that Miss 
 Courtenay's aunt was in a dreadful way about 
 all this. 
 
 " Well she may," sententiously said Jacques 
 — " well she may, Mademoiselle Fanny." 
 
 Mrs. Luan, indeed, was rather stricken at 
 the success of her plan — perhaps that success 
 had exceeded her expectations. Dora sat as 
 Mr. Templemore bad left her, with her face 
 buried in her hands, trying to measure the 
 abyss into which she had fallen. But her eye 
 Bhrank from these dark depths of shame which 
 seemed to lie before her. If she could have 
 seen an issue— a road to salvation — but none 
 appeared. 
 
 Two servants had heard Mrs. Logan's in- 
 sulting taunt. Would Mr. Templemore at- 
 tempt to bribe them into Bilenee? — could he 
 do it?— was i: nol too late by this ?— had not 
 . the Story alreadj been told in the kitchen? 
 and thence would it not spread in ever-widen- 
 ing circles, until it encompassed her like a 
 
 sea ? He had promised to atone. But atone- 
 ment was not in his power. He was as help- 
 less as she was ; like her, he might stand and 
 look on at the disastrous effect a few words 
 had wrought ; but the sluices had been opened, 
 and by no mortal power could the waters be 
 called back. 
 
 " Disgraced ! " muttered Dora, removing her 
 hands from her pale, distracted face — " dis- 
 graced ! and forever. Aunt, aunt, I cannot 
 bear it ! — I must conquer this or die ! " 
 
 " Dora," said her aunt, clinching her hands, 
 and stammering from the agitation with which 
 she spoke, " if Mr. Templemore does not do 
 you justice — if he does not marry you, I — I 
 will make him repent it." 
 
 When our own mood is overwrought and 
 excited, we wonder at nothing. Dora heard 
 her aunt, and understood her, but she neither 
 remonstrated with nor minded the threat. It 
 sounded like mere angry raving, and did not 
 even startle her. Later, when the secret of 
 her sad story was laid bare to her, she re- 
 membered the words but too well. The only 
 thought they now suggested was the desperate 
 one — "Justice! — how can he do me justice? 
 I am undone forever, and he can only look on 
 and see it." 
 
 CHAPTER XXX. 
 
 The sound of voices guided Mr. Temple- 
 more to the dining-room, and told him he 
 should find Florence there. But though he 
 came to work Dora's justification, he also 
 came in an angry and indignant mood. He 
 still felt both amazed and exasperated at Mrs. 
 Logan's insulting intrusion. What right had 
 she to come thus upon him in the most private 
 hours of his life, and put evil construction on 
 his most innocent actions ? A wife could not 
 do more, and many a wife would be too proud 
 to do as much. But when he opeued the 
 dining-room door — when he saw Florence
 
 HER DISMISSAL DEMANDED. 
 
 171 
 
 thrown back in a chair, weeping passionately, 
 and Miss Moore bending pityingly over her, 
 his dark face relaxed even as his heart relent- 
 ed. She was unjust and cruel, she was silly 
 and heartless, but she was still the woman 
 whom he had loved a year, and whom he was 
 to marry in a few weeks. On seeing him, she 
 started up, and her eyes flashed. 
 
 " Go back to Miss Courtenay !" she said — 
 "go back!" 
 
 " You persist in that insult ! " he exclaimed, 
 angrily. " Florence ! Florence ! " he added, 
 more calmly, " do not ! — think of Miss Cour- 
 tenay' s position, and do not ! " 
 
 " You think of her, Mr. Templemore — you 
 think of her ! " 
 
 " And why should I not think of her ? " he 
 asked, with much indignation ; " why not, Mrs. 
 Logan ? If you disgrace her, do you suffer 
 for it in the world's esteem ? "Why, more- 
 over, should I not think of a lady who is 
 under my roof and under my protection, to 
 whom I have confided my only child, and to 
 whose care of her I am so deeply indebted ? " 
 
 " Then, Mr. Templemore, I may as well tell 
 you," replied Mrs. Logan, stung by the tone 
 in which he spoke of Dora, " that if I consent 
 to marry you after what has passed, you must 
 give up Miss Courtenay." 
 
 " You cannot be in earnest." 
 
 " I am quite in earnest, I assure you." 
 
 She spoke with a pretty, foolish toss of her 
 little head, which allayed Mr. Templemore's 
 anger, not because he felt tempted to yield to 
 her, but because it reminded him that she was 
 so childish — namely, so silly. 
 
 " Florence," he said, gravely, " you thus ask 
 me to acknowledge to you what I must ever 
 deny, for it is not true ; and worse still, to join 
 you in giving the last blow to Miss Courtenay's 
 reputation ; whereas it is you who, in common 
 justice, must retract and apologize; and she 
 must stay in Les Roches as Eva's governess — 
 she must, if it were only for her justification." 
 
 Mrs Logan laughed ironically. 
 
 " You must think me foolish indeed," she 
 said, nodding at Mr. Templemore, "if you 
 think I will put up with that. No, Mr Tem- 
 plemore, Miss Courtenay shall leave your house 
 to-morrow — to-morrow, do you hear ? — or you 
 have seen your last of me ! " 
 
 He looked at her incredulous, amazed, and 
 indignant. 
 
 " How basely you must think of me ! " he 
 said, in great scorn ; " why, even if I were as 
 guilty as you think me, I could not act so 
 without dishonor — I could not turn out of my 
 house the girl whom I had disgraced, without 
 adding a second betrayal to the first. Inno- 
 cent or guilty, Miss Courtenay shall stay in 
 Les Roches ! " 
 
 " Then you confess it — you prefer her to 
 me H' cried Florence — "you confess it ! " 
 
 " I prefer justice and honor to you, as I 
 would prefer them to my own life," he vehe- 
 mently replied. " But, Florence," he added, 
 more calmly, " let us drop this. Once for all, 
 believe me when I tell you that I have no 
 feeling save regard and friendship for Miss 
 Courtenay. Once for all, believe me when I 
 tell you that she is a proud and reserved girl, 
 incapable, I will not say of wrong, but of the 
 mingled lightness and folly you so gratuitous- 
 ly lay to her door." 
 
 Mrs. Logan was staggered. But the frivo- 
 lous and the weak are incapable of greatness 
 under any of its many aspects. Ask them not 
 for strong love, for generous construction, or 
 pure, simple faith. In vain Florence had 
 known Dora from her youth, and Mr. Temple- 
 more for the last year — her standard for judg- 
 ing them was herself, and this was neither 
 rigid nor lofty. If she had been a poor girl, 
 she could have flirted with a rich man in the 
 hope of supplanting another woman, and for 
 the mere gratification of her vanity ; and if 
 she had been a rich woman, she would no 
 more have scrupled sacrificing a poor girl
 
 172 
 
 DORA. 
 
 to her amusement, than Florence Gale had 
 scrupled sacrificing Dora Courtenay's brother 
 to her interest. Nobleness and truth were 
 not in her, and she could not conceive them 
 in others. 
 
 " What brought Miss Courtenay down to 
 the school-room ? " she asked, mistrustfully. 
 
 " I called her." 
 
 "And what took you there, Mr. Temple- 
 more ? " 
 
 " I went, thinking Eva was ill," he gravely 
 replied. 
 
 " And what made you think Eva was ill ? " 
 she persisted. " I suppose she sent for you ? " 
 
 Mr. Templemore's dark eyes flashed. 
 
 " Mrs. Logan," he said, " I do not ask how 
 and why you came to Les Eoches this even- 
 ing. I suppose I have faithless servants — 
 spies on my privacy, who can be seduced 
 from the duty they owe me. These are ques- 
 tions I scorn to put ; but I ask this, will you 
 have faith in me ? " 
 
 " Not if Miss Courtenay stays, Mr. Temple- 
 more." 
 
 He looked troubled and much moved. 
 
 " Florence, I never knew you to be cruel 
 and relentless ; you are a woman, have some 
 feeling for another woman — have some feeling 
 for me, and do not lay upon me such an alter- 
 native." 
 
 His voice was tender and pleading, but Mrs. 
 Logan could not, or would not, understand 
 its real meaning. She only felt that Dora 
 was in her power at last, and she would show 
 no mercy. 
 
 '•Let Miss Courtenay go," she said. "I 
 ask for no mi 
 
 " Then you arc resolved." 
 " Quite resolved." 
 
 1 ' ! 1 at her in grave 
 
 urc ; when he spoke, it was 
 iv : 
 
 << - ,! ' •', it is your doing, 
 
 not mine." 
 
 "Oh! I am quite willing to assume the 
 responsibility," cavalierly replied Mrs. Logan. 
 
 " Remember that if we now part forever, 
 it is you who break your pledge to me, not I 
 who violate my promise to you." 
 
 He bowed gravely, then left the room with- 
 out adding another word. 
 
 Mrs. Logan remained stunned at the conse- 
 quences of her own act. To the last moment 
 she had thought that Mr. Templemore was 
 yielding ; to the last moment she had felt con- 
 vinced that he neither dared to give her up, 
 nor had the power to do so. She had never 
 imagined that he would thus take her at her 
 word. 
 
 " Oh ! Mrs. Logan, Mrs. Logan ! " cried 
 Miss Moore, with uplifted hands. 
 
 "Don't you think he will come back?" 
 asked Florence, looking at her in great con- 
 sternation. 
 
 "No," replied that lady, with dismay in 
 her face, " I am sure he will not ! " 
 
 Mrs. Logan looked piteous. The first vio- 
 lence of her anger was spent, and a sort of 
 repentance was entering her heart. She was 
 not sorry that she had insulted Mr. Temple- 
 more, and wronged Dora ; but she felt deeply 
 sorry at having injured Mrs. Logan, and she 
 was inclined to repair whatever damage that 
 lady might have sustained in her worldly and 
 matrimonial prospects. 
 
 " What am I to do ? " she asked, wringing 
 her hands. "Please to send for him, Miss 
 Moore." 
 
 Miss Moore rang at once. Jacques answered 
 the bell, and went for Mr. Templemore; but 
 the owner of Les Roches was not to be found. 
 Florence scarcely waited for the man to leave 
 the room, in order to exclaim that " Mr. Tcm- 
 plemore did it on purpose, and that she was 
 perfectly miserable." 
 
 Miss Moore attempted to put in a word, 
 and was at once silenced. 
 
 " What takes him out at this hour, and in
 
 MRS. LOGAN SEEKS THE TRUTH. 
 
 173 
 
 this weather ? " asked Mrs. Logan, angrily. 
 " He wants to show me it is all over. Well, 
 let him, Miss Moore — let him ! " 
 
 " My dear Mrs. Logan,*it is not all over ; 
 but I dare say Mr. Templemore is angry. 
 Only depend upon it you were mistaken. If 
 you were to see Miss Courtenay," she added, 
 timidly, " you might come to an understand- 
 ing with her." 
 
 " And beg her pardon ! " replied Mrs. Lo- 
 gan, laughing scornfully. 
 
 "But, my dear Mrs. Logan," urged Miss 
 Moore, " you really must be mistaken in all 
 this ? " 
 
 Mrs. Logan turned upon her. 
 
 " Had you ever heard that he went up that 
 staircase to see Eva ? Never ; you told me 
 so. Then don't you see it was kept a mystery 
 on purpose. If there was no harm in it, why 
 did not the whole world know about it, Miss 
 Moore — just tell me that ? " 
 
 She spoke so angrily that Miss Moore did 
 not venture to answer. Nevertheless, some 
 impression had been produced on Mrs. Lo- 
 gan's mind, for she stood silent and sullen, 
 brooding over her case. 
 
 " I wish I had not spoken opposite the 
 servants," she thought; "that is why, per- 
 haps, he won't give up Dora. She would never 
 have committed such a false step. Not she. 
 She is too clever and too keen. I wonder if 
 I could find out the truth from her. Keen 
 though she is, she never could hide anything 
 from me. If I have wronged her, I can just 
 kiss her, and say something about Paul ; and 
 if she has wronged me, she shall quake still 
 further for her fair name, and feel that she is 
 at my mercy, spite all her cleverness and her 
 grand ways." 
 
 " I shall go and speak to Miss Courtenay," 
 she said shortly. And the tone in which she 
 addressed Miss Moore, implied, " Stay where 
 you are." 
 
 Miss Moore meekly submitted, whilst Mrs. 
 
 Logan, wrapping her cloak around her, and 
 looking as defiant as an injured queen, crossed 
 the hall, and entered the school-room, where 
 Dora now sat alone with her aunt. But her 
 whole aspect changed as she closed the door, 
 and Dora looked up slowly. Forestalling 
 attack, Mrs. Logan burst into tears. They 
 came at her. command, and without hypocrisy 
 or deceit, she wept as easily as children weep 
 and quite as sincerely. 
 
 " Oh ! Dora — Dora," she sobbed, " how 
 could you do it ? — how could you ? I have 
 been engaged to Mr. Templemore so long — 
 how could you do it ? " 
 
 Dora looked at her very coldly ; but no 
 word of justification or denial passed her lips. 
 
 " I know I am hasty and foolish," sobbed 
 Mrs. Logan, " and that even though I saw you 
 both with my own eyes I should not have said 
 it; but, Dora, say there was no harm in it, 
 and I will believe you — only what could take 
 him to the school-room at that hour ? " 
 
 Dora's lip curled with scorn, but she was 
 silent. 
 
 "For your own sake you ought to tell," said 
 Mrs. Logan a little angrily ; " how do you ex- 
 pect me to justify you, and say it was all a 
 mistake, if I know nothing ? " 
 
 " My good name is not in your power," re- 
 plied Dora, with a swelling heart. " I am not 
 at your mercy, Mrs. Logan ! " 
 
 " Then it is true ! " cried Mrs. Logan, with 
 unconquerable jealousy ; " then you did mean 
 to flirt with him, and perhaps to supplant 
 me!" 
 
 Dora turned red and pale. 
 
 " Mrs. Logan, may I ask if you came here 
 to say this ? " she said. 
 
 " I came to know the truth, and I will know 
 it ! " desperately cried Mrs. Logan. " Dora, 
 tell me, you must ; I must know how far mat- 
 ters have gone between you and Mr. Temple- 
 more. Tell me — tell me!. You are to marry 
 John, I know; tell me the truth, and he shall
 
 174 
 
 DORA. 
 
 never know anything — I'll deny all to him ; 
 but tell me, and promise not to see Mr. Temple- 
 more any more. Oh ! Dora, I am wretched, 
 and I must be happy again ! " 
 
 "Forgive us our trespasses as we forgive 
 them that trespass against us." 
 
 A sublime precept, but hard — very hard to 
 put in practice. Dora could not forgive that 
 light, frivolous creature, who went through 
 life taking all its sweetness, and leaving all its 
 bitterness to others ; who, after helping to 
 break her brother's heart, after doing all she 
 could to rob her of fair name, now asked 
 her victim to help her back to happiness ! 
 And what was Mrs. Logan's happiness to Dora 
 Courtenay ? Must she not leave Mr. Temple- 
 more's house a penniless and, thougli she had 
 denied it, a disgraced girl ? And it was the 
 woman who had done this — Mr. Templemore's 
 future wife — who dared to plead her happiness 
 as an argument ! 
 
 She rose and looked at her in silent indigna- 
 tion. 
 
 " Tell you ! " she said at length — " tell you 
 
 what, Mrs. Logan ? That I am not base — 
 
 that I am not shameless ! Tou ask me to tell 
 
 you that? Have you, then, forgotten the 
 
 past? Have you forgotten Paul Courtenay ? 
 
 and is it his sister whom of all women you 
 
 dare to treat thus ? If to say a word to you 
 
 could right me in the face of all, I would not 
 
 that word. Go to Mr. Templemore and 
 
 put what questions you please. He perhaps 
 
 you an answer; I do not, and will give 
 
 • 
 
 " Then it is not true that Eva was ill ? Per- 
 
 • you were ill, Miss Courtenay!" added 
 
 Mis. Logan, stung at Dora's cold, haughty 
 
 " Since you only tame to insult me, I shall 
 withdraw," quietly aaid Dora; and she left the 
 room a- she 
 
 Mrs. Luan, who had been silent till then 
 now went up to Mrs. Logan, and taking her by 
 
 both wrists, she looked at her with sparkling, 
 angry eyes. 
 
 " How dare you spea!" opposite the ser- 
 vants ? — how dare you ! " she asked, and open- 
 ing the door, she dragged her out of the room 
 into the hall with ruthless force. Florence, 
 paralyzed for fear, could neither scream nor 
 speak. " How dare you speak opposite the 
 servants ? " asked Mrs. Luan. 
 
 The light in the hall shone on her angry 
 face. Florence shut her eyes not to see it. 
 
 " Let me go ! " she gasped ; " you hurt me — 
 let me go ! " 
 
 " Hurt you ! " said Mrs. Luan, looking much 
 incensed ; " did you dare to say that I hurt 
 you ? — what next, eh ? " 
 
 Mrs. Logan opened her eyes, then shut 
 them again, not to see that wrathful coun- 
 tenance. 
 
 " Let me go ! " she said — " let me go ! " 
 
 " I'll tell you what," began Mrs. Luan, 
 tightening her hold of her victim, " I know 
 what you mean ; but if you dare to say it, I'll 
 kill you ! I will — I will ! " she repeated. 
 
 But suddenly her hold relaxed. Mrs. Logan 
 looked up ; she was free, and Mrs. Luan stood 
 two paces from her humming a tune. Miss 
 Moore's appearance at the end of the hall had 
 wrought that marvel. Mrs. Logan rushed up 
 and clung to her. 
 
 " Miss Moore ! " she gasped, " the storm is 
 over ; and Mrs. Luan — " 
 
 " Shall I go home with you ? " kindly asked 
 Mrs. Luan, going up to her ; " I am not afraid 
 of the storm. Let me go with you, Mrs. 
 Logan." 
 
 " Xo, uo ! " replied Florence, with a shudder 
 of fear ; but not daring to continue the accu- 
 sation she had begun, she resumed hurriedly, 
 " the storm is over, and I really wish to go ; 
 will you send Jacques — any one with me, Misa 
 Moore? " 
 
 " I shall go and call him," said Miss Moore, 
 attempting to move, but Florence held her so
 
 DORA AND HER MOTHER. 
 
 175 
 
 tightly that she could not stir. Seeing Miss 
 Moore's amazed look, and Mrs. Luan's grim 
 smile of triumph, she recovered composure 
 enough to say : 
 
 "Yes, pray call Jacques — and let me go 
 with you — I cannot bear being alone." 
 
 " I'll stay with you," again kindly said Mrs. 
 Luan. 
 
 " Thank you," replied Florence. " Here is 
 Jacques, I believe. Good-night, Miss Moore — 
 good-night." 
 
 She was gone in a moment. Miss Moore 
 looked at Mrs. Luan. 
 
 "Mrs. Luan," she said, "can you make out 
 all this ? " 
 
 Mrs. Luan looked cunning, and tapped her 
 forehead mysteriously. 
 
 " My goodness ! " cried Miss Moore ; " but 
 that is impossible ! " 
 
 " Why so ? " coolly asked Mrs. Luan. " It's 
 in the family, you know. Did you never see 
 it?" 
 
 " Never." 
 
 " I did — long ago — oh ! so long ago ! I 
 knew her when she was a child, you know." 
 
 And she walked away, leaving Miss Moore 
 confounded at so strange an allegation, and to 
 which, however, the violent and unreasonable 
 conduct of Florence gave a sort of likelibood. 
 Mrs. Luan looked very calm till she reached 
 her room ; but when she was in it, when she 
 heard the iron gates of Les Roches close on 
 Mrs. Logan, she laughed exultingly. How 
 well she had done it, and how that poor, fool- 
 ish gull had taken it all in ! 
 
 " She will not come back to Les Roches," 
 thought Mrs. Luan, nodding in her triumph, 
 " not she ! And so she thought I was mad ! — 
 and Miss Moore thinks she is mad ! Oh, dear ! 
 oh, dear ! to think these women should be so 
 foolish!" 
 
 CHAPTER XXXI. 
 
 Mrs. Courtenay was sitting alone in the 
 dining-room the next morning, with a pensive 
 and melancholy look, when Dora entered it. 
 Not one, so far as Mrs. Courtenay could learn, 
 had taken any breakfast that morning. She 
 could not understand it, and at once applied 
 to her daughter for information. 
 
 " What is the matter, Dora ? " she asked. 
 " Miss Moore has a headache, says Fanny ; 
 Mr. Templemore is out, says Jacques ; Mrs. 
 Luan has locked herself in her room. No one' 
 seems to want to eat to-day ! " 
 
 " Have you had any breakfast, mamma ? " 
 asked Dora, wistfully. 
 
 " I took a cup of tea ; but I felt so lonely 
 that I took no more." 
 
 Dora laid her hand on Mrs. Courtenay's 
 shoulder, and looked down sadly in her 
 face. 
 
 " I let you sleep last night," she said, " but 
 I must tell you this morning. We must leave 
 Les Roches. I have already seen Madame 
 Bertrand, and settled every thing for our re- 
 turn to her ; we go to-day — nay, at once. Mr. 
 Templemore is out, and all can be over before 
 he returns." 
 
 Mrs. Courtenay stared in mute amazement, 
 whilst calmly, almost coldly, Dora told her 
 what had happened. At first Mrs. Courtenay 
 seemed unable to understand her daughter ; 
 but suddenly the case, in all its bearings, was 
 made plaiu to her. 
 
 " Dora," she exclaimed, rising and looking 
 rigid, "did you say she insulted you opposite 
 the servants ? " 
 
 " Yes, and in French, lest Jacques should 
 not understand. Oh ! pray let us make haste 
 and leave this house ! — pray do ! " 
 
 But so prompt a resolve was not in Mrs. 
 Courtenay's power. Leave Les Roches and its 
 comforts ! Leave the happy, easy life, for the 
 old life of makeshifts and poverty, and leave
 
 17G 
 
 DOHA. 
 
 it -with the additional burden of disgrace ! It 
 was too hard a fate ! It could not be ! 
 
 "But, Dora," she argued, "what if Mrs. 
 Logan saw you and Mr. Teruplernore in the 
 school-room ? You were not alone with 
 him?" 
 
 " Yes, I was," replied her daughter. " Aunt 
 and I sat up with Eva, who was flushed and ex- 
 cited. Aunt went for Mr. Templemore, it 
 seems ; but I was alone when he came." 
 
 " Then it is all wrong — all wrong ! " moaned 
 Mrs. Courtenay ; " and I do not know what we 
 shall do, Dora ! I thought you would marry 
 him, and now it ends so dreadfully — so very 
 dreadfully ! " 
 
 Dora stood near the dining-room window. 
 She leaned her throbbing forehead againsj, the 
 cold glass. Marry him ! — yes, long ago she 
 too had indulged in the folly of that dream. 
 Marry him ! — and she must leave his house dis- 
 graced, and the woman who wrought her ruin 
 would marry him in three weeks. Oh ! it was 
 very hard, and how cruel all this lingering 
 seemed to her now ! Cut it did not last — it 
 could not. Mrs. Courtenay indulged in a few 
 more moans and ejaculations ; then anger and 
 pride suddenly taking the place of grief, she 
 Informed her daughter that Mr. Templemore's 
 conduct was shameful — shameful !— and that 
 they must not stay another minute in his house. 
 
 "lam only sorry," continued Mrs. Courte- 
 nay, looking di , •• that I took that cup 
 a. If I had known what I know now, I 
 would have died first ; and as we cannot pos- 
 sibly stay to luncheon, I shall get ready at 
 once." 
 
 Dora, who had spent part of the night in 
 
 1 helped her mother. 
 
 thing u;,- 3oon ready. Mrs. Luan came 
 
 in and stared al her in sullen silence. She did 
 
 L attempt to remonstrate once, but TDora 
 
 oping posture, looked up at 
 
 thai her mother was not in the 
 
 im, said, gravely: 
 
 " Aunt, who did this ? " 
 
 " You are a fool to leave the house," sulkily 
 answered Mrs. Luan ; but she said no more, 
 and after a while walked back to her own 
 room. 
 
 When all was ready, Dora went to Eva's 
 room. The child was still fast asleep. She 
 bent over her, but did not dare to kiss her, lest 
 she should waken. 
 
 " Oh ! Eva, Eva," she thought, with her eyes 
 full of tears,"" is it because you cost me so dear 
 that it seems so hard to leave you ? " 
 
 " Dora," said her mother's voice outside. 
 
 " I am going," and she went. 
 
 When events have reached a certain crisis, 
 they speed as quickly as a stone rolling down- 
 hill. Later in the day, when she thought over 
 all this, it seemed to Dora that some whirlwind 
 had swept her away from Mr. Templemore's 
 house. She could scarcely believe everything 
 was over when she entered those rooms which 
 she had left six months before, gay and hope- 
 ful. She heeded neither her mother's laments, 
 nor her aunt's angry ejaculations at the course 
 events had taken ; she went to her room, and 
 sitting down there, tried again to look her 
 future in the face. Alas ! again she found 
 that she could not. 
 
 There is something intolerable to the proud 
 in the mere thought of disgrace. Life, Dora 
 felt, was a burden now, and death would be a 
 sort of relief. She had that comfort, though 
 she could not feel it in her dark hour, that 
 death would close her story, and end it in for- 
 getfulness. But she did not think of that. I 
 wonder, indeed, if we really ever appreciate 
 the blessing of obscurity ? I wonder if we re- 
 alize the pangs of a Mary Stuart or a Marie 
 Antoinette at her fatal celebrity ? That black 
 shadow, which time can never remove from 
 the name of either, and of which both, inno- 
 cent or guilty, must have been conscious, sure- 
 ly added bitterness to the prison, and gave a 
 keener pang to the scaffold. Who will dare to
 
 THEY LEAVE LES ROCHES. 
 
 177 
 
 swear that the daughter of Maria Theresa was 
 stainless in the matter of the necklace, or that 
 the Scottish queen did not betray and murder 
 her husband ? Historians are not agreed yet — 
 what can the vulgar do ? Who shall search 
 up evidence for or against either lady, weigh it 
 carefully, and ascertain the value of documents, 
 forged or real? The task would take a life- 
 time, and the world has scarce an hour to give. 
 The present and the future are arrayed against 
 the past, and in the broad noonday of one, and 
 the coming dawn of the other, we forget that 
 long sad night, which with every day grows 
 deeper and longer, and in which the illustrious 
 dead lie sleeping. Oh ! if we could hear it 
 through the tumult of past generations, surely 
 an appeal, piteous and despairing, is crying to 
 us from the Temple or Fotheringay for justice 
 and belief. " Have faith in me," it says ; " do 
 not believe that I could be so guilty. Eeckon 
 my sorrows, look at their tragic close, and ab- 
 solve me ! " Alas ! we cannot. We are per- 
 plexed, like Othello, and no Emilia raises her 
 indignant voice to convince us. We go on 
 speculating, wondering, doubting — now lean- 
 ing to that side, now to this, until we grow 
 weary, and turn our vexed minds to more con- 
 genial themes. 
 
 As we deal with them, and others like them, 
 so the world deals with us when appearances 
 condemn us, and this a bitter intuition told 
 Dora. Oh ! if sfee had thought that the world 
 would believe her ! But she did not. She had 
 not made the attempt, and she already shrank 
 from it disheartened. She saw not one rem- 
 edy to her evil. Her condemnation was life- 
 long, and the most she could hope for was 
 that, once life was over, the world might for- 
 get her. Sad, bitter comfort was this ! For, 
 after all, it is doubtful if the royal ladies we 
 have just mentioned would have exchanged 
 their dolorous renown for a cold oblivion. 
 They might have thought it better to bo re- 
 membered, even in doubt and scorn, than, 
 12 
 
 after filling the world with their name and 
 their sorrows, to be utterly forgotten. 
 
 "And there is no hope for me — none! — 
 none!" thoujjit Dora, forgetting that in the 
 most desperate cases there is always hope. 
 " Mrs. Logan will go on asserting that I am 
 guilty, and no one will believe Mr. Temple- 
 more's denial. To stay ir. his house would 
 have condemned me, and to leave it condemns 
 me — there is no hope ! At every turn of my 
 life that slander will meet me!" 
 
 Mr. Templemore, too, was hopeless, for he 
 felt powerless. He stayed out two hours and 
 moi'e that morning, vainly seeking a remedy 
 and finding none — none, at least, that his own 
 unaided will could compass. To Florence he 
 woukl appeal no more. His resentment against 
 her was too strong and too deep. He was 
 wronged in his love, and wounded in his pride 
 and honor; he closed his heart upon her in 
 angei-, and resolved to abide by the sentence 
 she had passed upon him. But if Mrs. Logan 
 would not retract, would Miss Courtenay be 
 patient ? He doubted it, and that he must not 
 hope for it he learned on his return. He had 
 scarcely crossed the gates of Les Roches when 
 he was overtaken by Miss Moore, who was also 
 coming in. 
 
 " It is all right," she said, eagerly — " all 
 right, Mr. Templemore." 
 
 " All right ? " he repeated. 
 
 " Oh ! yes, I have just seen Mrs. Logan, and 
 on learning that Miss Courtenay was gone, she 
 relented quite." 
 
 Mr. Templemore stood still, and looked 
 black as night. "Miss Courtenay is gone!" 
 he exclaimed. 
 
 " Yes, she would go with her mother and 
 aunt. I did all I could to keep her, of course, 
 but she would go. And if it were not that 
 poor Eva is crying her eyes out, and Fido 
 whining so dreadfully, I should say it is all 
 for the best; for, of course, since that was all 
 Mrs. Logan wanted — "
 
 ITS 
 
 DORA. 
 
 " Mrs. Logan is not the mistress of this 
 house yet," angrily kiterrupted Mr. Temple- 
 more. "She may have succeeded in driving 
 Miss Courtenay out of it by the.grossest insult 
 one woman can inflict on another, but there 
 he* triumph ends, Miss Moore !" 
 
 " I am sure she is sorry — very sorry," said 
 Miss Moore, rather crestfallen. 
 
 " Is she ? Then let her prove it. Let her 
 apologize and retract — but she will do neither. 
 When she came to this house last night — and 
 what brought her ?— she came resolved to ruin 
 Miss Courtenay. How did she come in? — 
 who let her in ? Some servant whom she had 
 bribed. Be it so. I scorn the means and the 
 act equally ! " 
 
 " I tried to find it out," candidly said Miss 
 Moore, " but she always put me off. She 
 seemed afraid to tell." 
 
 " Not afraid, but ashamed," replied Mr. 
 Templemorc, with a stern smile; "and so she 
 well might be. That act alone would divide 
 us. Did Miss Courtenay leave no message for 
 me ? " 
 
 " There is a letter in your study. But, in- 
 deed, Mr. Templemore, poor Mrs. Logan is to 
 1 ■ pitied. I am sure she is heart-broken." 
 
 Mr. Templemore was silent awhile. Love 
 felt cold and dead ; but be was to have married 
 Florence in three weeks, and he could not for- 
 get that. He was free in honor, but still the 
 tie which had been so strong the day before 
 was not quite broken. 
 
 " I shall write to her," he said aloud. 
 
 " Perhaps, if you were to see her," suggested 
 ire. " You know how impulsive dear 
 
 ; -. Suppose she gets angry again 
 
 thinking a letter too cold—and writes a hasty 
 . meaning the oontrary all the time? Then 
 it would be all wrong again, you see." 
 
 But Mr. Teftnpli a ted as if he could 
 
 the fate tbus held forth for his admoni- 
 
 ball write to her," he said again. And 
 
 he went to his study at once, as if resolved 
 not to argue the case further. 
 
 Dora's letter was brief, such a letter as Mr. 
 Templemore expected. He read it twice over, 
 then he sat down and wrote, not one letter, 
 but two. He addressed Dora first. She had 
 asked of him to make no attempt to see her ; 
 and severe and unjustifiable though he con- 
 sidered that request, he remembered that she 
 had been cruelly wronged, and he would not 
 violate it. But every argument he could think 
 of to make her alter her resolve he used, and 
 he concluded with a prayer. 
 
 " Do not compel me to feel," he said, " that 
 the saddest day in your life was that on which 
 you met Doctor Richard in Monsieur Merand's 
 shop ! " 
 
 " And now," he thought, when this letter 
 lay closed and sealed before him, " I must 
 write to Florence." 
 
 There had been a time when the task was 
 not an effort ; silly though his pretty mistress 
 was, he had once found it delightful to lay the 
 fairest flowers of his fancy at her little feet. 
 But now that time was over, and with a sad 
 and heavy heart Mr. Templemore felt it would 
 never return. No, never again would she be 
 dear as she had been. Pity and pride, no.t 
 love, made him relent toward her. No 
 woman to whom he had been bound so closely 
 should tax him with obstinate and unsrener- 
 ous resentment ; but forgiveness is not affec- 
 tion, and there was secret bitterness in Mr. 
 Templemore's heart as, taking up the pen he 
 had laid down on finishing his letter to Dora, 
 he addressed Mrs. Logan. He wrote no re- 
 proaches, on his wrongs he was silent ; but 
 he spoke of Dora's, calmly, dispassionately, 
 and like one convinced of Mrs. Logan's regret 
 for what had passed, and of her wish to repair 
 the evil she had wrought. He did not ask her 
 to do this, he left her free; bui he implied 
 \cry plainly — that on these terms alone was 
 perfect reconciliation possible.
 
 THE TWO LETTERS. 
 
 179 
 
 When this task was accomplished — and 
 how bitter and painful it had been, Mrs. Lo- 
 gan never knew — Mr. Tempi emore, with a 
 sigh of relief, went to seek Eva in the school- 
 room. He found the child half ill with a grief 
 he could not remove. He could take her on 
 his knee, caress her, and wipe away her tears, 
 but he could not promise that Dora should 
 return. His fate was not in his own hands. 
 A child's perverse jealousy, a silly woman's 
 folly, had laid his life waste for the time be- 
 ing ; ruined every hope, every plan, and left 
 nothing but sorrow behind them. But, alas ! 
 for Mrs. Logan, he felt very lenient toward 
 the culprit who sat on his knee, clasped in 
 his embrace, with her head on his shoulder, 
 and very severe toward the other sinner, who 
 now read his letter with a flushed face and a 
 quivering lip. 
 
 He felt severe, perhaps, because in that 
 room he could not help thinking so much of 
 Dora. Her vacant chair, her books, the hand- 
 kerchief she was embroidering, and which she 
 had forgotten on the table, were mute appeals 
 that roused Mr. Templemore's indignation 
 anew. He remembered this bright girl at 
 the Musee; he remembered her looking as 
 radiant and as joyous as sunshine in her poor 
 home; and thinking of the pale face he had 
 seen last night, of the tears he could imagine, 
 of the humiliation and shame that were her 
 lot now, and of his powerlessness to do her 
 justice, he could scarcely restrain his mingled 
 grief and anger, 
 
 " And when will Cousin Dora come back ? " 
 plaintively asked Eva. 
 
 "Heaven knows, not I," he bitterly an- 
 swered. "I, have done my best, Eva, and 
 man can do no more." 
 
 How that best fared, Mr. Templemorc 
 learned the same evening, when the post 
 brought him two letters, ne was sitting with 
 Eva in the school-room, hearing her through 
 her French lesson when they came. 
 
 " Put them there," said Mr. Templemore to 
 Jacques. 
 
 They were laid on the table before him, 
 these two letters in delicate female hands, 
 which held his fate in their satin folds. He 
 looked at them a little nioodilv as the child 
 read on, about Eucharis and Telemachus, and 
 the grief of Calypso at the flight of Ulysses. 
 
 " What has placed me at the mercy of these 
 two women'? " he thought, with a sort of 
 angry wonder. "Why should the folly of 
 the one and the pride of the other make a 
 slave of me?" 
 
 " Did I not read well ? " asked Eva, shut- 
 ting the book, and looking robbed of her 
 meed of praise, " Cousin Dora says I read 
 very well." 
 
 " So you do — go and play with Fanny now." 
 
 Eva went, and whilst she and Fanny played 
 at hide-and-seek in front of the school-room, 
 Mr. Templemore took up Mrs. Logan's letter 
 and broke the seal. It was the shortest 
 epistle he had ever received from that lady, 
 for it did not extend beyond the direction on 
 the envelope in which she returned his own 
 letter unanswered. Mr. Templemore colored 
 deeply, then turned rather pale ; but he lit a 
 match and burned both letter and envelope 
 at once on the hearth. He looked at the shriv- 
 elled scroll in mingled scorn and wonder. 
 " And so that is the end," he thought ; " that 
 is the end ! If I would only let her ruin Miss 
 Courtenay utterly, she would forgive my sup- 
 posed infidelity ; but I would not, and she 
 finds it easier to give me up than to renounce 
 her vengeance. The burden of love in that 
 scale was so light, that it will not stand a 
 feather's weight in the other. Be it so, and 
 lei Mrs. Logan abide by the fate she has 
 i." Ee felt so calm, that he could not 
 help wondering at himself; but, it was so. 
 He could think of this final parting 
 liii', -elf and Florence as if they had been two 
 -ers, and look on it as impartially. Yet,
 
 180 
 
 DORA. 
 
 jold though be was, something be felt, for be 
 Ion" - forgot Dora's letter. His look falling on 
 it by cbance, suddenly reminded bim of its 
 existence. It was a plain and brief denial. 
 It was free from complaint of wrong, it spoke 
 no reproach, but it uttered a cold and inexora- 
 ble " No " to all Mr. Templemore's offers and 
 entreaties. 
 
 " A proud woman ! — a very proud woman ! " 
 thought Mr. Templemore ; " but she too must 
 abide by the fate she has chosen." 
 
 When Eva, tired with play, and still dole- 
 ful at Cousin Dora's loss, came in to her 
 father, she found another letter shrivelling up 
 into black ashes on the hearth. 
 
 " When is Cousin Dora coming back ? " she 
 asked, plaintively. 
 
 Before Mr. Templemore could answer, a 
 little tremulous whine from the garden pro- 
 claimed that Fido joined in the question. 
 
 " You must both do without Cousin Dora," 
 answered Mr. Templemore, almost impatiently, 
 and taking his hat he walked out. It was 
 almost night, and Mr. Templemore went down 
 the road to Rouen, with slow and irresolute 
 (Steps. lie looked at Mrs. Logan's villa as he 
 passed by it ; the shutters were shut — Mrs. 
 Logan was gone. That cbapter in his life 
 «was ended. "Be it so," he thought defiant- 
 ly ; " it is her doing — not mine." And he went 
 on. lie entered the city, he went to Monsieur 
 Merand's shop, and bought an old .enamel 
 der, but with so stern and forbid- 
 ding a look did he drive bis bargain, that it 
 was only when he was leaving, Monsieur 
 Merand took heart to say : 
 
 "Why, Doctor Richard, you look as bad as 
 the young lady ! " 
 
 Templemore, who already stood on the 
 threshold of tin; shop, turned round angrily, 
 and sharply >aid — 
 
 " What young lady, Monsieur Merand?" 
 "Oh! tin; one who used to draw, you 
 i. now. i .-aw her Btealing out of Notre 
 
 Dame this evening, and looking as white as a 
 ghost." 
 
 Mr. Templemore did not answer, but walked 
 away. The man could mean nothing, for he 
 could know nothing; but why was he to be 
 thus persecuted with Dora's name ? He did 
 not return to Les Rocbes at once. He went 
 to his old house and put away his purchases. 
 It was dark night now ; and looking at the 
 opposite side of the street, he saw a light 
 burning in Madame Bertrand's first-floor win- 
 dows ; but one, that of Dora's room, remained 
 dark. It was open, and he could catch a 
 glimpse of a pale figure within, sitting in a 
 bending and motionless attitude. He watched 
 her for an hour and more — she never stirred ; 
 and wben Mr. Templemore at length turned 
 away, grief, pity, and indignation filled his 
 heart. But he was powerless, and he knew it. 
 
 " I can do nothing — nothing," he said to 
 himself again and again. 
 
 " Oh ! Mr. Templemore. Mrs. Logan is 
 gone ! " exclaimed Miss Moore, in a voice full 
 of woe as he entered Les Roches. " But she 
 is not far — she is to sleep at Dieppe to-night." 
 
 Mr. Templemore's only answer to this speech 
 was, " How is Eva ? " 
 
 " Asleep, I believe." 
 
 He went up tor Eva's room. A night-lamp 
 burned on the table ; its light fell on Eva's 
 little cot. Mr. Templemore sat down and 
 looked at the child. She had cried herself to 
 sleep, and her cheek was still wet with tears. 
 
 " It would be better for Eva if I had never 
 brought Miss Courtenay here," thought Mr. 
 Templemore, rather sadly ; " she will get over 
 this sorrow, of course, but she must suffer 
 first, and suffer keenly." 
 
 He felt much troubled. The child's grief 
 pained him ; and the sad, motionless figure he 
 had seen in Dora's room pained him still more 
 deeply. How different from that stricken one 
 was the Dora whom be remembered sitting in 
 that now vacant chair before him, with the
 
 TROUBLED THOUGHTS. 
 
 181 
 
 blue ribbon tying . her bright hair, and the 
 light shining on her young face as she told 
 Eva little fairy-tales ! Her look, her smile, 
 the very turn of her neck, the very sound of 
 her voice, came back to him with strange 
 vividness. He would rather have forgotten 
 them, for they were painful, and he still felt, 
 " I can do nothing ; " but Dora's image re- 
 turned again and again, and would not be de- 
 nied. It returned radiant, happy, and young, 
 with no trace of pain or trouble on its brow, 
 filling that dull, gloomy room with its bright- 
 ness, and smiling down so tenderly on the 
 sleeping child, that the very heart of Mr. 
 Templemore thrilled within him. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXII. 
 
 There is no consolation for some sorrows. 
 Xeither Mrs. Courtenay nor Mrs. Luan at- 
 tempted to comfort Dora. She did not com- 
 plain — not a word of murmur passed her lips. 
 She moved about the house, pale as death, in- 
 deed, but bearing her fate in mute resignation, 
 or what seemed as much. Of the future, of 
 her plans, if she had any, she did not speak. 
 She sat a good deal in her room, sewing assid- 
 uously. Unless early in the morning, she 
 could not summon heart to go out. She had 
 no need to visit the Picture - Gallery now. 
 Besides, her story must be known in Rouen by 
 this — the story of the girl whom Mr. Temple- 
 more's future wife had upbraided with folly 
 and shame. She was sitting in her room by 
 the open window, within the shadow of the 
 muslin curtain, as this thought came. Her 
 story ! — there had been a time when she had 
 none ; and now her name could be in every 
 mouth, aud be there with pity or with scorn. 
 Madame Bertrand would have to fight her bat- 
 tles, and justify her with her shrill tongue — 
 how abhorrent the thought was ! — or shrink- 
 ingly excuse her on the score of inexperience. 
 
 Dora's needle flagged as she thought of 
 this. She looked at the old gray church, at 
 the lilies once more in bloom, at the broken 
 image of the bishop, at the lame teacher's 
 window, at the quiet street below, and she re- 
 membered how she had felt when she had seen 
 these first. Surely our life is like a wide 
 land, with streams, and rivers, and seas, that 
 divide it in separate and distinct portions. 
 Surely joy or grief is there, as pleasant or 
 troubled waters that flow in different channels. 
 Surely our happy days have nothing in com- 
 mon with our days of tribulation, or sorrow? 
 Dora felt as if she could have borne any thing 
 better than this trouble. Death — lost love 
 had not the same pangs as this bitter humilia- 
 tion. Death is the human lot, and lost love a 
 frequent calamity ; but women who kno^ 
 themselves stainless do not expect shame, and 
 cannot well accept it. In vain Dora thought : 
 " I suppose plenty have been slandered besides 
 me ; it is a cross which I must bear. She was 
 a rebel in her heart, and could not, or, rather, 
 would not, endure it. Intolerable seemed her 
 fate — intolerable and unjust. She forbade her 
 thoughts to question Providence; but what 
 thought does not, the heart will often do. 
 This was not her only sorrow. Her keenest 
 pang sprang, perhaps, from the fact that she 
 might and should have foreseen this. She 
 should never have gone to Mr. Templemore's 
 house. Her very love for him should have 
 kept her away. Trouble was sure to spring 
 from it.« Fair though its opening looked, that 
 episode of her life could not end otherwise 
 than in darkness. There is a beautiful picture 
 by one of the old masters which shows us the 
 child Jesus calmly sleeping on his cross. 
 There is no grief, no care in that childish 
 face, divine even in its repose. The cross is 
 small, like the tender naked limbs which 
 upon it. But it will grow to man's length, 
 and we, who know the later story, tin 
 dolorosa which ended on Calvary to purchase
 
 182 
 
 DORA. 
 
 our redemption — we cannot gaze on that child- 
 ish cross without sorrow. 
 
 Thus, though we know it not, is manj^ 
 human life, of which we only see the begin- 
 ning, and cannot divine the close. The cross 
 is there — the cross which will grow with the 
 growth of that life, and from which it can 
 never more be divided; the cross which it 
 must bear up some spiritual Golgotha, and to 
 which it is nailed at last, sometimes in shame, 
 or what the world deems such — ever in grief. 
 But what we who look on cannot always see 
 is often known to the sufferer; early pangs 
 reveal the future agony. To feel love for one 
 who does not return our affection, and yet 
 seek that being's dear society, is to court our 
 own destruction. Virtue, peace, or fair name 
 is imperilled, and one must certainly perish. 
 This Dora knew, and the knowledge of her 
 own wrong-doing stung her. 
 
 Mrs. Courtenay gazed very wistfully at her 
 daughter whenever she joined them; but 
 Dora's countenance, once so expressive, was 
 now silent. She would not complain, and she 
 forbade her looks all language. Mrs. Courte- 
 nay could scarcely repress her tears, and Mrs. 
 Luan was more sullen than ever; but Dora's 
 face gave no sign. She was cold and impas- 
 sive, as if all sensibility had left her. 
 
 Thus she was the first day, and on the mor- 
 row, and on the next day again. Thus she 
 was for a week, save that her pale face got 
 paler and more rigid— that her eyes sank, and 
 that her whole aspect gave terrible indication 
 of the cruel strife within. If she bad com- 
 plained, it would have been better; if she had 
 murmured and repined from morning till 
 it, it would have been best of all. But not 
 , from the moment she left Les Roches, 
 did her lips part to utter so much as "My 
 lot is hard." Perhaps she was silent because 
 full heart would have, made her say too 
 '>> ; perhaps il I spoken she could 
 
 not have hidden the passion which was at the 
 
 root of all her woe; better, then, be mute, 
 than display to any eye the weakness and the 
 folly which had brought down all this. 
 
 She sat thus on the evening of the seventh 
 day with her mother and her- aunt, when all 
 three started as a man's step came up the 
 staircase. Mrs. Courtenay and her sister-in- 
 law exchanged looks, but, ere they had well 
 recovered, Dora had risen and entered her 
 room. Its door was closing as Mr. Temple- 
 more opened the other door and entered the 
 room where Mrs. Courtenay and Mrs. Luan 
 sat alone. 
 
 " She heard me, and left for that reason," 
 he thought, casting a quick look round the 
 room. 
 
 " Pray take a seat, Mr. Templemore," said 
 Mrs. Courtenay, looking a little flurried. 
 
 "Why did Miss Courtenay go ?" he asked. 
 
 " She has a bad headache," began Mrs. Cour- 
 tenay. 
 
 " She has not; ! " bluntly interrupted Mrs. 
 Luan; "but she would not see Mr. Temple- 
 more." t 
 
 " And why would she not see me, Mrs. 
 Luan ? " 
 
 " Indeed, Mr. Templemore,',' here remarked 
 Mrs. Courtenay, " my daughter has been cruelly 
 used, and I think you know it." 
 
 " Heaven knows how keenly I feel it," re- 
 plied Mr. Templemore. "But, Mrs. Courte- 
 nay, I wish you could induce your daughter to 
 hear me — -just for a few moments." 
 
 " I shall try," said Mrs. Luan, and she went 
 in to Dora. Mr. Templemore waited in silence 
 for her reappearance; but when the door, 
 which had closed behind her, opened again, 
 and she came forth alone, it needed not her 
 clouded face to tell him that Dora bad refused 
 to see him. 
 
 " She says she cannot," sullenly said Mrs. 
 Luan, sitting down once more, and evidently 
 both dissatisfied and disappointed. 
 
 "No, of course she cannot," querulously re-
 
 NOTRE DAME 
 
 183 
 
 marked Mrs. Courtenay ; " and so, Mr. Temple- 
 more, please to come no more. I am very 
 sorry to be so inhospitable, after all your kind- 
 ness, but I do not see how you can come after 
 what has passed." 
 
 " But I must see Miss Courtenay," he in- 
 sisted. " I know this intrusion may seem 
 cruel, but I have good reason for it — indeed I 
 have. And you must prevail with your daugh- 
 ter, Mrs. Courtenay — you really must ! " 
 
 His tone and his looks were very urgent. 
 Mrs. Courtenay could not resist him. 
 
 "I — I shall try," she stammered; and ris- 
 ing, she went to Dora's room. 
 
 She found her daughter looking at the door 
 ^ith a troubled, breathless look, as if her fate 
 lay behind those old oaken panels. 
 
 " I will not see him," she whispered, and she 
 shook from head to foot as she said it ; " I will 
 not hear explanation or apologies. Tell him 
 he has not wronged me, and that I have noth- 
 ing to forgive ; but I will not see him — never 
 — never ! " 
 
 " Dora, he looks quite ill. He has been ill, 
 I am sure ; he only wants to sec you five min- 
 utes — only five minutes. Since he has not 
 wronged you, how can you refuse it ? " 
 
 " I will not see him," said Dora, as if she 
 were repeating a lesson learned by rote ; "never 
 
 -never 
 
 i" 
 
 Mrs. Courtenay begged in vain. Dora clasped 
 her hands and piteously said, " I cannot ! — I 
 cannot ! " 
 
 With that answer her mother came back. 
 
 Mr. Templemore's cheeks flushed as he heard 
 Mrs. Courtenay deliver her daughter's mes- 
 sage. 
 
 "I would willingly force myself on no one, 
 least of all on a lady," he said, after a while, 
 "but this is no common case — and I cannot 
 write. I mu-t see Miss Courtenay once, and 
 once she must hear me. I have nothing to 
 explain, and no forgiveness to ask ; but I have 
 that to say to which she ought not in justice 
 
 to refuse to listen. I trust I shall find her 
 more lenient another time." 
 
 " But excuse me, Mr. Templemore," said 
 Mrs. Courtenay, a little crossly, "ought you 
 come here at all ? " 
 
 Mr. Templemore looked at the two women 
 very earnestly. " Will you keep my secret ? " 
 he asked, in a subdued tone. 
 
 They both replied, after a pause, that they 
 would. 
 
 " Well, then, I mean to ask Miss Courtenay 
 to become my wife ; but I wish to ask her my- 
 self — not through another, nor even by writ- 
 ing." 
 
 Mrs. Courtenay burst into tears, and uttered 
 a fervent " God bless you ! " 
 
 Mrs. Luan's whole face kindled, but she did 
 not speak. 
 
 " Will you prevail on Miss Courtenay to 
 grant me an interview, Mrs. Courtenay ? " 
 
 " I shall try, Mr. Templemore — I shall try." 
 
 " Then I rely upon you ; and since my pres- 
 ence is only keeping Miss Courtenay a pris- 
 oner in her room, I shall bid you both a good- 
 evening." 
 
 He left them; but scarcely had he gone 
 down three steps of the narrow wooden stair- 
 case, when the door above opened, and Mrs. 
 Luan appeared at the head of the banisters. 
 As if unaware that he had seen her, and was 
 waiting to know what she had to say, she 
 touched him lightly on the shoulder, and' said, 
 in a whisper : 
 
 " She goes to Notre Dame at eight o'clock 
 every morning." 
 
 Without giving him time to reply, this un- 
 expected ally reentered the apartment. She 
 found Mrs. Courtenay urging the point on Dora, 
 and, to all seeming, with little chance of suc- 
 cess. 
 
 " But what harm can it do you to see 
 him?" asked Mrs. Courtenay; adding, with 
 suspicious eagerness, "he can have little or 
 nothugl to sav."
 
 184 
 
 DORA. 
 
 " I cannot see him — oh ! I cannot, indeed I 
 cannot ! " said Dora, who was still trembling 
 from head to foot. " It would serve no good, 
 and it would break my heart — I cannot see 
 him ! " 
 
 She spoke in such tones of sorrow that Mrs. 
 Courtenay was silenced. 
 
 " He must write," she said, looking at Mrs. 
 Luan — "he must write." 
 
 "Yes, yes, let him write," almost eagerly 
 said Dora ; " tell him that, if you like. I can 
 bear a letter, but not the other thing." 
 
 Unconscious of Mrs. Luan's treachery, Dora 
 stole out as usual the next morning. Every 
 morning she now entered Notre Dame at eight, 
 and stayed there in a side-chapel, sometimes 
 for an hour, sometimes for more. She felt as if 
 but for this she must have died. The relief of 
 that hour's silence, solitude, and prayer, saved 
 •her from despair. She did not always pray. 
 There were times when the storm within could 
 not be allayed — when she left that solemn old 
 church as desolate as she had entered it, a 
 scorned, unloved, and disgraced woman. But 
 other times there were when a divine balm 
 sank on her soul and soothed her fever to rest. 
 
 As the waves of time had beaten in vain 
 against the foundations of that aged pile, so it 
 seemed to her that the brief troubles of life 
 should be endured by the immortal spirit. 
 What were her sufferings to eternity ? Some- 
 times she looked at the representations of 
 saints and martyrs on the painted glass above 
 her, and full into a languid reverie. Old sor- 
 rows, old trials, old triumphs were there, and 
 painted of the dead by men who in their turn 
 bad become dead. Was it so hard to suffer 
 and he heroic, to go through this brief life in 
 a lol'iy, passionate, enduring spirit ? And now 
 there Stole a dream over her — a dream danger- 
 ous in her present mood, a temptation that 
 wore the face of an angel. Why .should she 
 not leave that world which she found so harsh 
 and enter some calm retreat of happiateg and 
 
 prayer ! Were there not asylums provided for 
 the wounded and the conquered, homes in 
 which they could live and die, far from every 
 unkind gaze ? Ah ! if her mother were but 
 provided for, how she would seek the strong- 
 hold where Louise de la Misericorde forgot 
 the sins and follies of Louise de la Valliere ; 
 how she would do like that other Louise, the 
 daughter of the profligate French king, and 
 put eternal barriers between her and a cruel 
 world ! 
 
 But it was not to be. As, after sitting for 
 an hour in the chapel, Dora left it by one of 
 the side-doors, and entered a little court, she 
 started to see Mr. Templemore looking at her 
 with a fixed and very sorrowful gaze. The 
 blood flew to her heart, her head swam, and 
 she remained motionless as he approached 
 her. At first she thought that chance, not 
 design, had led to the meeting ; but when he 
 said, gravely — 
 
 " Miss Courtenay, why will you not see 
 me?" 
 
 She colored, and answered, with quick and 
 keen reproach : " Mr. Templemore, this is not 
 right — it is not generous ! " 
 
 He looked pained, and almost angry. He 
 walked away two steps, then he came back. 
 
 "Let me call upon you this evening," he 
 said, " and speak five minutes to you, and I 
 shall never trouble you again — never ! " 
 
 She wanted to deny him, but the words 
 faltered on her lips. She looked at him, and 
 felt like one in a dream — all her firmness, all 
 her will, seemed to leave her as their eyes met. 
 She meant to say "No," and it was "Very 
 well — as you please," that she uttered. 
 
 He did not wait for her to retract, but at 
 once turned away. 
 
 OHAPTEE XXXIII. 
 
 The three ladies sat in their quiet room ; 
 Mrs. Courtenay with her hands folded, Mrs.
 
 A MARRIAGE PROPOSAL. 
 
 185 
 
 Luan with her patchwork on her lap, and 
 Dora by the open window, doing nothing, and 
 looking at the old church front, which rose 
 dark and heavy in the gray light of evening. 
 The hour was very calm ; the city was quiet ; 
 a faint breeze from the river stirred the yellow 
 wall-flowers midst the buttresses, and Dora's 
 quick car, quickened by the fever of expecta- 
 tion at her heart, caught the sound of a well- 
 known step coming up the silent street. She 
 shrank back, for she knew it — how often had 
 she sat thus by the open window, seeming to 
 look at the evening sky, but in reality listen- 
 ing for his coming ! She knew it, and raising 
 her bent and flushed face, she said, as she 
 turned toward her mother and her aunt : 
 
 " I saw Mr. Templemore this morniug in 
 Notre Dame. He is coming this evening. I 
 believe he wants to speak to me." 
 
 " I hear his voice below," eagerly said Mrs. 
 Luan. 
 
 She rose as she spoke. Mrs. Courtenay 
 looked bewildered. 
 
 "Surely — " she began. Her sister-in-law 
 would not let her proceed. 
 
 " Come along, she said," imperatively ; " Mr. 
 Templemore wants to speak to Dora alone." 
 
 Dora attempted to remonstrate, and Mrs. 
 Courtenay to resist; but Mrs. Luan heeded 
 neither. The battle was nearly won, and a 
 conqueror's fierceness was upon her. She 
 took her sister-in-law's hand, and half raised, 
 half pushed her out of her chair. 
 
 " I tell you he must see Dora alone," she 
 angrily whispered, as Mrs. Courtenay rather 
 indignantly asked to know what she meant by 
 such conduct. 
 
 " Aunt ! " said Dora, but her mother had 
 suddenly joined the enemy, and Dora was 
 alone in the room by the time Mr. Temple- 
 more opened the door and entered it. 
 
 She had risen on hearing his step coming up 
 the staircase, and she now stood before him 
 silent and grave. The pale evening light from 
 
 the open window fell on her face. He drew 
 near her without speaking, then stood still. 
 They both exchanged a long, silent look of 
 sorrowful scrutiny. Well they might. The 
 same storm had passed over them both, and 
 left its cruel traces upon either. How worn, 
 how heart-struck looked these two ! lie took 
 her passive hand, he looked in her face with 
 the deepest sorrow. 
 
 " Good heavens ! " he exclaimed. " I did 
 not see you rightly this morning. Is it pos- 
 sible that I am the cause of this V " 
 
 A proud, sad smile passed across Dora's 
 face. 
 
 " You were the pretence — not the cause ! " 
 she said. 
 
 She threw her head back, a little as if she 
 defied her hard fate, and much as if she re- 
 pelled all pity, all sorrow it might draw forth 
 from him. But a true and generous heart is 
 not easily discouraged. Mr. Templemore 
 looked at her very earnestly. 
 
 " You do not want me to bear my share of 
 this calamity," he said, " and yet I came here 
 this morning to know if you will not let me 
 repair the cruel wrong I have unconsciously 
 inflicted upon you." 
 
 She looked at him in doubt. He raised her 
 hand, whjch he still held, and pressed it to 
 his lips. The blood rushed to her heart, her 
 brain swam; she knew his meaning, and with 
 the knowledge came a wild fear of yielding to 
 this temptation. She snatched her hand from 
 him ; she gave him a look of sudden dread, 
 and turned ashy pale. 
 
 " No, no ! " she cried — " never ! never ! 
 You have no wrong to repair, Mr. Temple- 
 more. Oh ! God forbid this should ever 
 be!" 
 
 " Why so ? " he asked, very calmly. 
 
 Dora could not answer hint at once. 
 
 "Will you not sit down, and allow me, at 
 least, to speak of this more fully? " he con 
 tinned, quietly.
 
 186 
 
 DORA. 
 
 " Xo, no," she replied, excitedly, " this 
 must never be — never ! never ! " 
 
 " But Miss Courtenay, why will you not 
 bear me ? — I ask for no more." 
 
 He spoke very gently, but with somethiug 
 like reproach. Dora felt ashamed of her 
 vehemeuce ; she sat down in silence, and Mr. 
 Templemore sat down by her side and re- 
 sumed : 
 
 "I believe you have understood me, but 
 there shall be no doubt — no possible mistake. 
 I wish, and allow me to add I hope, that you 
 will be good enough to become my wife." 
 
 A crimson flush, which died away in sudden 
 paleness, passed across Dora's face. She 
 clasped her hands, and wrung them in a sort 
 of anguish, for again the fear of yielding to 
 this temptation came over her. 
 
 "But that cannot be," she replied. "I 
 cannot marry you — never ! never ! " 
 
 " Why so ? " he asked, and he almost 
 smiled. 
 
 " Because you want to marry me from 
 honor, Mr.* Templemore — because my reputa- 
 tion is damaged, or lost — and because the 
 world says, or will say, that it is so lost 
 through you. But I am too proud a woman 
 to take you — to take any man so." 
 
 She wanted to rise and end the matter, but 
 he entreated her to hear him out. 
 
 " Only hear me out," he urged ; and she 
 sat down again, silently repining at her own 
 weakness. " Dear Miss Courtenay," he said, 
 in his most persuasive accents, "do not put 
 it all upon my honor, and. do not let your 
 pride divide us. Why should not ours be a 
 orable, and, allow me to add, a 
 happy marriage ? " 
 
 "Happyl" Bbe interrupted— "how many 
 i- it since yen loved, and were to marry, 
 Mr I 
 
 "Nol many," hi : slowly — "no, in- 
 
 deed, nol many; but what of that ? I loved 
 her — I bad faith in her — what was her love 
 
 for, her faith in me ? She tarnished my honor 
 — she did her best to ruin you. Can I ever 
 forget or forgive either sin ? " 
 
 There was severity in his look and in his 
 voice, but there was emotion too. 
 
 " He loves her," thought Dora, with invol- 
 untary jealousy ; " he asks me to marry him 
 in that calm tone, and he denies loving her in 
 that accent of regret. I should be mad ~to 
 take him so." — " Mr. Templemore," she said, 
 trying to speak very calmly, " this must not 
 be. We must not rush on such a fate with 
 our eyes open. For oh ! how we should rue 
 it ! — how we should rue it ! " 
 
 She clasped her hands ; she spoke with a 
 subdued passion in her voice — with a strange, 
 sad light in her eyes, which he saw, but could 
 not understand. What ailed her ? — what was 
 it? 
 
 "Am I abhorrent to you ? " he asked, after 
 a while. " If, when we first met, before you 
 knew of my engagement with Mrs. Logan, I 
 had asked you to marry me, would you have 
 rejected me thus, without even taking time 
 to think over it ? " 
 
 " Perhaps not," hastily replied Dora, blush- 
 ing at the equivocation ; " but Mr. Temple- 
 more, I cannot marry a man who loves an- 
 other woman ! — I cannot ! — I will not ! You 
 cannot say that, if it were not to right me in 
 the opinion of the world, you would ask me 
 to become your wife — you cannot say it ! " 
 
 "I begin by denying the love you persist 
 in taking for granted, Miss Courtenay," he 
 replied, very gravely. " A tree takes years 
 to grow,.bu}; let a storm uproot it, or man's 
 hand lay it low, and it dies and withers in a 
 few days. What though some green leaves 
 linger on the boughs — it is none the less 
 doomed to perish. Thus has fared my affec- 
 tion for Mrs. Logan. The shock has been 
 violent and cruel, like tlie lopping of a limb ; 
 and I will not deny that I felt it keenly — nay, 
 more, I will confess it, the wound is not
 
 MISS COURTENAY'S HESITATION. 
 
 187 
 
 healed yet, and but for the sad trouble her 
 cruel folly has caused, I should scarcely care 
 to think of marriage now. But, Miss Courte- 
 nay, you will believe me when I tell you that 
 I have always admired you, and that if I had 
 been a free man, I should most probably have 
 come to you long ago on the errand which 
 brings me here this evening." 
 
 Dora could not help looking at him in so 
 much perplexity, and doubt, and amazement, 
 that he smiled. 
 
 " Do you wrong my taste and my judgment 
 so much as to suppose I could not see and 
 prize your many gifts? " he asked remopstra- 
 tively ; " believe me, dear Miss Courtenay, 
 neither Doctor Richard nor Mr. Templemore 
 was so blind or so indifferent as you imagine. 
 How could he see you almost daily so long 
 and not admire you ? " 
 
 He spoke with a warmth, with a respectful 
 tenderness, which stirred the depths of Dora's 
 heart. With a sort of terror she felt her 
 resolve giving way, and her denial was uttered 
 with something like despair : " No — it cannot 
 be!" 
 
 Mr. Templemore looked both troubled and 
 perplexed. 
 
 "Then you condemn me to solitude," he 
 said, " for how can I marry another woman 
 and be happy with her whilst you suffer 
 through me ? Pride, Honor, Conscience, for- 
 bid it alike ! " 
 
 " I do not suffer," replied Dora, lifting up 
 her head with a proud, denying motion. 
 
 " And you persist in your refusal ? " 
 
 "I do." 
 
 He rose, but not to leave her. He only 
 walked up and down the room, and came back 
 to her side after taking a few turns. 
 
 " Dear Miss Courtenay," he said, soothingly, 
 and taking her hand as he spoke, " do not 
 struggle against Fate — this thing must be. 
 You must be my wife, and I must be your hus- 
 band. You are the only woman I can marry 
 
 in honor, and I am the only man whom so- 
 ciety will let you marry. Providence has or- 
 dained that our friendship shall become the 
 closest and the dearest tie ; let us not strive 
 against its decrees, but obey and bless them. 
 Where there has been a true friendship, is it 
 so hard to love? When society and inter- 
 course have been so pleasant, is it so hard to 
 endure them daily ? Why should we not be 
 happy, very happy together ? Ah ! surely far 
 happier than apart ! Do not bid me give you 
 up — I cannot do it ! The desire I feel for this 
 is like the presentiment of a great good sud- 
 denly placed within my reach. Is not Eva's 
 strange and sudden love for you a token of our 
 destiny ? That you will be as dear to me as a 
 wife can be to her husband's heart, I know as 
 well as that I am sitting by your side, with 
 your dear hand in mine ; and do not think me 
 presumptuous if I feel confident of winning 
 your affections with time. Is it in your na- 
 ture, true woman as you are, not to end by lov- 
 ing the man whose name and % existence you 
 share ? I promise you to be patient at first, 
 and not exacting. I shall not expect you to 
 forget in a day the bitter hours which have 
 preceded this brief and sad wooing. For the 
 present I shall ask little or nothing, because I 
 feel so confident, so sure of the future." 
 
 Dora heard him, and felt in a dream. 
 
 " Ah ! but if that future should never come," 
 she argued, rousing herself; " if we should be 
 bound to each other for life, and feel that bond 
 grow heavier daily ! Can you imagine how 
 frightful that would be, Mr. Templemore? " 
 
 "Xo," he replied, with manly frankness, 
 " for I cannot imagine myself remaining cold 
 or indifferent toward a young, attractive, and 
 amiable wife ! I do not think I should feel so 
 toward a plain one, provided she were good ; 
 how then could I be, as you say, to one who 
 is good, pretty, and, to crown all, delightful 
 company ? Dear Miss Courtenay, it would be 
 unnatural ; and allow me to add that, as
 
 188 
 
 DORA. 
 
 with fine natures love wins love, I feel sure of 
 securing your affection with time. Then do 
 not wonder if I urge this matter upon you. 
 Love, peace, and happiness are all, as it were, 
 within my grasp — do not deny me ! " 
 
 He spoke almost as if he loved her already — 
 so tender, so persuasive was his tone. Could 
 this great, this unattainable happiness have 
 come within her reach ? She felt dizzy ; she 
 did not know whether it was with fear or with 
 joy ; and scarcely knowing what she said, she 
 replied : 
 
 " Yes, later — perhaps as you say — but later." 
 
 "Dear Miss Courtenay," he urged, " it must 
 be now. We must get married at once — we 
 cannot delay." 
 
 " Now ! " she repeated, suddenly sobered — 
 " now, Mr. Templemore ? " 
 
 " Now, indeed ! " he too repeated. 
 
 " Now ! " she said again ; " now, when hon- 
 or, generosity, all urge you to it ! And if you 
 regret it later, Mr. Templemore — if you repent, 
 what fate shall be ours ? " 
 
 " But I cannot repent," he replied, a little 
 indignantly. "You wrong me, Miss Courte- 
 nay, by indulging such a thought." 
 
 She was silent. He resumed, in a more 
 geutle tone : 
 
 " Believe me, I know what I am doing. I 
 am taking a good and attractive woman to be 
 my companion for life ; why, what sort of a 
 man should I be to repent an act which ought 
 to give mc the greatest happiness ? Surely," 
 he added, with an admiring smile, " you have 
 learned before to-day that you have the power 
 to win and to charm ? " 
 
 Poor Dora ! she could not resist the language 
 of this tender Battery. A deep warm blush 
 Stole 'Air her face, and for a n»ment made 
 her strangely beautiful. Mr. Templemore saw 
 that he had prevailed, but he wanted her to 
 say so. 
 
 "Tell me that you consent ?" he asked. 
 
 The WOrde sent Dora back to that morning 
 
 in Notre Dame, and her dream there, and all 
 that had passed since then. She rose — it was 
 as if a storm had seized and now shook her 
 frail being. 
 
 " It is not too late yet," she said in a low 
 distinct tone ; " you are free still, Mr. Temple- 
 more." 
 
 " I do not want to be free," he answered 
 smiling, as he took her hand again. 
 
 She left it clasped in his. She stood within 
 two paces of him, calm, pale, and with a light 
 in her eyes that sent a thrill through him. 
 
 " Mr. Templemore," said she in the same 
 low voice, " before you pledge yourself irrevo- 
 cably, hear me and heed me. I am not so 
 good or so perfect as you think. I am proud — 
 a very proud woman. I am easily offended, but 
 do not easily forget or forgive a wrong. If I 
 become your wife, I shall do so knowing that 
 you do not marry me for love. That knowl- 
 edge may make me unreasonable and exact- 
 ing. I have never anticipated such an ordeal, 
 and dare not answer for my wisdom or my 
 patience. Oh ! Mr. Templemore, sound your 
 own heart and pause. If you are not sure 
 that you will never repent — if you are not 
 sure that I shall never read regret or weariness 
 in your eyes, leave me for your own sake — for 
 I should turn dangerous — for mine, for I 
 should go mad ! Leave me now, I say ! My 
 charm may wear off with novelty ; your liking 
 may grow cool, and my short happiness go 
 with it. Better by far unmerited disgrace 
 than such a lot — better present heart-ache 
 than to be happy a few hours, and rue them 
 forever — forever ! " 
 
 What strange thoughts will come when no 
 one bids them ! Mr. Templemore heard Dora 
 out, and as he looked at her pale face, lit up 
 with a passionate emotion, and held her hand, 
 he thought, "I did not know this was in her ! 
 To think of that pleasant, good-tempered look- 
 ing girl being finer than any tragic queen ! 
 Rachel herself never looked more like a being
 
 THE FAIRY-TALE. 
 
 i 
 
 189 
 
 all spirit and flame than this Dora Courtenay ; 
 she never uttered a ' forever ! — forever ! ' so 
 mournful and so boding. Yes, I can believe 
 it — there is danger in her." 
 
 But we all love danger, and Mr. Temple- 
 more liked Dora pone the worse for recogniz- 
 ing in her that element of peril. Besides, he 
 had no doubt — no fear. 
 
 " I dread nothing," he replied, with a secure 
 smile — " nothing of that kind, at least. I shall 
 never feel regret or weariness, never — never." 
 
 How could she doubt him ? He did not 
 doubt himself. He did not know that he was 
 yielding to a keen temptation. He was not in 
 love, but there are many feelings besides love 
 which rule a man's heart, and Mr. Temple- 
 more would have risked his own happiness and 
 Dora's ten times over, rather than give her up 
 just then. Her very warning was sweet as an 
 allurement, her forebodings had the charm of 
 a fond defiance. There is no knowing how he 
 might have felt if he had suspected that this 
 proud girl loved him ; but she had guarded 
 her secret well, and he knew it not. He only 
 knew that she was young and attractive, and 
 hard to win, and, manlike, he liked her all 
 the better for it ; and thus their fate was de- 
 cided. 
 
 It was a mere formality, when Mrs. Courte- 
 nay and Mrs. Luan at length came forth, to 
 ask the former lady for her daughter's hand, 
 but Mr. Templemore went through it. Mrs. 
 Courtenay burst into tears, and Mrs. Luan 
 looked as stolid as if Mr. Templemore's words 
 had fallen on her ear and not reached her 
 understanding. It was all settled, however, 
 and settled very quickly ; the very marriage- 
 day was fixed when Mr. Templemore left them 
 that night. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIY. 
 Mr. Templemore went home on foot. 
 
 He 
 
 went home along a gray moonlit road, with 
 
 here and there a patch of trees, throwing their 
 black mass of shadow across his path, or a 
 slope of ground rising against a starry sky. 
 He felt like one in a dream, and the balmy 
 evening air added to the languor which 
 pervaded his being. He could not forget 
 Dora Courtenay. It was not love, it was not 
 admiration ; it was something which partook 
 of the nature of both feelings, and yet which 
 was neither, that brought her face thus ever 
 before him. He saw it on that lonely road 
 with its look of tragic sorrow and sad warning 
 that stirred his very heart ; as plainly as in 
 the worn by the open window, "when he held 
 her hand iu his, as distinctly did he see her 
 now. 
 
 And it was not love that summoned her to 
 his side. Alas ! no, it was something very 
 different from that pure and tender feeling. 
 It was the dawn of passion, none the less dan- 
 gerous that it would be felt for a wife, and 
 might conceal itself under the cloak of duty. 
 His love for Mrs. Logan had been misplaced, 
 but it had been a true, calm, and tender affec- 
 tion, the aifection which a wise woman wishes 
 to inspire. Very different from this was the 
 new feeling it was Dora's fate to waken in Mr. 
 Templemore's heart. She deserved, indeed, 
 the love Mrs. Logan had had and lost ; but 
 perhaps Mr. Templemore could not like two 
 women successively after the same fashion ; 
 perhaps, too, that Dora's stronger nature 
 wakened in him the restless and stormy ele- 
 ment, and appealed to that faculty of imagina- 
 tion which a pretty childish creature like Flor- 
 ence had left dormant. He questioned him- 
 self as he walked home along the lonely road, 
 and he wondered at the calmness with which 
 he could think of his late love, and at the 
 strange yearning which came over him when 
 he contemplated his approaching marriage. 
 He wondered and questioned, and the answer 
 had not come when he reached Lcs Bodies. 
 It was early yet, and little Eva rushed out
 
 190 
 
 DORA. 
 
 to meet him. He took her in his arms and 
 kissed her, and the purest emotion connected 
 with his new feelings came to him as he 
 thought : 
 
 " Yes, she will be a good and tender mother 
 to my child." 
 
 They went in together, and as soon as they 
 entered the school-room Eva got upon her 
 father's knee, and laid her head on his shoul- 
 der. 
 
 "Aunt says Cousin Dora will never come 
 back," she began, in her most doleful voice. 
 
 Mr. Templemore smiled. He already saw 
 a bright young mistress at Les Roches, and he 
 could imagine Miss Moore's amazement and 
 consternation. 
 
 "But Cousin Dora will come back," he 
 said, in answer to Eva. " I saw her this 
 evening, and she promised to return." 
 
 " To-morrow ? " cried Eva, clapping her 
 hands in great glee. 
 
 " No, not to-morrow." 
 
 Eva looked blank. The good deferred is 
 not a good for childhood. Besides, Mr. Tem- 
 plemore, when questioned more closely, could 
 not even say that Cousin Dora would come 
 after to-morrow. It was plain he knew 
 nothing about it. Moreover, he was unusually 
 silent this evening. Eva saw it, and pouted. 
 Then she grew petulant and exacting, and 
 ed for a fairy-tale. Mr. Templemore 
 smiled, and rousing himself from bis reverie, 
 
 " A fairy-tale ! Why, Eva, the world is full 
 
 of fairy-talcs. I saw one the other day — for 
 
 you know thai in fairy-tales there is no such 
 
 thing as time— with the fairy and the prin- 
 
 — " 
 
 "And the prince? " suggested Eva. 
 
 "Well, yes, a rl of prince there was, 
 too." 
 
 "And \ the fairy like ? " 
 
 " Little, wrinkled, old, and very cross! She 
 brok( 11 b i i >. and spilt her milk, 
 
 and even fairies will be put out by such dis- 
 asters; so the princess came to her assistance, 
 and gave her more milk and eggs." 
 
 "No," contradicted Eva, " it is the fairy 
 who gives the milk and eggs, not the princess, 
 you know ! " 
 
 " Are you sure ? " asked Mr. Templemore. 
 
 " Quite sure," triumphantly replied Eva, 
 " it is the fairy who gives the milk and eggs, 
 and they turn into gold and diamonds, you 
 know !" 
 
 "Well, they may yet turn into gold and 
 diamonds," answered Mr. Templemore, smiling. 
 " So far you are right, Eva." 
 
 ,"And what is she like — the princess, I 
 mean ? " asked Eva, curiously. 
 
 " A sunbeam, if you like it — or your Cousin 
 Dora ! " 
 
 " Is she as beautiful as Cousin Dora ? " 
 
 " Oh ! quite ! " 
 
 " And the prince ? " 
 
 " Ah ! the priuce, to be sure. Well, there 
 is not much to be said about him, save that 
 he comes for the princess, and that they both 
 go away in a fiery car — very like a rail-way- 
 carriage — and are ever so happy somewhere 
 or other ! " , 
 
 " And is that all the fairy-tale ? " asked Eva, 
 looking disappointed. 
 
 "My clear, you spoiled it. I would have 
 shown you how distressed the poor old fairy 
 was, and how the beautiful princess came to 
 the rescue, and how grateful the fairy felt, and 
 how she s"howed her gratitude by heaping all 
 sorts of troubles on the poor princess, till, 
 having tried her to the utmost, she called in 
 the prince, who was only hiding all the time, 
 and, bidding him deliver the princess, and 
 make her happy, she vanished in a cloud of 
 smoke." 
 
 " And did he deliver her ? " asked Eva, in- 
 terested. 
 
 " I believe so — I liopc so ! I hope, too, he 
 made a princess so good and so amiable as
 
 SUN AND SHADE. 
 
 101 
 
 happy as she deserved to be ; but I am not 
 sure of it, you see — not having yet read that 
 part of the story." 
 
 Eva looked very grave and thoughtful ; she 
 seemed to be meditating over the mysterious 
 ending, but in reality she was sleepy. Ere 
 long her eyelids fluttered, then closed, her 
 head sank heavily on her father's shoulder, 
 and a gentle little snore announced her de- 
 parture for a fairy-land much visited by young 
 ladies of her years. Mr. Templemore rang 
 for Fanny, and as the girl took the child 
 away, he thought : " Yes, she will be a good 
 mother to my child." 
 
 Alas ! if he had questioned his heart very 
 closely, Mr. Templemore would have known 
 that he did not care much for Dora's good- 
 ness just then. She was already to him as 
 one of those fair-haired sirens who allured 
 Greek mariners in the blue seas, and whom 
 they followed, not caring whither, so sweet 
 was it to go to perdition in their track. 
 " What ailed' me, that I never saw it before 
 to-night?" he thought. "The very child 
 saw it, and I did not. She is beautiful — of 
 that subtle beauty which escapes analysis, and 
 charms most. Yet I may do myself justice. 
 I did not think of that when I went to ask her 
 to become my wife." 
 
 Yes, however unwise might be this passage 
 in the drama of Richard Templemore's life, 
 there was, at least, this saving clause to it, 
 and which in his darkest hours he remem- 
 bered with just and manly pride. Duty, 
 honor, not faithlessness of heart, or the folly 
 of a strong desire, had first taken him to Dora 
 Courtenay. rie was alone now in that room 
 where he had spent some happy hours with 
 her and Eva. Every object he saw reminded 
 him of long hours, which had seemed brief, 
 they were so delightful. _ How he remembered 
 those pleasant evenings during which Eva 
 dressed and undressed Minna, whilst he sat 
 talking, arguing, and discoursing with Eva's 
 
 governess ! What a bright, clear mind she had, 
 and what a listener she made ! Plans which 
 he never could have formed had the childish 
 Florence been his wife, now thronged to his 
 mind. Mr. Templemore was too much de- 
 voted to study to require a companion to help 
 him in his wooing of this austere mistress. 
 But still it would enhance her charms to have 
 such a fellow-student as Dora. Ay, truly it 
 was something to go down the stream of life 
 with this bright fellow-traveller, and feel as 
 they went that they were strangers in nothing. 
 No fatal bar, no cruel division of intellect, or 
 faith, or temper, or belief, need come between 
 these two. Mr. Ternplernore knew Dora too 
 well not to know this also, and perhaps such 
 knowledge had made duty easy, and free from 
 all sacrifice. He did not ask himself how he 
 would have acted if Dora had not been what 
 she was, and we will not say it for him. 
 What was right because he felt that this girl 
 could truly become flesh of his flesh and heart 
 of his heart, might have been wrong if it had 
 not been in his power to admit her to such a 
 communion in his being. But no such 
 obstacle, existed between them. All his 
 visions showed him a fair young wife, with 
 bright hair, and soft, shy eyes, whom he could 
 chain to his side without tyranny ; for what- 
 ever his pursuits might be, she could share 
 and like them, and yet not like them merely 
 for his sake, or to please him. Little wonder, 
 then, that he let such visions come, and gave 
 them welcome, on that lonely evening, after 
 leaving Dora, knowing that he should see her 
 on the morrow, and that before the week was 
 out she would have become his wife. 
 
 Dora, too, had her dreams, but oh ! how 
 different they were from Mr. Templemore's ! 
 She soon escaped from her mother's hysterical 
 joy at such unexpected good fortune to her 
 own room, and there she sat and tried to 
 think. Ah ! how happy she would have been 
 if she could have looked at the future with his
 
 192 
 
 DORA. 
 
 eves! But do what she would, a dark and 
 heavy cloud ever came and veiled from her 
 the glorious radiance of her lot. To be Mr. 
 Templeinore's wife, honored, blessed, re- 
 deemed from disgrace — pang so keen to a 
 proud heart — to be his cherished and chosen 
 companion, his friend, the mother of his 
 child, the partaker of his cares, his sorrows, 
 and his joys — ay, truly that was deep happi- 
 ness, and happiness both deep and pure. But, 
 oh ! to be his wife, and to see him suffer and 
 repent, to feel herself a burden and a clog 
 upon him, to be not disliked, but endured, and 
 to see it, and have to bear it — that was the 
 cloud, and it appalled Dora's heart like the 
 last great final darkness. 
 
 " Oh ! better anything than that ! — better 
 anything ! " she moaned. . " I shall tell him to- 
 morrow that I cannot — no, I cannot ! " But 
 when tears came and relieved her — when she 
 remembered how earnest, how tender had 
 been his assurances of affection, faith returned, 
 and with faith the fond human yearning for 
 this possible happiness. For she, too, knew 
 there was a strange affinity between them. 
 They had the same tastes, the same likings, 
 the same hopes and desires. They only dif- 
 (ered where it was pleasant to do so, and for 
 this no doubt the society of the one had al- 
 ways been so agreeable to the other. Dora, 
 too, could imagine such a life as fancy had 
 shown to Mr. Templemore. " We shall read 
 and study together," she thought, " and I will 
 be his amanuensis, and help him, and he will 
 h me. Ah! if he can only forget Mrs. 
 Logan, we shall be happy— happy to the 
 heart's core.'' But that fatal "if" brought 
 the cloud agaiii ;>lhe bright life of love and 
 intellectual delighl ranished in dismal ob- 
 ■ ourity, and a faintness, like that of death, 
 came over Doi le being. She did not 
 
 her room-door open, but she saw the 
 sudden flash of a light, for she was sitting in 
 Qess, and turning round witli a startled 
 
 exclamation, she beheld her aunt. Mrs. Luan 
 put down the light she held, and closing the 
 door, came up to Dora. There was a strange, 
 exulting glitter in her eyes, and a triumphant 
 smile on her lips as she said, " Well, Dora, I 
 told you so — you will be Mrs. Templemore." 
 
 " Yes, aunt, you told me so," replied Dora ; 
 but she sighed drearily. 
 
 " You will be a rich woman," said Mrs. 
 Luan. " Mr. Templemore is a rich man." 
 
 Dora did not reply ; she was not indifferent 
 to wealth, but Mr. Templemore's moved her 
 not. 
 
 "He will be a generous husband," resumed 
 Mrs. Luan. " He will give you plenty of 
 things." 
 
 Dora began to feel surprised, not at the 
 sordid tone of her aunt's remarks, but at the 
 fluency with which they were uttered. Mrs. 
 Luan spoke with a sharp distinctness so un- 
 usual in her, that Dora, after a moment's 
 reflection, ascribed it to the excitement of joy 
 which her countenance expressed very plainly. 
 
 " And you will not forget to say a good 
 word for John Luan," resumed Mrs. Luan ; 
 " he is your cousin, and deserving — and what 
 is there Mr. Templemore cannot do for him 
 if he chooses ? Besides, he will do any- 
 thing to please you." 
 
 "Are you so sure of that, aunt?" asked 
 Dora with involuntary bitterness. "He does 
 not marry me for love, you know ! " 
 
 Mrs. Luan shook her head, and muttered 
 something Avhich Dora did not understand. 
 
 " No, he does not marry you for love," she 
 resumed, looking very hard at Dora ; " but I 
 saw him looking at you this evening. If he 
 had not found out before you were worth that 
 little babyish thing ten times over, he found 
 it out to-night." 
 
 Dora looked incredulous, and somewhat 
 impatient. 
 
 " I tell you he did ! " almost impetuously 
 said her aunt — " I tell you that man will dote
 
 MRS. LEAN'S ADVICE. 
 
 193 
 
 on you, if you know how to manage. I told 
 you he would marry you, and he is going to 
 do so. I tell you he will dote on you — and 
 you will see it." 
 
 Her vehemence almost frightened Dora. 
 
 " Aunt, aunt ! " she said, soothingly. But 
 Mrs. Luan stamped her foot angrily. 
 
 " You will spoil all if you mope," she said : 
 " he liked you for your bright face — and you 
 must be bright as the sun. He liked you 
 because you laughed and sang, and read and 
 played, and drew — then do it all again. 
 What need you fret ? You wanted him, and 
 you have him. If you cry, you will remind 
 him of Florence Gale. Do not give him time 
 to think ; make him so happy that he will — 
 that he must forget." 
 
 " Make him forget her ! " cried Dora, with 
 involuntary passion and jealousy. " Oh ! 
 that I could !— that I could ! " 
 
 Mrs. Luan looked at her with something 
 like contempt. 
 
 "You can if you will," she said at length. 
 
 " Oh ! aunt, how ?— how ? " 
 
 And Dora looked at her aunt as she had 
 never looked before. 
 
 " I have never been handsome," replied 
 Mrs. Luan, " and I am not clever or bright 
 like you — at least, people say so ; but when 
 I had a husband I never let him think of an- 
 other woman." 
 
 " How did you manage, aunt ? " asked 
 Dora, rather astonished. 
 
 Mrs. Luan nodded knowingly. 
 
 " You will find it out — you will find it out ! " 
 she repeated. 
 
 11 No— -never," replied Dora with some emo- 
 tion. " He may like me if he pleases ; and 
 if he does not he may leave me." 
 
 " Idiot ! " angrily said Mrs. Luan — " idiot ! 
 Why do you marry him, then ? I tell you it 
 is your right and your duty to fascinate your 
 husband, and make him forget that woman." 
 
 Mrs. Luan spoke the truth, and Dora.'s con- 
 
 13 
 
 science told her so. Yes, it was her right and 
 her duty to win and keep her husband's heart. 
 
 " I believe you are right, aunt," she replied 
 after a while ; " and I shall do my best — but 
 I may fail." 
 
 " Why should you fail ? " asked Mrs. Luan ; 
 but her tone was sobering, and her look, her 
 voice, her manner were all getting confused 
 again. " Why should you fail ? Of course a 
 pretty girl like you can easily get hold of her 
 husband; for I have always noticed," she 
 added in the tone of a person who enounces 
 a doubtful proposition, " that men like pretty 
 women, and that Mrs. Logan is not so very 
 pretty. Now, you are fair, and being dark, 
 he must like you — indeed, I suppose he liked 
 you all along, only he did not find it out ; but 
 I am sure he did this evening — any one could 
 see he was quite smitten, though you were so 
 pale. So when you are married you have 
 only to get your color back and to manage, 
 and he will dote upon you ; and I have no 
 doubt he will do anything you like for John 
 Luan." 
 
 She spoke with her old incoherence, and 
 yet her words fell like balm on Dora's heart. 
 The good-night she uttered when her aunt 
 left her had a tenderness in it which said 
 much. Illusion or not, she felt she must be- 
 lieve Mrs. Luan, or perish in her despair. 
 Yes, she must believe that she was already 
 dear to Mr. Templemore, and that she would 
 grow far dearer still, or she could never face 
 the future. 
 
 "Aunt is right," she thought ; "it is my 
 duty and my right to charm my husband. I 
 must not fret, I must not be pale and look 
 heart-sick — I must be young, handsome, and 
 happy, and," she added, glancing at the mir- 
 ror, before which she now stood undoing her 
 long, bright hair, " I will ! " 
 
 Easy resolve to accomplish when the brow 
 is fair, and the eyes are bright ; when the 
 cheek is young and blushing, and, above all,
 
 194 
 
 DORA. 
 
 when there is a girl's strong though modest 
 love in the heart. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXV. 
 
 A dream, in which Mrs. Courtenay saw 
 Dora presented with a pair of diamond ear- 
 rings by her fond husband, was rather abrupt- 
 ly disturbed by Dora herself the next morn- 
 ing. Mrs. Courtenay sat-up and stared at her 
 daughter, who stood by her side dressed, and 
 with her bonnet on. 
 
 " Why, Dora, what time is it ? " she asked, 
 " that you are already going out ? " 
 
 " I am not going out — I have been out, and 
 I have just come in," said Dora, who looked 
 rather sad and pale. " Mamma, I have a 
 great deal to say to you — will you hear me ? " 
 
 "Surely," replied Mrs. Courtenay, whose 
 mind was all running on the trousseau — " of 
 course you have a great deal to see to — I 
 could scarcely sleep for thinking of it — but 
 there is an excellent shop in the Rue Imperi- 
 ale, and — " 
 
 " You misunderstand me," Dora interrupted, 
 with an expression of great pain ; " what I 
 have to say is this : I cannot become Mr. Tem- 
 plemore' s wife." 
 
 " But, my dear, you have promised ! " cried 
 Mrs. Courtenay. 
 
 " True ; and the breaking of that promise, 
 which has cost me a sleepless night, will not 
 cost him a sleepless hour," replied Dora, very 
 sadly. " Mamma, Mr. Tcmplemore marries 
 me from honor, and I cannot, I will not be 
 married so. I said 'yes' last night because I 
 was mad •, and I dare say I should say ' yes ' 
 again if he were to urge the point— therefore 
 I must go. I have been out this morning 
 and made every needful inquiry. If we leave 
 Rouen by twelve-, we can be in London to- 
 morrow." 
 
 Mrs. Courtenay was confounded. Here was 
 a fall, indeed, from the diamond car- rings of 
 
 her dream to the departure of reality. When 
 she recovered from her amazement, it was to 
 argue against so sudden a resolve. Especially 
 did she urge Dora not to go without seeing 
 Mr. Templemore. "It will affront him so," 
 she said, pitifully. 
 
 Dora hung her head. Yes, it would affront 
 him ; but it would not pain him. The sting 
 could go no deeper than pride : even her 
 childish, innocent mother, who saw so little, 
 could see that. 
 
 " I cannot see him," she said, looking up ; 
 " I cannot say to him all I say to you, mamma. 
 It would look like calling forth protestations 
 which I do not wish to hear. He would have 
 to tell me again that I am young, pretty, and 
 amiable, and that of course he admires me, 
 and must love me in the end. No, I cannot 
 say all that, and hear him over again. Be- 
 sides, he might not understand me. For, after 
 all, I do not want my husband to adore me — 
 I do not deserve or expect extravagant affec- 
 tion from any man ; only no man shall marry 
 me from honor — none ! — none ! " she added, 
 her* eyes flashing and her voice ringing as she 
 spoke. 
 
 Mrs. Courtenay argued again ; but hei 
 daughter, though she listened to her patiently, 
 was not moved by her arguments. 
 
 " I cannot do it," she said, despondently. 
 " I do believe that if the feeling I have now 
 should come to me at the altar when we both 
 stood before the priest, and he had his book 
 open, I do believe t should say 'no/ even 
 then." 
 
 " My dear," innocently said her mother, " I 
 always thought you liked Mr. Templemore ? " 
 
 Dora's pale cheek flushed ; but she gave 
 Mrs. Courtenay no direct answer. 
 
 " I cannot do it," she said again ; " I would 
 rather marry John Luan than become Mr. 
 Templemorc's wife on these terms." 
 
 " And do you think of John Luan, then ? " 
 doubtfully asked Mrs. Courtenay.
 
 DORA'S DISAPPEARANCE. 
 
 195 
 
 "Think of him ! think of any man with 
 this burden of disgrace upon me ! " cried 
 Dora, with a sudden agony of grief. " Why, 
 who would have me ? No — not John Luan 
 himself, though he has liked me years, and 
 though I need only say, ' I am guiltless,' for 
 him to believe me. He told me so last night : 
 I can marry but one man." 
 
 " Well, then, marry him," promptly said 
 her mother. 
 
 Dora shook her head. " Time is passing," 
 she said, with a sigh, " and — oh ! how I long 
 to be gone — gone, and at peace ! " 
 
 " But, my dear, Mr. Templemore will prob- 
 ably follow us, and — " 
 
 " Follow us ? " interrupted Dora ; " no, mam- 
 ma, there is no fear of that ; he will be af- 
 fronted, as you said — besides, he need not 
 know where we are going." 
 
 It was hard to give up so bright a vision as 
 that which had not merely given Dora a pair 
 of diamond ear-rings, but had seen her throned 
 at Les Roches, and made her mistress of Dee- 
 nah ; it was hard, but it had to be done ; and 
 Mrs. Courtenay got up and prepared for che 
 approaching journey. 
 
 Mrs. Luan, on learning Dora's determina- 
 tion, stamped her foot, and stammered forth 
 an angry remonstranp e of " Idiot ! idiot ! you 
 shall not, you must not ! " but had to grow 
 calm again before Dora's resolve. For she 
 was resolute indeed. Pride, duty had been 
 with her in the night, and both had forbidden 
 her to become Mr. Templemore's wife. Mrs. 
 Luan stared, then said sulkily, acknowledging 
 herself conquered : 
 
 "You may go — I will not— why should I? 
 — John is not in London — I shall stay here." 
 
 "I hope you will join us later," replied 
 Dora ; " but it is better that you should not 
 come with us now." 
 
 "And what will Mr. Templemore say?" 
 asked Mrs. Luan. 
 
 "Not much," answered Dora, "for he will 
 
 not care much, aunt. I shall write a few lines, 
 which you will give him when he comes, and 
 he will be angry at first — then forget it." 
 
 Mrs. Luan muttered something to herself, 
 then was silent. No more, indeed, was said 
 on the subject, and nothing occurred to delay 
 and impede Dora's departure. As twelve 
 struck, the tidal train left the Rouen station, 
 and leaning back in the carriage, where she 
 sat by the side of her amazed and dismayed 
 mother, Dora could say to herself, with a bitter 
 sigh, "It is all over ! " 
 
 But when is anything over in life? The 
 very step Dora had taken to escape her fate 
 only precipitated its course, and made its ac- 
 complishment more certain. 
 
 It was barely two when Mrs. Luan, who sat 
 alone moody and defeated, heard Mr. Temple- 
 more coming up the staircase. He came to 
 spend an hour with Dora. He came in more 
 sober mood than he had left her the night be- 
 fore, seeing the plain facts of his marriage 
 more as they were than as they had seemed 
 in that moment of seduction and fervor; but 
 he came also as a lover to woo his mistress, 
 if not with fear and doubt of her favor on his 
 mind, at least with sufficient tenderness for 
 her in his heart. Madame Bertrand was not 
 below, and there was nothing to warn him of 
 what had occurred when he entered the sitting- 
 room, and seeing its disorder, Mrs. Luan sitting 
 alone, and a sealed letter lying on the table, 
 he understood all in a moment. 
 
 "Where is Miss Courtenay?" he asked, 
 sharply. 
 
 " Gone ! " 
 
 " Gone ? " 
 
 He took the letter, broke its seal, read it, 
 then crushed it angrily, and looking at Mrs. 
 Luan, he exclaimed impetuously — 
 
 "How dare Miss Courtenay use me so ? " 
 
 Alas ! Dora was right — his first feeling was 
 not one of pain, but of wrath and offended 
 pride. How dare she, the poor girl whom he
 
 196 
 
 DORA. 
 
 had honored with his regard, jilt him, Richard 
 Templemore, the master of Deenah ? 
 
 "What has occurred since last night to 
 justify so extraordinary a proceeding?" he 
 asked, after a pause, and, though still angry, 
 speaking more calmly. 
 
 " They tell me nothing," replied Mrs. Luan, 
 sulkily ; " I dont know anything. I would not 
 go — why should I? John is not in Lon- 
 don." 
 
 A light seemed to break on Mr. Temple- 
 mere's mind. Had Dora repented and recalled 
 her promise, because that John Luan, her 
 cousin, her early friend, was secretly dear to 
 her ? He was amazed at himself never to have 
 thought of this. 
 
 " Mrs. Luan," he said, looking hard at her, 
 " I believe I can guess Miss Courtenay's reason 
 for acting as she has acted. I forgive her 
 freely ; but why was she not open with me ? 
 Could you not have told her how willing I was 
 to do everything — and I can do much — that 
 would forward her happiness ? Why did she 
 not tell me all last night ? " he asked, a little 
 indignantly. " Was it honorable, was it fair, 
 to pledge herself to one man, when, in her 
 heart, she liked another ? " 
 
 The words roused Mrs. Luan. 
 
 "Who? — what?" she asked, with sudden 
 animation. " Who is it Dora likes ? " 
 
 Mr. Templemore remembered her old oppo- 
 sition to the scheme he had framed for her son 
 and Dora, and he hesitated to reply. 
 
 " I know nothing," he said at length, " I 
 can only conjecture. If any one knows the 
 truth of this, surely you do, Mrs. Luan ; and 
 surely, seeing bow strangely I am treated," 
 he added, with some bitterness, "you might 
 enlighten me, that, once for all, I may know 
 how to act." 
 
 Mrs. Luan rose and confronted him. 
 
 " You want to know ? " she said. 
 
 "I do," he replied, turning red with anger 
 as he foresaw her reply, and felt certain that 
 
 he had been betrayed and sacrificed for a 
 rivaL 
 
 " And you will not tell Dora ? " 
 
 " No," he impatiently answered. " Why 
 should-I?" 
 
 " Well, then," deliberately said Mrs. Luan, 
 " she likes you." 
 
 Mr. Templemore looked on Mrs. Luan, as, 
 after uttering these words, she sat down again, 
 with amazement, on which followed incredu- 
 lity. 
 
 " Nonsense," he said, with something like 
 contempt for the attempted imposition. " I 
 know you do not want your niece and your 
 son to marry ; but you need not say that, Mrs. 
 Luan." 
 
 " You do not believe me ? " she stammered, 
 angrily. 
 
 " I cannot — no, I cannot ! " he answered, 
 with slight hesitation. " Like me, and run 
 away from me because I want to marry her ! 
 Whoever heard the like ? " 
 
 " You do not believe me ? " said Mrs. Luan 
 again. " Then why did you ask ? Why did 
 you want to know ? Why did you make me 
 tell you ? " 
 
 ►She shook with anger. Mr. Templemore 
 looked at her, and felt strangely troubled. 
 What if this sallow, heavy woman had spoken 
 the truth ? — what if Dora Courtenay loved 
 him, and had fled because she loved him ? 
 
 " No," ie said, after a brief pause, " it can- 
 not be — I should have seen it." 
 
 " Seen it, Mr. Templemore ! " rather scorn- 
 fully echoed Mrs. Luan. " Seen it, when you 
 are blind — blind as a mole I " 
 
 Yes, this man had been so blind hitherto, 
 he had fallen so easily into the snares she had 
 laid for him, that she could not help despising 
 him for his blindness, and, in the insolence of 
 her success, taunting him with it. Mr. Tem- 
 plemore turned sharply upon her. For a mo- 
 ment he had a double revelation: that the 
 girl who had pledged herself to him the night
 
 HER ADDRESS. 
 
 107 
 
 before, and fled that morning, loved him — and 
 that the low-browed woman, who spoke to him 
 with such strange insolence, was his betrayer, 
 he saw by rapid intuition. But either one 
 vision chased the other ; either the intoxi- 
 cating consciousness of his triumph over one 
 proud woman's heart hid from him all trace 
 of his humiliating defeat at the hands of 
 another woman, or that integrity and ingenu- 
 ousness, which forbid us to suspect without 
 proof, helped his undoing by telling him not 
 to heed an angry woman's words. 
 
 " Mrs. Luan, I did not wish to offend you," 
 he said, with a smile ; " but your tale is so 
 strange that I may well doubt it. Can you 
 give me any token, any proof of what you 
 say ? " 
 
 " No," she said, sullenly. " Would Dora put 
 it down in pen and ink, ' I like Doctor Rich- 
 ard ? ' Xo, I can give you no proof, but I wish 
 I may never see John again if it be not true ! " 
 
 The words " Doctor Richard " did more to 
 convince Mr. Templemore than the imprecation 
 which followed it. Doctor Richard ! There was 
 strange magic in the name, and in the recol- 
 lections it called up. Signs which he had not 
 heeded at the time came back, and each was 
 eloquent, and had its own tale to tell. Many 
 a blush, many a sudden paleness, looks both 
 proud and shy, the happy glow which over- 
 spread her face when he entered the room, its 
 seriousness when he rose to go, were now re- 
 membered, and for the first time understood. 
 Had she, then, liked that poor, careless Doc- 
 tor Richard, of whoru she knew nothing, save 
 that he was poor ? Had she liked him with- 
 out thinking of the owner of Deenab, or the 
 master of Les Roches ? Mr. Templemore 
 walked up and down the room with irresolute 
 steps, almost convinced, and yet still doubt- 
 ing. 
 
 " May I trouble you for Miss Courtenay's 
 address ? " he said, at length. " I must see 
 her, or, at least, write." 
 
 lie uttered the last word slowly, like one 
 whose mind is not yet made up. When he 
 said that he must write, Mrs. Luan's face fell. 
 Had she remained in Rouen — had she be- 
 trayed Dora's secret for this ? Write ! — was 
 Dora the girl to change her purpose for a letter ? 
 
 " They tell me nothing," she said, sulkily. 
 " I don't know where they are." 
 
 " But, Mrs. Luan," he argued, a little im- 
 patiently, " it cannot end thus between Miss 
 Courtenay and me. I must either see her or 
 write to her, and surely you will help me 
 to the knowledge, without which I can do 
 neither." 
 
 " They tell me nothing," again said Mrs. 
 Luan, stolidly ; " they are in London — that's 
 all." 
 
 With a mixture of pity and contempt for 
 her obstinate stupidity, Mr. Templemore sat 
 down by her side, and conceiving that he had 
 offended this foolish and sulky woman, he did 
 his best to coax her back into a good-humor. 
 
 " Come, my dear Mrs. Luan," he said, with 
 his most persuasive smile, " you must be my 
 friend in this. How can I direct a letter to 
 Miss Courtenay. London ? " 
 
 " Kensington," corrected Mrs. Luan. 
 
 " But even Kensington will not do. I can- 
 not, at least, trust to the chance of an unex- 
 ceptionably clever postman in so important a 
 matter as this. There are streets in Kensing- 
 ton — which is it? " 
 
 " It is not a street — it's a terrace," sharply 
 corrected Mrs. Luan. 
 
 " Come, we are getting on," good-humoredly 
 rejoined Mr. Templemore. "Just tell me 
 what terrace, and I shall not ask for the num- 
 ber." * 
 
 " Xumber 5," said Mrs. Luan. 
 
 " But what terrace ? " asked Mr. Temple- 
 more, in his most coaxing tones. 
 
 Mrs. Luan turned up her eyes, and seemed 
 to try and remember, then shook her head, in 
 token of denial.
 
 198 
 
 DORA. 
 
 " I nave forgotten," she said ; " but the post- 
 man will be sure to know." 
 
 " Sure to know, when I dare say there are a 
 hundred terraces ! " said Mr. Templemore, in 
 a vexed tone. " Come, Mrs. Luan, you must 
 really try and remember." 
 
 But he might as well have tried to move a 
 stone wall as to move Mrs. Luan. She said 
 the postman would be sure to know that it 
 was Number 5, and a terrace, and beyond 
 this she could not be got. Vexed and wearied, 
 Mr. Templemore left her at the end of a quar- 
 ter of an hour, muttering, as he went down- 
 stairs, " There never was such a fool as that 
 woman ! '•' 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVI. 
 
 And now that Mrs. Luan's cross-examination 
 was over, Mr. Templemore had leisure to think. 
 Never in all his life had he felt so strangely 
 perplexed and troubled as he did then. Should 
 he write to Dora, or should he follow her ? — or, 
 in plainer speech, should he marry her or not ? 
 Even a man in love has been known to pause 
 before so formidable an alternative as this. 
 When his duty, as he conceived it — when his 
 honor had made him offer his hand to the girl 
 whose devotion to his child had in some sort 
 caused her ruin, Mr. Templemore had not felt 
 the hesitation he felt now. Then every gen- 
 erous impulse of his nature had urged him on, 
 and given strange sweetness to the sacrifice of 
 his liberty. But Dora had released him — she 
 had released him in language so proud and so_ 
 cold, that, unless it was the veil of a strong 
 and secret love, it was offensive to his pride as 
 a man. He was free — free in honor as well as 
 in fact, since no man is bound to press him- 
 elf on a woman to importunity. He was free, 
 and Mrs. Luan might have deceived him, or 
 been herself mistaken. It was quite possible 
 that, though she felt no positive aversion 
 against him, Dora recoiled from wedded life 
 
 with him just as he now hesitated to venture 
 upon it with her. All this Mr. Templemore 
 felt and knew, for the sweet visions of the pre- 
 ceding evening had rather paled with the 
 morning sun ; but something else, too, he could 
 not help feeling. What if that idiotic Mrs. 
 Luan, as he mentally called her, had spoken 
 divine truths, like the ancient sibyls, who gave 
 forth oracles, and strewed them to the winds 
 of heaven, not knowing their worth ? What 
 if poor Doctor Richard had been fondly loved 
 by one of the brightest and most accomplished 
 girls he had ever met ? What if the very sin- 
 cerity of her feelings made her shrink from a 
 union in which she could scarcely hope to have 
 her husband's whole heart ? Here was a temp- 
 tation, indeed ! — here was a strange, unex- 
 pected triumph, made to intoxicate even a 
 wiser man than Mr. Templemore. 
 
 There was fever in the thought, and all the 
 seduction of her paleness, of her sad looks, and 
 low voice came back with it. Read by that 
 light, these tokens had a dangerous meaning — 
 dangerous, at least, to Mr. Templemore's free- 
 dom. As he walked through the streets of the 
 old city he again seemed to see Dora Courte- 
 nay. In vain liberty beckoned on one side, 
 and bade him beware how he lost her ; on the 
 other there appeared a fairer vision by far, and 
 infinitely more alluring. 
 
 " I am young," she said, " and attractive, a 
 tender, yet proud woman. Your marriage was 
 the folly of a boy ; your second choice did not 
 prove the wisdom of your manhood ; but what 
 you had not with the one woman, what you 
 could never have had with the other, I can give 
 you. For I am youth and I am love, and I 
 come but once in a man's life when I do come," 
 and he whom I visit, and yet who fails to keep 
 me, was never worthy to have me." 
 
 A colder man than Mr. Templemore was, 
 might surely be forgiven if he listened to this 
 temptress. He paused, he hesitated ; should 
 he write and trust to that anonymous terrace,
 
 MR. TEMPLEMORE IN PURSUIT. 
 
 199 
 
 and that number five, for the safety of his let- 
 ter ; or should he seek and find the fugitive, 
 and read, as he could surely read, with this 
 clew to guide him, the truth in her face ! He 
 could not resist this desire. He could not re- 
 sist the secret hope that the truth had been 
 told to him that day. Above all, he could not 
 resist the longing he felt to secure Dora Cour- 
 tenay, and call her his. She was to him in 
 this feverish hour as many an exquisite relic 
 of ancient art had been for the last year — a 
 wish to be gratified, no matter how extrava- 
 gant the cost might be. 
 
 " I dare say it were better for me that I had 
 never seen her," he thought, still pausing irres- 
 olute on the threshold of his fate; "better 
 for me that I had never gone to her house, and 
 brought her to mine ; but now it is too late to 
 think of this. She has lost all for me. Peace, 
 fair name, the world's esteem, the chance of 
 honorable marriage, everything perished in one 
 hour for my sake ; but am I so selfish and so 
 cold that I cannot atone — that I cannot repay 
 her tenfold, and turn her wrong into unex- 
 pected happiness ? " 
 
 There is something splendid in the power of 
 giving ; it is a glorious privilege, and makes 
 us kings and sovereigns for the hour, as with 
 the stroke of an enchanter's wand. Mr. 
 Templemore could not help smiling to himself 
 as he thought how he could change Dora's des- 
 olation into joy. She would never tell him — 
 never — but surely blind though Mrs. Luan 
 thought him, he could see it. He looked at 
 bis watch. It was not four yet. If he took the 
 evening train he could be with her to-morrow. 
 
 ".And why should I not ? " he asked him- 
 self ; " if she really likes me, ought I not mar- 
 ry a woman who has suffered so severely for 
 my sake ? And if she does not — ought I not 
 know it, and be free in conscience and honor, 
 as I am in fact ? " 
 
 Mr. Templemore was no less prompt to act 
 on his resolve, than Dora had been to follow 
 
 up hers. He left that night, and was the next 
 
 r 
 
 day in London. 
 
 Dora's first act, on returning to Madame 
 Bertrand's rooms, had been to write to a 
 widowed lady in reduced circumstances, and 
 ask whether she would receive her. The re- 
 ply had come that Mrs. Robinson no longer 
 took in lodgers, but that she would accommo- 
 date' Mrs. and Miss Courtenay for a time. 
 Thus, on arriving at the station the two ladies 
 had but to take a cab and drive through well- 
 remembered streets, now wearing a strange 
 look, after the absence of a year, to that quiet 
 terrace with a garden wall in front, and nod- 
 ding trees, where Mrs. Robinson resided. Mrs. 
 Courtenay had been very ill at sea, and she re- 
 tired to her room almost at once. Dora sat 
 in the front parlor, sad, but calm, because her 
 fate, as she considered it, was now irrevocable. 
 She had placed it, as she thought, beyond the 
 reach of her own will, and she blest Heaven 
 that she had had strength to do so. 
 
 The day was now nearly worn, the gray 
 English twilight was setting in, and she was 
 looking at the trees before her, seeing them 
 not — seeing in their stead a gray old church, 
 with lilies growing midst its buttresses, and all 
 in a flame with the red light of a rich sunset, 
 when a tap at the door roused her. A demure 
 parlor-maid looked in, and merely saying, 
 " Please, Miss, Mr. Templemore wishes to speak 
 to you," she showed him in, as a matter of 
 course, and closed the door behind him. 
 
 The cab that had brought him had put him 
 down at the corner of the terrace ; he had not 
 knocked at the door, but rung, that she might 
 have no warning ; and now he stood before 
 her, as if called up by that vision in which she 
 had been indulging. 
 
 She rose and faced him, pale and trem- 
 bling. It is dreadful to be forever strug- 
 gling. Strength and courage may well fail 
 us ; well may we quail when the battle is 
 perpetual, and never won. With a sort of
 
 200 
 
 DORA. 
 
 despair, Dora felt her heart going away from 
 her, rushing back to its old servitude. She 
 rebelled, she tried to brave this cruel subjec- 
 tion — one of the most humbling a proud 
 woman can feel, and in that first moment, at 
 least, she was powerless. The joy of hearing 
 his voice, of seeing his face again, was stronger 
 than either jill or pride. 
 
 " Am I again going to be conquered ? " 
 thought Dora, with secret anguish. " Am I 
 again going to do the very thing I condemn ? 
 — and has he but to appear in order to prevail 
 against me ? " 
 
 She could not bear the thought. Pity them 
 whose conscience is ever striving against in- 
 clinations ; pity them, and if they succumb, 
 condemn them not lightly. It is something to 
 .have striven ; and the defeat which tells of a 
 contest can never be all ignominious. Never- 
 theless, that habit of self-command which is 
 at the root of a woman's nature, came to 
 Dora's help in this hour of need. 
 
 " Mr. Templemore," she asked, calmly, 
 though sadly, " is this well ? " 
 
 " Miss Courtenay," he replied gravely, " al- 
 low me to reciprocate your question : Is this 
 well ? Did you use me well ? " 
 
 "Perhaps not," she said, with some emo- 
 tion ; " but I wished to have it all over. It 
 seemed best." 
 
 He looked at her. She had recovered her 
 composure, which his unexpected appearance 
 had somewhat disturbed, and she spoke very 
 quietly. He felt disappointed and perplexed. 
 Had Mrs. Luan deceived him? Surely he 
 would soon know. 
 
 " Your letter told me nothing," he said ; 
 " I come to know your reasons. You cannot 
 have changed your mind so suddenly without 
 a reason." 
 
 " I have no new reason," replied Dora. 
 
 " But you have some old reason," he per- 
 sisted ; " some old reason, which you had not 
 told me." 
 
 " No — none." 
 
 There was a sad passiveness in her tone, 
 that told him nothing save that the subject 
 was painful to her. He still felt perplexed, 
 and more irritated perhaps than perplexed. 
 He asked her to hear him, and Dora raised no 
 opposition. She sat down by the window, 
 and he sat facing her, watching every motion 
 of her features as he spoke. He urged over 
 again every argument for their marriage, and 
 against her refusal, which he had already used 
 — but vainly. Dora leaned back in her chair 
 with her hands clasped on her lap, and her 
 eyes downcast or fixed on vacant space, and 
 with a face as pale and as changeless as 
 marble. She heard him, she did not contra- 
 dict him much, but she said despondently, 
 " No, Mr. Templemore, it cannot be." 
 
 " Then I see what it is ! " he exclaimed, 
 reddening as he spoke, and speaking with more 
 warmth than he was conscious of using — " you 
 have a previous attachment, and v% ill not tell 
 me ! " 
 
 Dora reddened too, but whether with re- 
 sentment, shame, or any other feeling, it was 
 impossible for Mr. Templemore to tell. 
 
 " You are mistaken," she answered ; " if I 
 had any such feeling, I should not be ashamed 
 of it, and I would tell you at once." 
 
 " Then you dislike me ! " he said with some 
 impetuosity. 
 
 Dora smiled, but simply answered : " No , 
 why should I ? " 
 
 Mr. Templemore was confounded. He was 
 stung too. All his fond visions had melted 
 away, and he only saw a calm, proud woman, 
 who did not seem to care much for him ; and 
 whom, spite her indifference — alas ! perhaps 
 on account of that indifference — he could not 
 help wishing to win. Had he hesitated 
 whether he should marry her or not, had he 
 followed her thus far in hot pursuit, had he 
 pleaded his cause for the last half hour with 
 every subtle and varied argument, to be
 
 HE IS SUCCESSFUL. 
 
 201 
 
 balked in the end ? Mr. Tcmplemore was not 
 a handsome man, and he knew it; but he 
 knew too that woman is won by the ear far 
 more than by the eye ; and if he had never 
 guessed that Dora loved him, he had always 
 seen that she liked him. Again and again he 
 had prevailed with her, made her yield her 
 will to his, and not quarrel with her sub- 
 jection. And now, when he laid himself out 
 to charm, he failed. When he offered her 
 position, wealth, and what he justly thought 
 most of, himself, he failed. He was offended, 
 he was hurt, but he was allured too, and that 
 unexpected resistance was the last crowning 
 seduction which rendered Dora irresistible, 
 and made him resolve not to leave the room 
 till he had conquered. 
 
 " And so," he said, with a mixture of pathos 
 and anger in his voice, which moved Dora's 
 heart — "so that is your unalterable resolve, 
 Miss Courtenay ? We might be happy to- 
 gether — we must be wretched apart. Think 
 of it well ! You condemn me to solitude. 
 You know I cannot, I will not in honor marry 
 another woman whilst you live. I say it 
 again — you condemn me to solitude ! " 
 
 He had risen and was pacing the room in 
 some agitation ; but he came back to her as 
 •he uttered the last words, and standing before 
 her, seemed to appeal, more in sorrow than, 
 in wrath, against so harsh a sentence. Dora 
 felt much disturbed, but she tried to say com- 
 posedly : 
 
 " I do not, Mr. Tcmplemore. I trust, I hope 
 you will marry — as to that, so may I ! " 
 
 " Then you do want to marry ! " he ex- 
 claimed, jealously ; " you do want to marry ? " 
 
 "Why not, Mr. Templemore ? " she asked, 
 lifting up her head proudly, for both tone and 
 question offended her. 
 
 " Then why not marry me ? " he argued an- 
 grily ; " you say you have no previous attach- 
 ment, why not marry me ? " 
 
 " Because I will never marry a man who 
 
 marries me from honor," replied Dora, with 
 some energy. "I have said it, Mr. Temple- 
 more, and nothing shall make me gainsay it." 
 
 Mr. Templemore looked amazed. 
 
 " Honor ! " he said, impatiently ; " did I 
 speak of honor, Miss Courtenay ? " 
 
 Dora felt troubled. He had not, indeed, 
 urged that argument. 
 
 " You said you could not marry any other 
 woman in honor, Mr. Templemore," she re- 
 plied at length. 
 
 "Nor can I — but did I say that I wished to 
 marry you from honor ? On my word, Miss 
 Courtenay," he added, with sudden emotion, 
 " it is not honor, it is not the wish to right 
 you that brought me here this evening. I 
 know all you can urge. That a few days ago 
 I was to marry another woman — I grant it ; 
 but I also know this, that I am here, and that, 
 as I said before, it is not honor that brings 
 me. It is the wish — the irresistible wish that 
 you should be my wife." 
 
 Involuntary tenderness softened his voice 
 and look as he uttered the word " wife ; " and 
 no lover's protestation could have moved 
 Dora's heart as that word thus uttered by one 
 so dear. It comprised all — every eloquence, 
 every promise, every fond hope, every pledge, 
 every bond. Without a word of doubt or re- 
 sistance, with her whole soul in the act, she 
 placed her hand in his. 
 
 "And this time," said Mr. Templemore, 
 radiant and triumphant, " I shall keep you to 
 your promise! " 
 
 " You need not, Mr. Templemore," she said 
 with the brightest smile he had ever seen on 
 her bright face; "nothing shall make me 
 break it." 
 
 "Her aunt spoke the truth," thought Mr 
 Templemore as he looked at her; "but what a 
 strange, perverse creature to give me all that 
 trouble ! " 
 
 Perverse or not, he loved her. Perverse or 
 not, he grudged not the trouble she had cost
 
 202 
 
 DORA. 
 
 him — be regretted not the strange turns of 
 fate which had given hiin this prize. She was 
 to him just then that something exquisite and 
 rare, which in certain moods the best and the 
 wisest man will purchase, no matter at what 
 cost, ay, even though the price should be life- 
 long liberty. 
 
 When Mrs. Courtenay, much recruited by a 
 long nap, thought she should like a cup of tea, 
 and came down for that purpose, she found 
 the tea-things on tbe parlor table, two candles 
 burning brightly, and by their light she saw 
 Mr. Templcmore looking perfectly happy, and 
 her daughter as gay as a lark on a summer 
 morning. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVII. 
 
 Nothing occurred to delay the fate which 
 one woman's folly and another woman's treach- 
 ery had brought down on these two. Mr. 
 Templcmore wished for a speedy marriage, 
 and he had his way. The morning on which 
 Dora was to become his wife was fixed, and in 
 the mean while he came daily to see her. He 
 came early and stayed late, and unless when 
 he was with her, he felt restless and unhappy. 
 He did not know himself what ailed him. He 
 seemed to be bewitched. It was as if he had 
 never seen before that this girl was worth win- 
 ning. He did remember having admired her, 
 but he could not now believe in his past ad- 
 miration—it seemed so cold, so dead. Some- 
 he had gleams of reason, and wondered 
 at himself; but they were gleams, and no 
 more. They passed athwart his mind trou- 
 bling it, and when they had departed, he only 
 felt more Btrongly impelled to rush on this 
 fate before him. lie was like the fisherman 
 in the ballad. The very waters that were to 
 devour him allured him irresistibly. Perhaps 
 h<: could not help i;. Perhaps this sudden 
 vehement passion, following on a Ion"- 
 quiet love for another woman, was the only 
 
 thing that could save him from the abhorrence 
 of marrying a girl his heart had not chosen ; 
 even as but for that passion he could never 
 have conquered Dora's pride and won her con- 
 sent. The feeling that turned his sacrifice 
 into sweetness had vanquished all her scruples, 
 and changed their bitterness to strange joy. 
 
 For, after all, she could not be blind. If 
 Mrs. Logan had been loved, she was loved ten 
 times more. If Florence had been dear, Dora 
 was far dearer. He made no professions — 
 perhaps remembering his involuntary infidel- 
 ity, he was silenced ; but there is another elo- 
 quence besides that of language, and a hun- 
 dred signs betrayed him. 
 
 And Mr. Templemore was not more blind 
 than his mistress. He kept his promise to 
 Mrs. Luan. He told D.ora nothing ; he put 
 no questions, but before two days were over 
 he knew more than Dora's aunt had betrayed. 
 
 Mr. Templemore was too imaginative to be 
 a clear-sighted man. He often remained blind 
 to the plainest things, because he could not 
 compel himself to see them under their real 
 aspects ; but once his penetration was awak- 
 ened, it became quick and searching as light- 
 ning, and his very imagination coming to his 
 aid, it left no recess unexplored. A sudden 
 paleness which passed across her face as he 
 recalled the past, and inflicted upon her the 
 sting of a retrospective pain — who said that 
 love was merciful ? The glow which sur- 
 rounded it when reminded of the time during 
 which he came to her as plain Doctor Richard, 
 and other signs as subtle, but as plain, con- 
 vinced him that the poor struggling medical 
 man had been as tenderly loved as the affluent 
 gentleman, and that either had been infinitely 
 dear to Dora's heart. 
 
 No man could remain indifferent to such a 
 discovery, least of all a man who had a gen- 
 erous nature, and who was himself very much 
 smitten. Passion softened into tenderness as 
 he remembered all that this now happy-look-
 
 DORA COURTENAY BECOMES MRS. TEMPLEMORE. 
 
 203 
 
 ing girl had endured for his sake, and with 
 silent fervor he vowed to atone for the suffer- 
 ings of the past by the love and devotion of 
 the whole future. Alas ! how easy it was to 
 Mr. Templemore to keep that vow ! How 
 swift, how invading, how all-absorbing was 
 this new love which bad conquered the old, 
 and buried it fathoms deep ! How is it that 
 even fine and noble natures are subject to 
 this lamentable inconstancy ? We see it daily, 
 but who shall venture to read a riddle so per- 
 plexing ! Of voluntarily forsaking the woman 
 to whom he had been pledged so long, for 
 any other Woman, Mr. Templemore was in- 
 capable ; but honor is not love, and when he 
 found how willing he was to take Florence at 
 her word, and how eager he felt to do Dora 
 justice, he did not dare to question his own 
 heart. Had his affection for the one grown 
 cool since he had known the other ? Had 
 that irresistible attraction which had drawn 
 him to Dora day after day, made him bring 
 her to his house, and delight in her society, 
 been the guilty dawn of his present lawful 
 fondness ? It might be so ; but another ex- 
 planation as plausible, and more soothing to 
 his conscience and bis pride than this, was 
 also possible. 
 
 Mr. Templemore's nature was one of strong 
 passions — as, indeed, his countenance ex- 
 pressed plainly ; but though he was past 
 thirty, though he had been married to one 
 woman, and pledged to another, Passion had 
 never had her day, nor even her hour. Now 
 amongst the legends of science is one of his- 
 torical truth. Every eighty or ninety years 
 for the last three centuries a volcanic isle has 
 risen in the Mediterramean, near San Miguel 
 of the Acores. Flames and earthquakes mark 
 its birth. As it rises a burning stream flows 
 down its sterile peaks into the sea. When it 
 has reached its full height it remains motion- 
 less for a while, burning like a beacon, which 
 ships can see miles away ; then it slowly 
 
 sinks back again into the deep waters, and a 
 faint wreath of smoke shows the spot where 
 it has vanished. 
 
 Such cycles of passion and fever there arc 
 in most human lives. The feeling may take 
 the name of love, of ambition, nay, of devo- 
 tion itself — it matters not, forth it must come. 
 Mjdst catastrophe and bitter throes it must 
 rise from beneath those calm waters where it 
 lay so falsely sleeping. This might have been 
 Mr. Templemore's fate. He might have been 
 destined to love a woman passionately at a 
 certain time of his life, and for good or for 
 evil, as the future would show, that woman 
 proved to be, not Florence, but Dora. The 
 suddenness of this new feeling carried with it 
 a sort of intoxication, which was both sweet 
 and dangerous, and against which it was very 
 difficult to guard. Mr. Templemore did not 
 seek to do so ; he gave himself up to the 
 love which there was no law, human or divine, 
 to forbid, and which the woman who inspired 
 it shared in all its fulness. 
 
 And thus the brief days of the courtship 
 went by, and ended in a marriage morning 
 that made Dora Courtenay Mr. Templemore's 
 wife. 
 
 When Dora alighted from the carriage that 
 brought her home, she felt as if she were 
 treading upon air ; and Mr. Templemore, as 
 he led her in, looked as happy as a man who 
 resolves to marry a woman from honor, but 
 who has the good fortune to fall desperately 
 in love with her, can well look. That their 
 marriage was hurried, private, and contracted 
 under the ominous cloud of disgrace, with no 
 kind friends gathering around them to wish 
 them joy, neither heeded in that hour. They 
 were happy, and happiness, we fear, is rather 
 a selfish feeling. Still Dora had one keen 
 pang. Her aunt had promised to come and 
 stay with Mrs. Courtenay, but she had not 
 kept her word. Her mother must remain 
 alone, for Mr. Templemore would have his
 
 204 
 
 DORA. 
 
 honeymoon to himself, and only smiled when 
 Mrs. Courtenay grew querulous, and Dora 
 looked imploring. He promised they should 
 not long be divided, but separated it was plain 
 they must be. 
 
 To Dora's great joy, therefore, though some- 
 what to her surprise, Mrs. Luan was found sit- 
 ting in the bedroom up-stairs when the bride 
 entered it to change her dress. 
 
 " Oh ! aunt, that is kind ! " cried Dora. 
 " But why did you not come earlier — why did 
 you not come to see me married ?" 
 
 Mrs. Luan looked at her ; never did bride 
 look brighter or happier than Dora, as she 
 stood before her aunt, resting her two hands 
 on Mrs. Luan's shoulders and gazing down 
 with the most radiant smile in her face. 
 
 " I began to think you did not care about 
 me," saucily continued Dora, putting on a 
 frown. 
 
 "Are you married ? " asked Mrs. Luan. 
 
 Dora laughed gayly. 
 
 " Why, aunt, this is not my every-day 
 dress — is it?" she asked. "You never saw 
 me in white with orange flowers before to-day 
 —did you ? " 
 
 " Well, but are you really married ? " in- 
 sisted Mrs. Luan. 
 
 Dora took off her glove and showed the 
 wedding-ring on her left hand. 
 
 " Now do you believe it ? " she asked good- 
 humoredly ; " besides, Mr. Templemore is be- 
 low, and if you will but come down you will 
 hear him call me Mrs. Templemore. He has 
 already done so twice ; and, aunt," she added, 
 fn the fulness of her joy, " I do believe he is 
 as happy as I am ! " 
 
 Everything in her betrayed joy and happi- 
 ness, not unmixed with triumph. She could 
 not help it. Some brides are pale and tear- 
 ful, some are dignified, and some are simply 
 cheerful. Doia was glad, and her gladness, 
 which she never thought of concealing from 
 her apathetic aunt's eye, which she scarcely 
 
 thought visible to that cold-blooded lady, now 
 shone forth without disguise. With Mr. Tem- 
 plemore, with her mother, even, she would 
 have been more shy, but with Mrs. Luan she 
 was not on her guard, and she looked as she 
 felt, the happiest of women. John Luan's 
 mother stared at her moodily. It was she 
 who had parted Mr. Templemore and Florence 
 Gale ; it was she who had given the rich man 
 to her poor niece ; it was she who had stimu- 
 lated his liking into passion, who had urged 
 him on with the lure of Dora's love. She 
 had done it, she felt no regret, and not an 
 atom of repentance, and yet this happiness 
 of Mr. Templemore's wife irritated her. 
 
 " How dare Dora be glad, when she must 
 know that her bliss wouid be John Luan's 
 grief! How dare she ! " 
 
 She could not speak her resentment, but 
 she was untying her bonnet-strings', and was 
 going to display her wrath according to her 
 usual fashion, when Dora nimbly took the 
 bonnet from her hands and laughingly put it 
 away. 
 
 "Xo, aunt," she said, "I cannot allow it. 
 I made that bonnet myself; and' I cannot 
 allow it. Besides, what is there to put you 
 out on a day like this ? Look, I have not for- 
 gotten you." 
 
 She opened a jewel-box, and produced a 
 handsome ring, which she slipped on Mrs. 
 Luan's finger. 
 
 " That is our gift," she said, " his as well 
 as mine ; I need scarcely tell you so," she 
 added with a smile, for the ring was evidently 
 an expensive one, " and you must look glad, 
 aunt." 
 
 A romantic, high-minded woman, if she had 
 felt what Mrs. Luan felt toward Mr. Temple- 
 more just then — namely, that he was robbing 
 her son of his mistress, and making his wife 
 of the very girl whom John Luan had chosen 
 years ago for himself — such a woman, we say, 
 would certainly have thrown the ring away,
 
 DEPARTURE FOR NORTH WALES. 
 
 205 
 
 and probably have made a speech. But Mrs. 
 Luan, though she cared not one farthing for 
 the gift, and bated the donor with all the un- 
 reasonable bate of a wrong-doer, who wants 
 to vent on some one the resentment due to 
 her own deeds, was neither romantic nor 
 high-minded. She only looked angry and 
 sulky. 
 
 " Aunt, what ails you ? " asked Dora. 
 
 " What will John say ? " inquired Mrs. 
 Luan in her turn. 
 
 Dora's color fled at the question. 
 
 " I am sorry for John," she faltered — " very 
 sorry, aunt." 
 
 " And where are you going to live ? " con- 
 tinued Mrs. Luan, cbangiug her theme. 
 "Here?" 
 
 Dora smiled. 
 
 " Oh ! aunt, what a question ! " she said 
 gayly ; " is Mr. Templemore going to live in 
 an eight-roomed bouse ? " 
 
 " Well, but where is it?" — persisted Mrs. 
 Luan — " in what square ? " 
 
 " In no square at all," replied Dora, still 
 amused. "Do you think, aunt, Mr. Temple- 
 more has a bouse everywhere ? He has but 
 one of bis own that I know of — the house to 
 which we are going — and that is Deenab ! " 
 
 Mrs. Luan looked up with sudden interest. 
 
 " Then you are going away ? " she said. 
 
 "Ay, surely, after breakfast; and that is 
 why, aunt, I am so glad and so grateful, too, 
 for your coming. Poor mamma will not be 
 left alone." 
 
 " And you will cross over to-day," continued 
 Mrs. Luan — " this very day you will be in Ire- 
 land ? " 
 
 "No, Mr. Templemore wants to show me 
 North Wales. I do not know when we shall 
 reach Deenab." 
 
 She looked in some perplexity at her aunt. 
 She could not understand why this journey 
 seemed to interest Mrs. Luan so much, that 
 her face had cleared and brightened the mo- 
 
 ment Dora bad mentioned it. But it was so- 
 Mrs. Luan looked quite brisk and cheerful 
 now, and said that she would go down ; and 
 so she did, leaving Dora rather grave and 
 pensive. 
 
 Mr. Templemore was alone in the front 
 parlor waiting for his wife, when the lock 
 turned, and the door opened. He thought 
 it was Dora, and with that impulse which 
 prompts us to go and meet whatever we love, 
 he moved toward the door. When he saw 
 Mrs. Luan's clumsy figure and sallow face, be 
 almost stepped back, so unpleasant was the 
 surprise. A feeling which could not be a 
 presentiment, for it came too late, but which 
 certainly partook of repulsion and dislike, sud- 
 denly rose within him. 
 
 "I must get that woman's son some ap- 
 pointment or other," he thought; "and she 
 must leave Les Roches. I will not have her 
 near Eva." 
 
 He had not time to linger over the feeling. 
 Dora, who had quickly changed her dress, now 
 entered the room, no more a bride, but a wife ; 
 and with her came Mrs. Courtenay, who, in 
 doleful and hysterical tones, informed them 
 that breakfast was ready. 
 
 The meal was not a cheerful one; it was 
 soon over. Mrs. Luan's presence seemed to 
 Mr. Templemore to have brought a funereal 
 gloom with it. He was eager to be gone, and 
 pleaded that they would be late for the train 
 if they did not depart at once. 
 
 Mrs. Courtenay heaved several deep sighs, 
 and could not help remarking : 
 
 " I must say, Mr. Templemore, that it is a 
 very barbarous fashion to take away girls so — 
 it is like kidnapping to me. Or a taking away 
 of the Sabines, or anything horrible." 
 
 "But Dora is willing," pleaded Mr. Temple- 
 more, good-humoredly ; " so that makes a 
 great difference, Mrs. Courtenay, between me 
 and the sons of Romulus." 
 
 Mrs. Courtenay sighed again, but submitted.
 
 20G 
 
 DORA. 
 
 She. even went through the trying ordeal of 
 bidding her daughter farewell, with a fortitude 
 for which Mr. Templemore, who was watching 
 Dora's quivering lip with some uneasiness, was 
 grateful to his mother-in-law. And when he 
 pressed her hand and bade her adieu before 
 entering the carriage where Dora was waiting, 
 he said warmly : 
 
 "My dear Mrs. Courtenay, you shall soon 
 see your daughter again, and she shall tell you 
 then, that if I take her from you it is to make 
 her a very happy woman." 
 
 With these words, he, too, was gone; the 
 carriage drove away, and Mrs. Courtenay burst 
 into half-angry, half-pitiful tears. 
 
 " I never knew anything so selfish as men ! " 
 she exclaimed, addressing Mrs. Luan. " To 
 think of Mr. Templemore taking my child from 
 me in order to make her happy! Could he 
 not have stayed here — Mrs. Robinson would 
 have given up the house — or taken me with 
 them to North Wales ? Why," she continued, 
 warming with the sense of her wrongs, and 
 rocking herself to and fro in her chair — " why 
 must he have Dora all to himself? I say he 
 is no better than Romulus. As to Dora being 
 willing, I dare say those Sabine girls were will- 
 ing too, or they could not have been taken 
 away. I have always heard, indeed, that 
 thieves are loth to attack women, because 
 they scream so. I wonder Mr. Templemore 
 could be so absurd ! " 
 
 The consciousness of Mr. Templemore's ab- 
 surdity, however, had one good result ; it so 
 far soothed Mrs. Courtenay's irritated feelings, 
 that her next remark could refer to the pro- 
 priety of making a cold dinner on the remains 
 of the welding breakfast. Great was her 
 amazement, therefore, when Mrs. Luan com- 
 posedly declared that she did not intend dining 
 with her sister-in-law. 
 
 '•And where, then, do you dine?" a 
 Mrs. Courtenay, sitting up, and looking con- 
 founded. 
 
 Mrs. Luan answered that she meant to dine 
 with Mrs. Smith. With this lady Mrs Cour- 
 tenay had long entertained a deadly feud, 
 and she, therefore, considered this declaration 
 doubly insulting. Moreover, it was simply ri- 
 diculous, as she kindly added, " for how could 
 Mrs. Luan want to dine with Mrs. Smith, when 
 she had not been two hours in London ? " 
 
 But Mrs. Luan, in her stolid way, replied 
 that she had gone to Mrs. Smith's first ; and 
 she completed the list of her iniquities by add- 
 ing that, as Mrs. Smith had a spare bedroom, 
 she meant to stay with that lady. Mrs. 
 Courtenay seldom got in a passion, but she 
 felt fairly enraged at such usage, and she 
 expressed her resentment with a warmth 
 which might have led to a final breach be- 
 tween the two ladies, if Mrs. Luan had been a 
 sensitive person, which she luckily was not. 
 Unmoved by her sister-in-law's reproaches and 
 tears, she put on her bonnet and left her. 
 
 Mrs. Smith used to Jive at Highgate, but she 
 had probably changed her quarters, for Mrs. 
 Luan took the Tottenham-Court Road omni- 
 bus, and having reached Bedford Square, 
 knocked at the door of one of its many lodg- 
 ing-houses, was admitted by an untidy servant, 
 and entering the front parlor, found John 
 Luan there, reading the Lancet. 
 
 " Why, little mother, where have you been 
 all this time?" he asked, good-humoredly. 
 " I came in early, just to spend an hour with 
 you, and, lo and, behold, you, the bird was 
 flown ! " 
 
 " I went to take a walk," replied Mrs. Luan, 
 sitting down — " why, you are pale, John," she 
 abruptly added. 
 
 " Pale ! " he echoed, with a hearty laugh, 
 which showed, at least, the soundness of his 
 lungs — " pale, little mother ! — why, surely you 
 do not call me pale ? " he added, walking up 
 to a low looking-glass above the mantel-piece, 
 and surveying therein his florid, handsome 
 face with that candid admiration which most
 
 JOHN LUAN. 
 
 207 
 
 handsome young men feel for their own good 
 looks. 
 
 Perhaps seeing him so gay and happy 
 smote her — perhaps the knowledge of the 
 wrong she had helped to do him was too much 
 for her ; at all events, Mrs. Luan could not 
 bear to think of Dora, Mr. Templemore's 
 happy wife, and to look at her sou, whom 
 that day had robbed forever of his dear young 
 mistress. She flung herself on the sofa, and 
 burst into sobs and tears. Now, indeed, John 
 Luan was pale — pale as death. 
 
 " You have had a letter ? " he said— " news 
 — bad news ! " And he bent over her with an 
 eager, questioning gaze, that seemed as if it 
 would have snatched and devoured the very 
 words from her lips. 
 
 "No," sulkily replied Mrs.' Luan, recover- 
 ing her self-possession, and sitting up. 
 
 "Then, in Heaven's name, what is it?" 
 asked John, still anxious. 
 
 " I saw a child run over," she stolidly an- 
 swered. 
 
 John Luan looked profoundly indifferent. 
 
 " That," he said, coolly, " is an every-day 
 matter in London. I thought you had better' 
 nerves, little .mother. I wonder Dora does 
 not write," he added, a little impatiently ; 
 " you have been here three days, and I think 
 she might have written." 
 
 Mrs. Luan replied that Dora had no time — 
 Eva took all her leisure. 
 
 " Well, well," good - humoredly rejoined 
 
 John, " I trust she will not long be a govern- 
 
 ■ess — I am almost sure of that appointment, 
 
 and — and I'll marry Dora as- soon as I get 
 
 it." 
 
 He looked at his mother rather doubtfully. 
 He knew, though a word on that subject had 
 never passed between them, that since the 
 loss of Dora's fortune, she was no longer a 
 daughter-in-law after Mrs. Luan's own heart. 
 But this was a matter in which John was 
 quite resolved on having his own way, and he 
 
 thought the present opportunity as good a one 
 as any to announce his determination. 
 
 " You can't marry," eagerly ' said Mrs. 
 Luan ; " you are first cousins." 
 
 " Come, come, little mother, kings and 
 queens marry their first cousins, and wliy 
 should not doctors have the same privilege? " 
 
 " You can't afford it,"' urged Mrs. Luan, 
 shaking with emotion ; " you can't, John." 
 
 " Yes', I can," he wilfully replied ; " I tell 
 you, I am almost sure 'of that appointment. 
 The place is pretty, and the cottage simply 
 delightful. You and Mrs." Courtenay shall 
 have two such nice rooms, little mother. And 
 Dora and I another, not so good as yours, but 
 quite good enough for young people.. Then 
 the parlors are so cheerful, and the garden is 
 one mass of flowers ; and do you think that 
 being rent free, and having a hundred a year 
 salary, besides such practice as I shall be 
 sure to come into — do you think, I say, that 
 I, a man of twenty-six, cannot support wife, 
 mother, ay, and child too, if need be," he 
 added, with a secure smile, though something 
 in the bright vision he thus called up made 
 his blue eye grow dim as he spoke. 
 
 Dream away, John Luan ! See that cot- 
 tage with its low, pleasant rooms, and its 
 blooming garden, and put Dora there, whilst 
 the dream is on you. Never, save in that 
 dream, shall her feet cross that lowly thresh- 
 old ; never shall child of yours r*est on her 
 bosom, save in the fancy of this moment. 
 Even now, and whilst you are speaking, her 
 hand is clasped in Mr. Templemore's hand, 
 and her happy face looks up to his. These 
 two are now taking together that journey of 
 love to end in a happy home, for which you 
 have saved twenty pounds. " Yes, we can 
 do it upon that," thinks John Luan; and lie 
 does not know that the rich man has robbed 
 him, and that the woman who sits by his side 
 and looks at him with so scared a face, has 
 more than abetted the despoilcr. But for her
 
 208 
 
 DORA. 
 
 • 
 
 his prize would bave remained untouched, and 
 not be now another man's darling ; but for her 
 he would have had his cbance and won, per- 
 haps from sad weariness, what that other hap- 
 pier man owes to love. 
 
 " So you see," resumed John Luan, follow- 
 ing aloud the train of his reverie, and still 
 thinking of the twenty-pound note up-stairs, so 
 safely locked in his desk—" so you see, little 
 mother, that I bave plenty of money. Dear Do- 
 ra, I know, will never grumble at our poverty." 
 
 A light seemed to break on Mrs. Luan's 
 mind. She seized it eagerly. She did not re- 
 pent, she felt no remorse, but it would be a 
 relief if Dora had been faithless and perjured 
 herself. 
 
 " Then she promised ? " she exclaimed, 
 clinching her hands ; " she did promise ! " 
 
 " Promise to marry me ! " repeated John ; 
 " what if she did ? " 
 
 " How dare she ! — how dare she ! " cried 
 Mrs. Luan, working herself up to a sort of 
 frenzy ; " how dare she do it ? " 
 
 " Come, mother, " resolutely said John, 
 "you must not talk so. Dora and I have a 
 right to please ourselves in this. Your only 
 objection is her poverty — well, then, I say I 
 can support a wife." 
 
 " Byt how dare she promise ? " continued 
 Mrs. Luan, stamping her foot in her rage ; 
 " how dare she ? " 
 
 John had a mind to say the truth — that 
 Dora had not promised. "But if I tell her 
 that," he thought, " it will be all to begin 
 over again another time, better she should 
 make up her mind to it now." 
 
 If Mrs. Luan's anger had not been too great 
 for utterance, she would in her wrath have 
 told John Luan that Dora had that very morn- 
 ing become Mr. T< mplemore's wife ; but by 
 the time that her rage no longer impeded her 
 Bpeech, she remembered that if she spoke she 
 must account for her own treacherous silence 
 —and she was mute. 
 
 She looked sullen and conquered. John 
 felt rather uncomfortable, but putting on a 
 cheerful look, he kissed her, said briskly it 
 was time for him to go, and humming a tune 
 to show how unconcerned he felt, he walked 
 out of the house, and thought when he got out 
 into the square, "She took it better than I 
 expected. " 
 
 The door had no sooner closed on her 
 son, than Mrs. Luan's frenzy broke forth 
 anew. 
 
 " She promised — she dared to promise ! " 
 she said, rocking herself to and fro on the sofa. 
 And every fond word and look of John Luan's, 
 every happy blush and smile of Dora's that 
 morning, every sign of love she had read on 
 Mr. Templemore's face, came back to her then, 
 and exasperated her. She had wanted to sav*e 
 her son, but Dora had betrayed and Mr. Terh- 
 plemore had plundered him. She thought of 
 his jealousy and grief if he had known that this 
 was their wedding-day, and the thought ap- 
 palled her, and filled her with wrath for their 
 happiness and his despair. How dare they 
 be blessed at what would wring her son's heart 
 within him ? " Let them take care, that's all ! " 
 thought Mrs. Luan, as she sullenly calmed 
 down. " They are happy to-day ; but let them 
 take care, that's all ! " she added, nodding 
 grimly. 
 
 She did not question John when he came in 
 to dinner. She did not ask to know how and 
 when Dora's promise had been given. Mrs. 
 Luan wanted to know nothing ; she had moved 
 the intolerable burden of guilt from her own 
 shoulders to that of another, and perhaps she 
 dreaded whatever could enlighten her. 
 
 John, who was an arrant domestic coward, 
 felt much relieved at his mother's sHence, and 
 like most cowards of his sex on such occa- 
 sions, he took some glory in it. 
 
 " There is nothing like pluck, " he thought 
 complacently ; " women like it, and they need 
 the strong hand, the best of them. Your
 
 MRS. TEMPLEMORE'S HAPPINESS. 
 
 209 
 
 health, little mother, " he added gayly, lifting 
 up his glass and drinking to her. 
 
 Mrs. Luan said nothing, but turned sallow, 
 and looked at him coldly ; it was as if, gifted 
 with second sight, she had seen Mr. Temple- 
 more that very same moment raising his glass 
 to Dora with the same act, and saying with 
 mingled pride and fondness, "Your health, 
 Mrs. Templemore." 
 
 " My little mother has not got over it yet," 
 thought John ; and he prudently walked out 
 into the square to smoke a cigar. " But she 
 will," he continued in his mental soliloquy, 
 " because she must. I say it again, the best 
 of them need it — their nature requires subjec- 
 tion. Even my little Dora, good as she is, has 
 a saucy tongue at times, and needs control ! " 
 
 And then, as he walked slowly in the dusty 
 square, and looked dreamily at the stars that 
 came out in the dull London sky, he again 
 went to the cottage, and there indulged him- 
 self in a conjugal quarrel with Dora, which 
 ended happily with a reconciling kiss, and of 
 course with the assertion of John Luan's man- 
 liness, and of Mrs. Luan's wifely subjection. 
 
 Alas, poor John, your little Dora has already 
 found her master ! 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVHI. 
 
 There is a cruel superstition among sailors. 
 If one of the crew should fall overboard and 
 be drowned at the beginning of the voyage, it 
 is a pity, to be sure, but then it is also a sure 
 token that the weather will be fair, and the 
 journey prosperous. That ship can never be 
 wrecked which has witnessed such a catas- 
 trophe. 
 
 Even so it seemed to be with Mr. Temple- 
 more and his wife. Death had taken hex- 
 brother, and a stormy wave removed his be- 
 trothed from their ken, whilst John Luan went 
 
 adrift all unconsciously; and now their two 
 14 
 
 barks could sail side by side on smooth seas, 
 beneath a serene sky, with the gentlest winds 
 to speed them. 
 
 Did they think of this as they entered Dee- 
 nah together ? Oh ! for the mutability of the 
 human heart ! The woman for whom Mr. 
 Templemore had prepared that home was now 
 forgotten, and as he had given every passion- 
 ate emotion of his heart to that bright-haired 
 girl by his side, so had she surrendered her 
 whole love to the happy rival of her own 
 adored brother. Yes, spite all the wrecks and 
 ruins of the past, spite its sorrows, and a 
 lonely grave, they were blest. Dora felt it as 
 they walked through the grounds, and she saw 
 the sky, the mountains, the woodlands, all in a 
 flame with the burning radiance from the west, 
 whilst the whole house glittered afar like a 
 fairy palace, in the hazy glow of the setting sun. 
 She felt it- as they passed beneath aged trees, 
 through the waving grass, and the blackbird 
 and the thrush sang so sweetly above them. 
 She felt it as they entered the house together, 
 and she stood in a large, bright room, with 
 pictures, and flowers, and books, a luxurious 
 room, but also a genial one, made to live in, 
 and which seemed to echo her husband's wel- 
 come. 
 
 Mr. Templemore watched Dora's eyes as they 
 scanned this room, half shyly, half freely. He 
 saw her look wander from a large view of 
 Venice oh the walls, to a glowing sketch of the 
 Eastern desert, and thence again to the exotic 
 flowers blooming in one of the windows, be- 
 yond which spread a grand view of heathy 
 mountains. 
 
 " Well ? " he said, gently drawing her tow- 
 ard him. 
 
 " Well," she replied, looking up at him with 
 proud humility, "King Cophetua has married 
 the beggar-maid." 
 
 " I hope she had brown hair and fine eye?," 
 he replied, with tender admiration. 
 
 Dora shook her bright head, and the eyes
 
 210 
 
 DORA. 
 
 which her husband praised, and which were 
 indeed very fine eyes, took a tender and wist- 
 ful look as she replied demurely : 
 
 " I know nothing about that ; but this I 
 surely know — that beggar-maid was a very 
 happy woman ! " 
 
 Yes, she was a happy woman, and as wedded 
 bliss rarely wanes during the first week of the 
 honeymoon, it is no great wonder that Dora's 
 little planet of love and happiness was still iu 
 the asceudant a fortnight after her marriage. 
 Mr. Templemore was out, though it was early, 
 and Dora was alone. The morning was bright, 
 and she felt as bright and as gay as the morn- 
 ing. With a sweet clear voice she sang aloud 
 to herself as she went through the § sunlit rooms 
 of Deenah. She sang an old Irish song, full of 
 sorrow, but her heart was light. Suddenly she 
 was mute. She had heedlessly entered a room 
 where dark blinds shut out the light, where the 
 air felt chill, and her heart failed her as she 
 recognized Mr. Courtenay's collection. 
 
 Dora had visited this apartment since her 
 
 arrival in Deenah, but she had seen it with 
 
 her husband ; alone she had not ventured 
 
 within it, and, now that she had crossed its 
 
 threshold, she knew not how to retreat or ad : 
 
 vance. Her heart beat, her head swam ; a 
 
 chair -was near her, she sank down upon it, 
 
 and looked around her. Every country and 
 
 every civilization, Christian and heathen, had 
 
 contributed to Mr. Courtenay's collection; the 
 
 history of mankind was in all that Dora saw, 
 
 but she only read in it the story of her brother. 
 
 eye wandered from one end of the room 
 
 to the other. Specimens of Palissy, Majolica, 
 
 m, mediaeval, and antique, were there 
 
 before her, some perched aloft on marble 
 
 columns, others more precious in black cabi- 
 
 , wkh glass fronts and brass locks. Here 
 
 and there a gold or silver cup shone, or a 
 
 piece of carved ivory gleamed faintly; and 
 
 :ii these things, saw herself a 
 
 i in her old home mar Dublin. She 
 
 saw herself sitting up for Paul, and preparing 
 a meal for his return. And she saw him too ! 
 She heard his voice, she sat at his feet and 
 looked up in his face, on which the firelight 
 shone ; but the bitterness of these recollections 
 was too much for her. Dora buried her face 
 in her hands and wept. When, by a strong 
 effort, she at length compelled her tears to 
 cease, and looked, up, she saw Mr. Temple- 
 more standing before her with a letter in his 
 hand, and eying her thoughtfully. 
 
 She reddened as she rose, and went up to 
 him with some embarrassment. 
 
 " I could not help it," she said, depreca- 
 tingly, " I could not, indeed. I entered this 
 room unexpectedly, and everything I saw was 
 too much for me!" 
 
 Her quivering lip showed him that her emo- 
 tion was not over. 
 
 " How much you loved your brother ! " he 
 said, gently. 
 
 " Much ! — oh ! Richard, the word is cold ; 
 he was everything to me." 
 
 " Are you sure you have quite forgiven me, 
 Dora ? " he gravely asked. 
 
 She looked at him in some wonder. 
 
 " Forgiven you, Richard ! — if I had Paul's 
 death to forgive you, it would have been easier 
 for me to die than to enter this house as your 
 wife. Forgive that ! " she impetuously added 
 — " I fear I could not. I fear I never forgave 
 Mr. Courtenay, who lured my brother, and 
 Florence Gale, who urged him on, till he died 
 of the anxiety, the labor, the suspense., and, 
 last of all, the disappointment these two in- 
 flicted upon him. She would have been his 
 wife if he had won the day, but he had scarcely 
 lost it when she married another. Perhaps 
 you did not know this," she continued, seeing 
 the look of surprise that passed across Mr. 
 Templemore's face, " and perhaps I should 
 not have told you ; but it is true. She was 
 faithless to him, and though, if I am your 
 wife, it is her doing, not mine, I cannot help
 
 MRS. COURTENAY'S LETTER. 
 
 211 
 
 feeling that I am Paul Courtcnay's sister, and 
 that all unconsciously and unwillingly I have 
 avenged bim. I have striven against the feel- 
 ing again and again, and again it has come 
 hack, and been too strong for me." 
 
 She was very pale, and she shook from head 
 to foot as she uttered this resentful confes- 
 sion ; hut Mr. Templemore only kissed her 
 soothingly, and smiled as he led her out of 
 the room, and locked the door behind him. 
 He could read Dora's heart better than she 
 read it herself, and he saw there more jealous 
 fondness of a living husband than angry 
 memory of a dead brother's wrongs. The 
 greatest sin of Florence Gale was ever to have 
 been loved by him. This Dora never could 
 forgive, and never could she cease triumphing 
 in her heart over her defeated rival. She 
 might, being a generous woman, strive against 
 the feeling ; but, whilst she loved her husband, 
 jealousy would be too much for her, and she 
 would strive in vain. It is not in a man's na- 
 ture to be severe against such sins, and Mr. 
 Totnplemore felt wonderfully lenient on hear- 
 ing Dora confess her triumph over Mrs. Logan. 
 He was not so vain, moreover, as to consider 
 that lady plunged in irremediable grief for his 
 sake, and he could not help thinking that, as he 
 had had predecessors in her heart, so might he 
 have a successor there too. But as he needed 
 no protestations from Dora to convince him 
 that he was her first love, so he required no 
 vows to feel certain that no other image 
 would replace his in her heart. He had known 
 in his boyhood a white-haired woman, bright, 
 gay, and cheerful, who had been three weeks 
 a bride and fifty years a widow. She was 
 witty and lovely, and was admired even to the 
 brink of age; but none of her lovers — and 
 they were many — could ever win her. Her 
 young love had outlived both grief and youth. 
 And as Mr. Templemore looked at his wife's 
 pale face — as he beard her boast with invol- 
 untary frankness of her triumph over Flor- 
 
 ence — as he took her away with a smile from 
 the dark room which bad evoked all this, 
 down to the cheerful room below, he thought : 
 " Dora is such another woman as my great- 
 aunt ; if I were to die to-morrow, and she to 
 live till threescore, I should still, dead or 
 living, be her husband." And we need not 
 wonder that, if Mr. Templemore was not so 
 inexperienced or so exacting as to expect this 
 exclusive affection, which is not, indeed, a 
 very common sort of thing, yet be was not 
 either so careless or so cold as hot to feel 
 mingled joy and pride in having inspired it. 
 Never, therefore, could his wife have read 
 more kindness in his looks than she could 
 have read then — never could she have found 
 more boundless indulgence for her imperfec- 
 tions than such as he was now willing to ex- 
 tend to her for this venial sin of loving him 
 too fondly. 
 
 " I have had a letter from Eva this morn- 
 ing," he said, as they sat down on the sofa ; 
 " she mentions Mrs. Courtenay's safe arrival 
 in Les Roches, with Mrs. Luan, I believe, and 
 here is, I suppose, Mrs. Courtenay's own letter." 
 
 He handed it to her, but she gave it back 
 ito him. 
 
 " Read it to me," she said ; " you will not be 
 vexed if mamma says you took me away from 
 her, like one of the Sabine maidens ? " 
 
 Mr. Templemore smiled and obeyed. 
 
 " My dear child," began Mrs. Courtenay, " I 
 really wish you would soon come back. Ever 
 since your wedding-day, as I already told you, 
 Mrs. Luan is unbearable. I cannot manage 
 nER ! I must say I think it hard that Mr. 
 Templemore compelled you to leave me m 
 that cruel fashion. I cannot imagine why he 
 thought me in the way. I wonder how he will 
 like it when some man comes and whisks off 
 Eva from him?" 
 
 " I shall not like it at all," candidly re- 
 marked Mr. Templemore, "but I shall have to 
 bear with it."
 
 212 
 
 DORA. 
 
 " Eva was very glad to see me," resumed 
 Mrs. Courtenay's epistle; "but is longing to 
 have you and her father back. Miss Moore is 
 prosy and stupid, as usual." Dora rather re- 
 gretted having told Mr. Templemore to read 
 her mother's letter, but took comfort on see- 
 ing him smile. " However," kindly resumed 
 Mrs. Courtenay, " I attribute that just now to 
 the fact that there is a host of horrible childish 
 diseases about Les Roches. Croup, measles, 
 and scarlatina, says Miss Moore." 
 
 Mr. Templemore read no more. His very 
 lips had turned white with emotion. " I must 
 go — go at once, and take Eva away," he said, 
 scarcely able to command his voice. 
 
 " We must go," eagerly said Dora. 
 
 "No — no — I cannot make you travel so 
 fast," he said, speaking more calmly; you 
 must stay here ! " 
 
 " Stay ! — have you so soon forgotten your 
 promise?" asked Dora, with a reproachful 
 frown. 
 
 Yes, two days before she had extracted from 
 him a fond pledge that he would never ask or 
 expect to leave her. "I do not say that I 
 shall never let you stir without me," had said 
 Dora ; " but I must have the right of going with 
 you." If Mr. Templemore's honeymoon had 
 been over, he might have demurred, but hav- 
 ing been only thirteen days wedded, he knew 
 not how to resist this charming despot, and 
 he yielded all the more willingly that in the 
 intoxication of his new passion it seemed im- 
 possible to him ever to cease to wish for the 
 society of one so dear. So he promised, as 
 most men in love would have promised, and 
 now he was pledged to his word. 
 
 "And I shall not set you free," now said 
 Dora, with a bright, fond smile ; " I will be as 
 exacting as any sorceress with any knight of 
 romance. So let us go at once, and find Eva 
 sound and well at the end of our journey." 
 
 " Sin: is a sorceress," thought Mr. Temple- 
 more, as he left her to give orders for their 
 
 journey. "She is not beautiful, she is not 
 even what people call very pretty, and yet — 
 and yet." He needed no words to complete 
 the picture his fancy called up. A face bright 
 as sunshine, happy, radiant eyes, a light young 
 figure, told him Dora's spell more potent than 
 mere beauty, and infinitely more seducing. 
 
 But that bright face was clouded, and these 
 happy eyes grew dim when he left her. Dora 
 stood by the open window, and she looked out 
 sadly on the verdant wilderness below her. 
 She could not bear to leave that Eden — not, 
 at least, to leave it so soon. Spite all her 
 husband's fondness, Dora did not feel sure of 
 him yet. She wanted time to become to him 
 something more than a bright-haired girl, with 
 fine eyes. She wanted to grow identified with 
 and to be a portion of his daily life. She 
 wished for nothing, and no one to break the 
 fond spell she was weaving around him daily, 
 alluring him from that other charm she had 
 involuntarily cast upon him to a surer and 
 more durable tenderness. Already she had by 
 gentle arts won her way to some of the 
 chambers of his heart. Already she knew 
 thoughts which Mr. Templemore had never 
 told another, and which had escaped him in 
 fond and happy hours; but Dora felt that 
 there lay more behind, and that a road, not 
 arduous indeed, but mysterious, and with some 
 perils, still divided her from the goal it was 
 her fond ambition to win. She had no wish 
 to rule, no wish even to influence, but she 
 wished to be as near to Mr. Templemore as 
 one human being can be to another, and it 
 had rather disconcerted her to find that the 
 very passion she inspired was an obstacle 
 which retarded her progress. If even in per- 
 fect solitude, in unrestrained liberty, she could 
 not have her husband as she wished to have 
 him, how much harder would it be to have 
 him thus with Eva to share his love, and 
 others to divide his attention ! 
 
 "And yet I shall prevail," she thought,
 
 RETURN TO LES ROCHES. 
 
 213 
 
 rousing herself from this passing despondency; 
 " I shall prevail. Eva loves me so dearly, that 
 he cannot divide us in his affection ; and I am 
 too fond of her to be jealous. She is mine 
 now — mine as well as his, and the love he 
 gives her he also gives to me. Les Roches is 
 not so beautiful as Deenah, but surely my lot 
 is altered since I beheld it first. Those trees, 
 those alleys, that old house, are mine now — 
 mine at least whilst they are his. And in Les 
 Roches, because I have suffered so keenly, 
 must Fate atone, and I shall be fully blest." 
 
 There was a triumphant- gladness in the 
 thought which conquered fear, but not regret, 
 for solitude is sweet to love. When they left 
 Deenah that afternoon Mr. Templemore saw 
 the fond, wistful look his wife cast back tow- 
 ard the house, and as he happened to share 
 her feelings, he said with a smile : 
 
 " I shall take Eva and Miss Moore to some 
 safe spot, and then we shall come back here 
 for the summer." 
 
 " Will you — will you ? " cried Dora, with 
 sparkling eyes ; for she thought, " I have a 
 whole summer before me." 
 
 They travelled fast, and reached Les Roches 
 toward noon on a warm day in June. Dora's 
 heart ached for Mr. Templemore, as she saw 
 the agitation he could not repress when the 
 chateau came within view. But as her glance 
 wandered along the road, she uttered a sudden 
 and joyful — 
 
 " Look— look ! " 
 
 For there, walking with Miss Moore in the 
 shade was Eva herself, and Fido behind her. 
 In a minute they were down, Eva sprang tow- 
 ard them with a joyful cry, and it would 
 have been hard to say which of the two, Mr. 
 Templemore or his wife, looked the happier, 
 or kissed the child more fondly. For as she 
 felt Eva's little arms clasping her neck so 
 fondly, and heard her half sobbing, " Oh ! 
 Dora — Cousin Dora !" Dora thought with a 
 beatincr heart — 
 
 " Tes, you love me, Eva — but can you ever 
 love me as I love you — you who, though you 
 do not know it, have given Cousin Dora the 
 great, the perfect happiness of her life ? Poor 
 Fido, you gave me nothing save your little 
 honest heart — but I love you, too, so do not 
 whine. Oh ! that the whole world, that every 
 creature, could be as blest as I am now ! " 
 
 She looked so bright, so joyous, so like the 
 poet's " phantom of delight," as these thoughts 
 passed through her, that Mr. Templemore, 
 looking at her with charmed eyes, exclaimed, 
 in very unpoetic fashion, however, 
 
 " Dora ! I am a lucky fellow." 
 
 Dora had no time to answer ; Miss Moore 
 now came up to them. 
 
 " It is such a comfort to have you here, Mr. 
 Templemore," she said with a sigh, meant to 
 express her satisfaction on his return, " we had 
 such a dreadful day yesterday." 
 
 " My mother is surely not ill ! " cried Dora, 
 with a sudden alarm. 
 
 " Oh ! dear, no, but that poor young man is 
 raving. He got a sunstroke on the way, I be- 
 lieve, and he was raving before night. He is 
 very bad to-day." 
 
 Dora grew white. 
 
 " What young man ? " she asked. 
 
 "Doctor Luan," composedly replied Miss 
 Moore ; " he arrived yesterday afternoon, look- 
 ing very odd, and flushed with that sunstroke — 
 gentlemen ought to have parasols, in my opin- 
 ion — and when he asked after you, and Miss 
 Courtenay told him you were on your bridal 
 tour, the surprise was too much for him. I 
 never saw any one look so bad. I assure you, 
 Mrs. Templemore, it made me feel quite con- 
 cerned for him, poor young gentleman ! Well, 
 before half an hour was over, he was violent, 
 but he is not so now — only quite delirious." 
 
 Mr. Templemore looked at his wife. She 
 seemed overwhelmed with confusion and grief, i 
 and could not bear her husband's fixed gaze. 
 He withdrew it, and they all walked in si-
 
 214 
 
 DORA. 
 
 lence toward the house, Mr. Templemore 
 thinking : 
 
 "This John Luan loved her— but surely 
 Dora never cared for him, and yet how white 
 she is ! " 
 
 Some men are flattered to be the cause of 
 infidelity, but Mr. Templemore was more jeal- 
 ous than vain, and the thought of a rival, even 
 of one whom he had supplanted, was hateful 
 to him. Was it possible that his wife had 
 given to another those looks, those smiles, that 
 shy fondness which were his now ? He did not 
 believe it, but the mere suspicion made him 
 tremble with jealous resentment. 
 
 " Oh ! what calamity brought John here ? " 
 thought Dora ; " and how is it his mother never 
 told him ? But I know what he thinks, and 
 he must not — oh ! he must not ! " 
 
 " Let Miss Moore and Eva go in without us," 
 she said in a low voice to her husband, " I have 
 something to say to you." 
 
 Mr. Templemore's color changed, but he 
 complied with her request, and instead of en- 
 tering the chateau, they stayed out in the 
 flower-garden. Dora's heart felt very full. 
 John, her cousin and her friend, was dying, 
 perhaps, and Mr. Templemore suspected her 
 of having jilted him. She forgave him, but 
 she would not enter his house and cross his 
 threshold with that suspicion upon her. 
 
 " I have something to say to you," she said 
 again. 
 
 Mr. Templemore winced, and prepared him- 
 self for indulgence and forgiveness, but his wife 
 id neither from him. 
 
 11 Richard," Bhe said, "you told me that you 
 married me for love, not for honor; let me tell 
 you that if I, too, had not liked you, I could 
 never have income your wife. I could no more 
 sell myself fur fair name than for money," she 
 added, with a sudden light in her eyes. 
 i There was a pause. 
 
 "Is that all you have to tell me, Dora?" 
 asked Mr. Templemore. 
 
 " No ; I am twenty-four, and I am not aware 
 that if I had felt affection for any other man 
 before I met you, it would have been a wrong 
 in me to do so, provided such affection was 
 true ; but it so happens that I never did — 
 never for one second — for one moment. I am 
 content to be your last love ; but it may be 
 right you should know you are my first." 
 
 She spoke with a sadness that tempered the 
 fondness of her confession. But the words she 
 had uttered sent the blood up in a burning 
 tide to Mr. Templemore's dark face. That 
 last love of his, as Dora called it, was surely 
 not the weakest. It was jealous and exacting. 
 It would be denied nothing ; and on learning 
 that it had all, the past as well as the pres- 
 ent, it was glad and triumphant, even though 
 John Luan might be dying. But Dora could 
 not forget the lover of her youth — the poor 
 man who had come to woo with his cottage 
 and his hundred a year; and her voice was 
 subdued and low as she said : 
 
 " That is all I wished to say. Let us go in 
 now." 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIX. 
 
 Thf cards spread on the table before Mrs. 
 Courtenay must have been going all wrong, 
 for Mrs. Courtenay looked troubled and sad as 
 Dora entered her room. On seeing her daugh- 
 ter, however, she uttered a joyful cry, and 
 looked beaming. 
 
 " My dear child, I am so glad ! " she ex- 
 claimed, running up to her ; " how Well you 
 look ! — and where is Mr. Templemore ? " 
 
 " lie is with poor John. Oh ! mamma, 
 what is the meaning of this ? " 
 
 " We should have sent him cards, I suppose ; 
 he had a sunstroke, and hearing of your mar- 
 riage finished him. Oh ! what a life we have 
 had of it ! Miss Moore has so worried about 
 measles, that I wish we were all dead and 
 buried. I told her so ; also, that it was amis-
 
 DR. LUAN'S ILLNESS. 
 
 215 
 
 take of hers about measles, and that I did not 
 believe in them." 
 
 Dora sighed ; she had left Paradise for earth 
 and its cares. 
 
 " Have you seen your new room ? " asked 
 Mrs. Courtenay — " such a lovely room ! Such 
 beautiful things, all new — come and look at 
 it." 
 
 She rose and led her to the apartment 
 which had once been intended for Mrs. Logan. 
 It had altered its aspect for Dora. She saw 
 so at once, and the change smote her. 
 
 " I do not like her," she thought, " but why 
 must I be happy at her expense ? Why must 
 John suffer because I am so blest ? " 
 
 " Is it not pretty ? " asked Mrs. Courtenay ; 
 " and Miss Moore cannot leave off wondering 
 how fond be is of you ! Every time some- 
 thing new came for you, she cried, ' Why, he 
 dotes on Miss Courtenay ! ' " 
 
 " Oh ! I am happy — very happy, " replied 
 Dora ; " but my heart aches for poor John." 
 
 " And so does mine ; only, you see, you 
 could not marry them both," innocently re- 
 marked Mrs. Courtenay. 
 
 "Oh! how good — how kind he is !" ex- 
 claimed Dora, looking around her and seeing 
 with every glance new tokens of her husband's 
 affection ; " only why cannot we be happy but 
 that others must suffer ? " 
 
 "I wish John would get well, and would 
 marry Florence," gravely said Mrs. Courtenay ; 
 "it would be so nice, and so like a novel, 
 where people change about, you know ! " 
 
 If Dora could have smiled then, she would 
 have smiled at the suggestion. Florence los- 
 ing the master of Deenah, and taking up with 
 a poor doctor ! It was like her innocent little 
 mother to think of such a thing ! 
 
 "And where is John ?" she asked with a 
 heavy sigh ; " I must go and see him." 
 
 " In the room next his mother's ; only, my 
 dear, you must go alone, please — it makes me 
 miserable, and does poor John no good — lie- 
 
 sides, Mrs. Luan, poor soul, is so fierce that I 
 am afraid of her." 
 
 Again Dora sighed, for again she thought, 
 " Oh ! why must my happiness cost others so 
 dear ! " 
 
 Mrs. Luau's room was vacant, but through 
 the half-open door of the next apartment Dora 
 saw her aunt sitting alone by a large white 
 bed. That room was darkened, and though 
 Dora saw her aunt's bending figure very plain- 
 ly, she guessed more than she perceived, that 
 the bed was occupied. Mr. Templemore she 
 did not see. He was already gone. With 
 something like hesitation and fear, Dora en- 
 tered the sick-room ; and standing on the 
 threshold she said : " Aunt, may I come 
 
 in 
 
 9 " 
 
 Mrs. Luan raised her head, and Dora started 
 back at the sight of her face. It is said that 
 criminals shrink into old men within the few 
 minutes that precede their execution ; and even 
 so had age — decrepit age — overtaken this 
 sullen, heavy-looking woman within the last 
 few hours. She stared at Dora with a dull, 
 vacant stare ; then suddenly recognizing her, 
 she started up, and walked up to her with an 
 aspect so fierce that Dora involuntarily shrank 
 back. 
 
 " And so you come to look at him ! " said 
 Mrs. Luan, with rage sparkling in her eyes, 
 " you come to look at him, do you ? " 
 
 " Aunt, I am grieved to the heart." 
 
 " Grieved ! " interrupted Mrs. Luan, stamp- 
 ing her foot and shaking her head at her — 
 "grieved, are you ! Then how dare you marry 
 Mr. Templemore, when you knew it would kill 
 John ? " 
 
 Dora could not answer one word. 
 
 " And that is my reward," continued Mrs. 
 Luan, her wrath rising as she spoke. " I made 
 you all you are, and all the time you had 
 promised to marry John ! I tell you you had 
 — I tell you you had ! " she cried, her voice 
 rising as she read denial in Dora' " deny
 
 216 
 
 DORA. 
 
 it if you dare — deny it if you dare ! " she re- 
 peated defiantly. 
 
 " If I were on my deathbed I would deny it ! " 
 cried Dora, roused into self-defence. "You 
 wrong me — you wrong me ! Why did you 
 not tell John 1 was married ? Why did you 
 let him come here ? Aunt, I know you did not 
 wish John to marry me since I lost my money ; 
 but I say it is you, not I, who have been piti- 
 less to him. " 
 
 Mrs. Luan started at her. It was this girl 
 whom she had raised to her present height 
 who could thus taunt and reprove her. 
 
 " Oh ! you are very grand and proud be- 
 cause you are Mr. Templemore's wife," she 
 said, nodding at Dora, "but you might remem- 
 ber you would not be his wife -but for me. " 
 
 Dora colored deeply. " I know you must 
 have told him where he could find us in Ken- 
 siugton," she faltered. 
 
 "Oh ! pretend you do not understand — 
 do ! Pretend you do not know who told Mrs. 
 Logan he was with you that night. Eh ! " 
 
 Dora looked petrified. Her lips parted, 
 her eyes wera fixed on Mrs. Luan, then a 
 dreadful light seemed to break upon her. 
 
 " And was it you who did that ? " she said 
 at length — " was it you ?'" 
 
 The question enraged Mrs. Luan. 
 
 " Ask me — do ! " she cried ; " ask me ! " 
 
 "Aunt," piteously exclaimed Dora, "can 
 this be ? Did you do it to make Mr. Temple- 
 more marry me ? " 
 
 " I did," replied Mrs. Luan with a sort of 
 shriek — " I did ! — and because I helped you to 
 a rich husband, to fine clothes and houses and 
 money, my 1>< j must die— he must die!" she 
 repeated, with a low, wailing moan; "and 
 hear how be laughs at it all ! " she added, as a 
 loud fit. of laughter came from John Luan's 
 bed, " hear how merry he i 
 
 "No, I do not believe you — it is not pos- 
 
 . I cam: ible- Eeaven i-; 
 
 too ju-t to allow such things," cried Dora in 
 
 the despair of her heart. " Aunt, you are ill, 
 quite ill with grief — you have dreamed all this 
 — you never did this thing — never — never ! " 
 
 "I did!" 
 
 "But why did you do it? Oh! why?" 
 asked Dora in a voice full of agony. " Why 
 do it, aunt — why do it ? " 
 
 " Because I never liked Florence — and be- 
 cause he was rich." 
 
 " And because you did not wish me to 
 marry John," said Dora, in a transport of 
 anger she could not repress ; " you ruined 
 Mrs. Logan's happiness, you risked my fair 
 name, you robbed Mr. Templemore of his 
 liberty — and all that I might not marry John." 
 
 "And so you taunt me with it!" sullenly 
 said Mrs. Luan ; " wait awhile, my lady — wait 
 awhile ! I have been silent, but I can speak. 
 I wonder what he will say when he knows it. 
 Ha ! ha ! I have you there. You have robbed 
 me of a son, but perhaps I can rob you of a 
 husband. He .will turn me out of the house, 
 but I don't care — you and he shall not be 
 happy whilst John is dying." 
 
 She spoke calmly now, but her calmness 
 was more terrible than her wrath. A great 
 agony came over Dora as she heard her, and 
 she was seized with a faintness as that of 
 death. Her husband loved her, but how 
 would he feel if" he learned that he had been 
 cheated into marrying her ! 
 
 "Aunt," she said, recovering by a strong 
 effort, " you must not do that, you must not. 
 God knows, if I could repair Mr. Templemore's 
 wrong, ay, or even Mrs. Logan's wrong, I 
 would do it, though my heart-strings should 
 break ; but I cannot — we are married, tied for 
 life — you must not speak, you must not." 
 
 She raised her hand with a quiet gesture of 
 command, like one who has uttered an unan- 
 swerable proposition. But Mrs. Luan shook 
 back two dark locks which had fallen over 
 her face, and looked at her with the defiance 
 of a tigress whose cub has been wounded.
 
 MRS. TEMPLEMORE AND HER AUNT. 
 
 217 
 
 " Think of my boy," she said, " and expect 
 no mercy. I have given you a rich husband, 
 and you only mock and upbraid me for it. Do 
 you think I will see him die," she added, nod- 
 ding toward the bed, " and see you both sleep 
 sound and live happy? No — no ! " 
 
 It was useless to argue with her. This was 
 not remorse, repentance, or even sorrow, it 
 was the madness of despair. It was useless 
 to argue, but it might not be useless to en- 
 treat. Dora felt distracted with fear and 
 grief. She went up to her aunt, she caught 
 her two hands, she pressed them to her bosom 
 with passionate emotion. 
 
 '• Aunt, spare me," she said ; " what have I 
 done that you should hate me ? Was I not 
 like a daughter to you ? " 
 
 " Why does he rave about you ? " inter- 
 rupted Mrs. Luan. " I bore him, I suckled 
 him, I reared him through privation and sor- 
 row, I would have died for him, and it is you 
 whom he raves about. Would he be lying 
 there in brain-fever if he had found me dead ? " 
 
 "Then you will have no pity?" said Dora, 
 dropping her aunt's hands. 
 
 Mrs. Luan looked at her in sullen silence. 
 All the passionate Irish vehemence of Dora's na- 
 ture awoke within her. She sank on her knees 
 before her aunt, she raised her clasped hands. 
 
 " Have mercy ! " she cried, " for John's sake 
 have mercy on me. Be silent, in order that 
 Heaven may hear your prayers, and grant us 
 both his life. Leave me my husband — leave 
 him to me. He is my life, my only supreme 
 good, and he loves me — he loves me. Do not 
 shake that love in his heart by so cruel a con- 
 fession. Remember that he is my husband ; 
 he must forget Mrs. Logan now, and love but 
 me. I know that as yet his is only a mau's 
 passion for youth, and what he thinks beauty 
 — but give me time, aunt, give me time, and 
 that love shall be more. I shall have his 
 whole heart yet. I will be his friend, his 
 companion, his mistress, his wife, everything 
 
 which a woman can be to her husband, if you 
 will but give me time." 
 
 Oh ! if he had seen her then ! If he had 
 seen that pale face, breathless with entreaty, 
 those deep, impassioned eyes — if he had heard 
 that pathetic voice vainly imploring one who 
 knew not mercy ! Dora saw she had failed, 
 but she still prayed. 
 
 "Give me a few days," she said, " just a 
 few days, aunt." 
 
 Mrs. Luan laughed bitterly. 
 
 " Well, then, aunt, give me one day, give 
 me one," entreated Dora ; " let me be happy 
 and beloved till to-morrow." Mrs. Luan 
 shook her head in obstinate denial ; but Dora 
 clung to her with ardent importunity. " Give 
 me one day," she entreated. " Oh ! aunt, give 
 me one. I have not been married three weeks. 
 Let me be happy a few hours longer. Let me 
 — let me. And — oh ! if prayers are heard in 
 heaven, how I will pray that John may live ! " 
 
 Poor Dora, she asked to be happy Avhen her 
 happiness was her sin. 
 
 " Let me go ! " said her aunt, sullenly. 
 " John wants me." 
 
 Dora rose without a word, she released Mrs. 
 Luan from her clasp ; she compelled herself 
 to say calmly : 
 
 " Aunt, I trust you will meet with more 
 mercy than you show to me ; " and with these 
 words she left the room and went down-stairs. 
 
 She walked out into the garden bareheaded, 
 and reckless of the hot sun. She felt distract- 
 ed with sorrow, ner pride was stung to 
 think that she had been forced on Mr. Tem- 
 plemore, and her heart was tortured before- 
 hand at the thought of what his feelings 
 would be when he knew it. Would his love 
 go back to the wronged woman, whom her 
 aunt had betrayed, and leave her, his wretched 
 wife, all plundered and forlorn? It was agony 
 to think it — an agony so keen that she stood 
 still, and wondered she did not expire with 
 grief at the thought.
 
 218 
 
 DOHA. 
 
 " Dora," said a fond, reproving voice. 
 
 She turned round with a thrill of joy. He 
 knew nothing; he loved her still. Yes, for a 
 few moments, for a few hours, perhaps, her 
 husband was her own. 
 
 " What brings you out here bareheaded in 
 that hot sun ? " he asked, with gentle chiding. 
 
 " Yes, he loves nre still," thought Dora, 
 looking at him with sad, earnest eyes ; but 
 her only answer was : " Have you seen him ? 
 —how is he ? " 
 
 " In great danger, I fear." 
 
 "And Eva — when do you take her away ? " 
 she asked, almost eagerly, " she must not stay 
 here, you know." 
 
 " No, she must not. Miss Moore is getting 
 ready. They leave this evening." 
 
 "But you go with them — do you not? — 
 you go with them." 
 
 " Xot whilst that poor fellow is all but dy- 
 ing in my house." 
 
 A sort of anguish passed over Dora's face, 
 but Mr. Templemore did not read its meaning. 
 
 " He may live," he said, kindly. 
 
 " God grant he may ! " she replied in a low 
 tone ; " but wdiat w ill your presence here do 
 him ? — I shall not feel happy if you do not 
 accompany Eva and Miss Moore." Mr. Tem- 
 plemore looked so amazed at this speech that 
 Dora added, " I have a presentiment of evil — 
 -boding I cannot conquer." 
 
 She looked so deadly pale, that Mr. Temple- 
 more was filled with concern. 
 
 '• You have seen that poor young man, and 
 it has been too much for you," he said. 
 
 " No, I only saw his mother. How strange 
 e i*!— don't you think she is 
 mad?" she added, standing still in the path 
 they were following. 
 
 " Mad !— she was perfectly calm half an 
 hour ago, Dora." 
 
 "Yes, Bhe is always so with you," replied 
 Dora, with involuntary bitterness. 
 
 Mr. T mi' lemore did not answer, but ho 
 
 thought his wife's manner strange. They 
 walked on in silence till they reached that 
 old bench on which Dora had seen her hus- 
 band and Florence sitting side by side. Never 
 had the quiet spot looked darker or cooler 
 than it did now. Never had its green shade 
 been more delicious and alluring than it was 
 on this warm afternoon. 
 
 " Let us rest," she said. 
 
 He sat down, nothing loth. Later, he knew 
 the meaning of a change in his wife's manner 
 which now perplexed him — later, he knew 
 why she passed thus suddenly from the sad- 
 ness of despair to this feverish joy. He would 
 not go — he would not believe anything she 
 could urge against Mrs. Luan ; she was doomed, 
 she was hopeless, then let her be happy and 
 beloved whilst happiness and love were still 
 within her grasp. She rested her head on 
 his shoulder with unwonted familiarity ; she 
 looked up at him with sad though undisguised 
 affection, and she said, with the daring of 
 despair : 
 
 " It seems impossible sometimes that you 
 should like me — do you ? Tell me so, that I 
 may believe it, and feel sure." 
 
 Mr. Templemore was not given to the lan- 
 guage of protestation or endearment, but 
 something in her look and tone now stirred 
 the very fibres of his heart. He answered 
 her question as a man in love might answer 
 it when such a question is put by a wife young 
 and fondly loved — half in jest, half in earnest, 
 yet with unconscious and involuntary fervor. 
 Dora heard him in silence. The spot was 
 beautiful, and cool, and lonely, fcati she 
 could not forget that a month before she 
 had seen Mr. Templemore there with another 
 woman. The birds that sang so sweetly 
 above them had not changed their mates, 
 the young leaves on the trees had not lost 
 their spring beauty, and yet his love for that 
 woman was sere and dead. 
 
 " now will he feel when he knows he was
 
 DORA'S ANXIETY. 
 
 219 
 
 cheated into marrying me?" thought Mr. 
 Templemore's wife. Then she remembered 
 her dead brother, whom this man, now so 
 dear, had supplanted in his fortune, in Flor- 
 ence Gale's love, and lastly, in her own heart ; 
 she remembered John Luan lying up-stairs, 
 and raving about her, and his mother mad 
 with grief: and thus surrounded with calami- 
 ties, past or present, or yet to come, she felt 
 like the .ancient criminals before whom a de- 
 lightful feast was set, because they were to 
 die. " Wby shoutd I not do like them ? " 
 thought Dora — " the past is irrevocable, the 
 future is uncertain, but the present is mine. 
 I may be a beggar to-morrow, but I am a 
 queen to-day." 
 
 She roused herself, she compelled herself 
 to be happy and gay, and, above all, she put 
 by the silent shyness of her usual manner 
 with Mr. Templemore, and she did her best 
 to charm him. The task was an easy one. 
 This bright young creature, so full of life and 
 gladness, enchanted him. Few men like tame 
 happiness, and most are pleased with variety. 
 
 " I have got a new Dora to-day," he could 
 not help saying to her — " I have had a silent 
 Dora, a shy Dora, a proud Dora, and to-day I 
 have a brilliant Dora." 
 
 "A proud Dora!" she repeated — "when 
 was I proud ? " 
 
 " You will not let me give you anything." 
 
 " You have given me a wedding-ring," she 
 replied, with sudden emotion ; " provided you 
 never repent it, I shall be happy." 
 
 Repent it! — be seemed amused at the 
 thought ; but he again reproached her for her 
 pride. 
 
 " Oh ! give me anything you please," she 
 said, a little carelessly — " diamonds, if you 
 like." 
 
 " Why not ? " he asked, a little shortly— 
 " why should I not give you a diamond brace- 
 let ? " 
 
 Dora looked at him very earnestly. 
 
 " Not a bracelet — give me a cross ; it is an 
 emblem of suffering, and when I feel too 
 happy, it will help to subdue me, and remind 
 me of to-day." 
 
 Mr. Templemore smiled, and replied that 
 she should have a diamond cross to wear 
 around her neck. 
 
 "Yes, I believe I have a pretty neck, and 
 that he admires it," thought Dora, with silent 
 despair; "but what will he care for that to- 
 night ? " 
 
 She could not forget it, and when Mr. 
 Templemore rose from the bench, and said it 
 was time to go in, she gave a start of terror. 
 She had but one thought — to delay the fatal 
 moment. To some extent she succeeded ; she 
 never left his side. At first Mr. Templemore 
 did not object to this fond inquisition, but it 
 was inquisition, and he soon felt it, and won- 
 dered at it. He wondered, too, at Dora's 
 silence ; her fitful spirits were fled, and she 
 looked deeply depressed. 
 
 " You are as mute as a bird when the storm 
 is coming on," said Mr. Templemore, who little 
 knew how aj>t was his simile. "You are 
 tired. Lie down on the sofa." 
 
 They were in her old sitting-room on the 
 ground-floor when he spoke thus. 
 
 " Yes, I shall lie down," said Dora, languid- 
 ly. She closed her eyes, in order not be 
 obliged to speak. He thought she was sleep- 
 ing, and soon rose to leave her ; but ere he 
 had reached the door she had started to her 
 feet and stood before him in breathless fear. 
 " Do not leave me," she entreated. " I can- 
 not bear it." 
 
 Mr. Templemore could scarcely believe his 
 ears. Fear, real fear, was in her whole 
 aspect. It was very unlike Dora Courtenay, 
 so proud, so brave, to be thus childishly afraid 
 of solitude. 
 
 " I shall ring for Fanny," he said. 
 
 " Xo, no, stay with inc. I want you." 
 
 She was petulant, wilful, and yet fond, and
 
 220 
 
 DORA. 
 
 she had her way. Mr. Templemore was 
 ashamed and vexed to yield. He began to 
 think that he had a capricious Dora as well 
 as a charming one ; but her tender and obsti- 
 nate entreaties prevailed. Mr. Templemore 
 chid her, but he did not go; that reprieve 
 was granted to her. 
 
 " What if I were to tell him myself? " once 
 thought Dora, seeing how kind and indulgent 
 he was ; but her heart failed her at the 
 thought — besides, faint hope crept into her 
 heart as time passed. If John got better, her 
 aunt might relent, and she might yet be saved. 
 
 CHAPTER XL. 
 
 Mr. Templemore's sister-in-law wanted to 
 speak to him, and Mr. Templemore, it was 
 found, after a quarter of an hour's search, 
 was with his wife in the room which had been 
 the governess's sitting-room. But Miss Moore 
 had good reason for not choosing to speak to 
 him there, and she sent a civil message, full 
 of apologies, but implying plainly her wish for 
 a private interview. Dora, who held her 
 husband's hand, as if she had feared he 
 should escape her, was obliged to relinquish 
 her hold. She could not go with him, she 
 could not bid him stay, she could only say : 
 
 "You will soon come back ? " 
 
 " Very soon," he replied, cheerfully. 
 
 ne went, rather pleased at having made his 
 pe, for he wished to see John Luan again, 
 and he did not want his wife to accompany 
 him and encounter that sad sight. " Shall I 
 go and sec him first?" he thought, as he 
 went up the staircase. "Miss Moore can wait 
 a few minutes." So, instead of entering the 
 drawing-room on his right, he turned toward 
 Mrs. Luan's room on his left. 
 
 But scarcely had Mr. Templemore entered 
 the sick-room, when the door which he had 
 closed opened again, and Dora appeared, pale 
 
 and breathless. She had guessed all, and 
 followed him. 
 
 "My darling, what brings you here?" he 
 asked, with gentle reproof. "It is a sad, a 
 very sad sight for you." 
 
 A loud, appalling fit of laughter from the ** 
 sick-bed confirmed his words. 
 
 "Mrs. Luan raised her bowed head and 
 looked at them. Dora stood near her hus- 
 band. His arm was passed around her with 
 protecting tenderness ; her eyes were raised to 
 his with something beyoncf love in their gaze 
 — something of the worship and despair of a 
 lost spirit looking her last of paradise, for she 
 thought, " Now the time has come ! " 
 
 John Luan's mother rose on perceiving 
 them, and Mr. Templemore saw aunt and 
 niece exchange a look so strange that it 
 amazed him. Why did Mrs. Luan's eyes gaze 
 so fiercely on his wife, and why did Dora turn 
 so deadly pale as her own eyes met them ? 
 He began to understand that something which 
 concerned him, but of which he was kept igno- 
 rant, lay hidden under those silent looks — some 
 war, some contest ! What could it be ? Why 
 had Dora followed him ? 
 
 " How is your son, Mrs. Luan?" he asked, 
 gravely. 
 
 " How is he ! " she angrily echoed. " Why 
 do you ask ? Why do you come ? What 
 brings you both here ? Could you not stay 
 away ? Is it to taunt him that you come ? 
 Look at them, John, look at them ! " 
 
 "Is that woman mad, as Dora says," 
 thought Mr. Templemore, " or what is it ? " 
 
 She stood by the bed looking at her son, 
 and pointing with a scornful forefinger to Mr. 
 Templemore and his wife. Then turning upon 
 them with sudden fury — 
 
 " Begorte ! " she said ; " begone, or I will 
 make you repent having come near him ! " 
 
 Mr. Templemore did not move, and Dora 
 only clung closer to him ; but she looked at 
 her aunt with mingled dread and entreaty.
 
 SCENE AT DR. LUAN'S SICK-BED. 
 
 221 
 
 " Ha ! I can make you quake, my lady ! " 
 said Mrs. Luan, nodding at her pale niece. 
 " I gave you a husband, and you robbed me 
 of a son in return — but I can make you 
 quake ! " 
 
 "Aunt — aunt! " implored Dora. 
 
 Mrs. Luan laughed, and John Luan, who 
 had been silent awhile, tossed restlessly in his 
 bed, and laughed with his mother. 
 
 " You hear him ! " she cried, stamping her 
 foot and looking angrily at Dora ; " go, I say ! 
 — go both of you this moment ! " 
 
 " Richard, let us go away ! " entreated 
 Dora ; " oh ! let us go away ! " 
 
 But no more than before did Mr. Temple- 
 more stir. He darted piercing looks from Mrs. 
 Luan to his wife. There was something — 
 some hidden quarrel between these two women 
 — a threat on one hand and fear on the other, 
 for he felt Dora tremble in every limb. 
 What was it? — what could it be? 
 
 " Dora," he said, in a low, kind tone, and 
 drawing her more closely to him as he spoke 
 thus, bending over her — " Dora, what is it ? 
 Trust in me." 
 
 The words were like dew from heaven. She 
 threw her arms around his neck. " Oh ! for- 
 give me ! " she cried ; " forgive me ! — I could 
 not help it ! " 
 
 He returned the caress, and again he said, 
 " What is it ?— trust in me." 
 
 Mrs. Luan answered that question. 
 
 " So you could not help it, forsooth," she 
 said, her eyes sparkling with rage. " Are 
 these my thanks for making you Mr. Temple- 
 more's wife?" she added, rolling her head 
 from left to right, as if confounded at Dora's 
 ingratitude. " Are these my thanks for parting 
 liim from Mrs. Logan, whom you so hated ? " 
 
 Mr. Templemore, who had listened astound- 
 ed, now started as if he had been stung. 
 
 " You part me from Mrs. Logan ! " he cried, 
 his eyes flashing ; " 'tis false ! — you dare not ! 
 — you could not ! " 
 
 "Yes," replied Mrs. Luan, with a sullen 
 nod, "you always scorned me — I was stupid, 
 was I? But I could make you put by one 
 woman and marry another, clever man though 
 you were, and foolish woman though you 
 thought me." 
 
 The insolence of this boast exasperated Mr. 
 Templemore. " I tell you 'tis false ! — false ! " 
 he said sternly ; " you never did it ! " 
 
 " Did I not, though ? Who made Florence 
 jealous? 'Twas I, Mr. Templemore. Who 
 gave something to Eva that made her ill, and 
 who told you to go to Dora that night whilst 
 Florence was watching ? 'Twas I. Ask her, 
 ask Florence, ask Mrs. Logan, if you do not 
 believe me." 
 
 Mr. Templemore looked thunderstruck. 
 
 "No, you could not be so base," he said ; 
 " you could not be so cruel as to tamper with 
 my child for that object — you could not. I 
 had heaped you and yours with benefits — you 
 could not pay me back thus ! " 
 
 " Benefits ! Yes, you robbed me and John 
 and Paul and Dora of my brother's money, 
 and you threw us a bone in return. And you 
 wanted to marry that Florence Gale, who jilted 
 Paul. No, no, Mr. Templemore, I said you 
 should marry my niece, and you did — you 
 did ! " 
 
 Dora, overwhelmed with shame and grief, 
 hid her burning face in her hands. Mr. Tem- 
 plemore could not speak. 
 
 "You thought me stupid," said Mrs. Luan 
 again ; " you thought me stupid, eh ? " She 
 said no more, bust sat down again by her son. 
 
 There was a brief silence. A sorrow too 
 keen for anger or indignation had fallen on 
 Mr. Templemore. 
 
 " Poor Florence ! " he said, with a quiver- 
 ing lip ; " poor, foolish Florence ! " 
 
 nis troubled eye fell on Dora as he spoke. 
 Perhaps he did not see her, but that look, so 
 far away, so remote, cut her to the heart. 
 She withdrew from his side, and he did not
 
 222 
 
 DORA. 
 
 detain or call her back ; he stood as the blow- 
 had struck him — pale, motionless, and, save 
 those words, silent. Dora forgot her own 
 grief in the sight of his. 
 
 " Richard," she said, coming back to him, 
 and her tears flowing, "forgive me if I cannot 
 set you free ! — forgive me ! " Her eyes were 
 raised to his, tears were on her cheeks, and 
 her look seemed to say, " Oh ! dare I be happy 
 again ? " 
 
 He laid his hand on her shoulder, he looked 
 down at her very sorrowfully, but with return- 
 ing tenderness, and that sad look seemed to 
 reply : " Be happy, my darling, be happy ! " 
 
 John Luan's mother stared at them with 
 jealous, angry eyes. Her son, whom the hap- 
 piness of these, two had brought to death's 
 door, lay on his sick-bed, pale, breathless, ex- 
 hausted with delirium, and they stood there 
 happy and fond, braving her with the inso- 
 lence of their love. 
 
 "'You little hypocrite ! " she cried, starting 
 to her feet, and shaking her resentful hand at 
 Dora, " how dare you make me do it ? How 
 dare you, and be jilting John all the time ? " 
 
 " I ! " cried Dora, amazed at the imputation ; 
 " I made you do it ? " 
 
 " Yes — deny it now — do ! " 
 
 " Oh ! Richard, Richard," said Dora, with 
 sudden anguish ; " you will never believe that, 
 will you V " 
 
 "Believe that you could abet this miserable 
 woman," he replied, with scorn ; " believe that, 
 Dora ! " 
 
 " And so I am to bear the burden of the 
 sin, and you are to reap the benefit ! " cried 
 Luan, enraged— "you who made me do 
 it. I say it again '. " 
 
 "Peace!" said Mr. Templcmore, turning 
 
 ly upon her. " But for your son's sake, 
 
 you should leave the house this instant. As 
 
 it is, I forbid you from this day forth ever to 
 
 my will' again !" 
 
 "Of course not," answered Mrs. Luan, with 
 
 much scorn ; " I am too wicked, and she is 
 too good. I promised her she should become 
 your wife, and now that I have kept my word 
 I must not speak to my lady ! ' 
 
 Mr. Templemore looked both indignant and 
 incredulous. 
 
 " Dora," he said — " Dora joining in a plot 
 so shameful ! — Dora abetting you in entrap- 
 ping Mrs. Logan ! — Dora helping to work her 
 own disgrace ! It is false ! " 
 
 " "lis true," doggedly replied Mrs. Luan. 
 
 Dora turned crimson with indignation and 
 shame. She left her husband's side. She 
 went up to her aunt, she laid her hand on Mrs. 
 Luan's arm, and, looking her steadily in the 
 face, she said firmly : 
 
 " Aunt, how dare you say it ? — how dare 
 you say it, with John Luan lying there ? " 
 
 " And how dare you deny it ? " cried Mrs, 
 Luan, placing either hand on Dora's shoul- 
 ders, and looking at her wildly ; " did I not 
 promise the first day we all entered this house 
 — did I not promise you should become its 
 mistress ? Deny that if you dare ! " 
 
 Mr. Templemore looked at Dora; she was 
 ashy pale, and her lips quivered, but she was 
 mute. 
 
 " And did you, or did your mother, ask me 
 how I was to. make you Mr. Templemore's 
 wife ? — how I was to part him and Florence 
 Gale ? Did either of you question or try to 
 know, or say, ' Do not do it ? ' Not once — 
 not once." 
 
 Mr. Templemore again looked at his wife. 
 She could not bear that look ; her eyes sank 
 before his. 
 
 " She can't deny it ! " triumphantly ex- 
 claimed Mrs. Luan. " You know," she added, 
 turning pitilessly on Dora, "you know you 
 taxed me with it the next morning. ' Aunt,' 
 you said, ' who did this ? ' You knew 'twas 
 I, but you said nothing to Mrs. Logan — you 
 liked Mr. Templemore. Deny that — and also 
 that vou hated Florence ? n
 
 MRS. LEAN'S PLOT REVEALED. 
 
 223 
 
 Dora denied nothing. The net that en- 
 snared her was drawing so close around her 
 that she felt both fettered and tongue-tied. 
 No, she could not deny her aunt's predictions, 
 she could not deny her love and her hatred, 
 qow both turning against her with such venge- 
 ful power. She had boasted of both to him, 
 and both now stood up as implacable witnesses 
 to condemn her. She felt it, and she also felt 
 lost, ruined, and undone. 
 
 Cold drops of perspiration stood thick on 
 Mr. Templemore's brow. Once more he had 
 been cheated and betrayed, but this time how 
 frightfully ! He had been robbed of the woman 
 he loved, and entrapped into marrying another, 
 and the best feelings of his nature — gener- 
 osity, pity, honor — had been enlisted to work 
 out his undoing. A colder man, or a less gen- 
 erous one, a man of inferior nature, could 
 never have thus succumbed nor fallen into this 
 mean trap. He had been duped by the con- 
 temptible woman before him, and Dora had 
 been her tacit accomplice. An innocent though 
 foolish woman had been driven into the mad- 
 ness of jealousy that this family, whom he had 
 treated with romantic generosity, might fasten 
 upon him for life, and he, the rich man, might 
 become the poor girl's husband. And Dora 
 had shared the baseness even as she had 
 reaped the benefit. 
 
 She had not laid the trap ; no — but she had 
 let him fall into it, aud never, by helping hand, 
 or even by word or sign, tried to save him. 
 She had done nothing deliberate, but she had 
 allowed another to act; and when all was 
 ready — when Florence and he had become her 
 victims, when pity and honor had made him 
 turn to her, she had appeared before him with 
 the pale and troubled beauty of a proud and 
 fair martyr — she had ensnared him with her 
 youth and her hidden love, and wakened in 
 his heart a passion so violent and so engrossing 
 that it completed her double triumph over Mrs. 
 Logan. . Yes, and as these thoughts passed 
 
 through him with the cruel rapidity of ! 
 ning, it stung Mr. Templemore to feel that she 
 had robbed Florence of her lover, even more 
 than of her husband. He turned upon her, 
 wrath and grief in his looks. 
 
 " Madam, speak ! " he said impetuously and 
 imperiously. " Do you not hear that you are 
 accused ? — speak, I say 1 " 
 
 Thus adjured, Dora looked up. 
 " I am innocent," she said. 
 "Innocent!" said her aunt; "yes, you 
 never questioned — you did not want to know — 
 you let me do it, and now, like a coward, you 
 want to escape the blame. Let Mr. Temple- 
 more ask your mother if I did not promise 
 that you should marry him, that's all." 
 
 Dora saw the angry light that passed through 
 Mr. Templemore's eyes as her aunt uttered 
 these words ; she looked from him, her judge, 
 to Mrs. Luan, her accuser. 
 
 " I am innocent," she said again. 
 Mrs. Luan laughed scornfully, and Mr. 
 Templemore was mute. For a while she too 
 stood silent, then a coldness as that of death 
 seemed to fall on her heart. She turned away 
 and left the room without a word. 
 
 Mr. Templemore walked up to Mrs. Luan, 
 and seizing her arm, he looked down in her 
 face, and said sternly, 
 
 " What was your motive ? " 
 His look, his tone, alike mastered her. 
 " I did not want her to marry John ? " she 
 answered. 
 
 He smiled bitterly. He had been sacrificed 
 that John might be safe. 
 
 " And what was her motive ? " he asked 
 again. 
 
 " You know it," sulkily replied Mrs. Luan ; 
 " she liked you." 
 
 Yes, some men are betrayed for their money, 
 but Mr. Templemore had been cheated out of 
 his liberty for love. For love ! He bit his 
 lip till it bled, and he grasped Mrs. Luan's 
 arm so tightly that she said with some anger,
 
 224 
 
 DORA. 
 
 " Let me go ; you hurt me. Why do you 
 put it all upon me ? Mrs. Courtenay was al- 
 ways talking about it, and Dora was fretting 
 to have you. I did you no wrong, after all — 
 you liked Dora, you know you did." 
 
 " I liked her ! you dare to tell me that ? I 
 liked your niece whilst I was pledged to Mrs. 
 Logan." 
 
 " Never mind, you like her now," was Mrs. 
 Luan's ironical reply. 
 
 " I like her now ? " 
 
 " Yes, and let me go— I say you hurt me." 
 
 " Let you go ? " he replied, dropping her 
 arm with a look of the deepest contempt. 
 " Mrs. Luan, I leave the house to day — let me 
 not find you here, or your son, or your sister, 
 when I come back." 
 
 "And Dora," defiantly asked Mrs. Luan, 
 " are you going to turn out Dora ? — you can't, 
 you know — she is your wife." 
 
 " She may rue it yet," he said, his eyes flash- 
 ing with anger, " but she shall stay here, of 
 course ; as for you, Mrs. Luan — do not trust 
 to my forbearance for your son — leave soon — 
 leave quickly." 
 
 He left the room as he uttered the words. 
 As he closed the door he met Mrs. Courtenay. 
 Without a word of preface or courteous greet- 
 ing, with a sternness which she had never seen 
 in him, he stopped her and said : 
 
 "Mrs. Courtenay, is it true that when I 
 brought you to this house, with your sister-in- 
 law and Dora, you contemplated that I should 
 marry your daughter ? " 
 
 Mrs. Courtenay knew nothing, but Mr. Tem- 
 plernore's manner and looks frightened her. 
 
 " Oh ! Mr. Templemore," she implored, " do 
 not be angry with poor Dora, do not." 
 
 " Oh ! I am not angry— not at all, Mrs. Cour- 
 tenay, I only want to know if Mrs. Luan did 
 " ;i11 be tellfl me, promise Dora that she 
 
 should become my wife? " 
 
 " She did," eagerly replied Mrs. Courtenay, 
 by no means loath to throw all the blame on 
 
 her sister-in-law, " she did, as soon as she found 
 out you were Mr. Templemore." 
 
 " Oh ! of course not before," ironically re- 
 plied Mr. Templemore ; " and your daughter, 
 Mrs. Courtenay, she raised no objection ? " 
 
 " Mr. Templemore, she liked you." 
 
 " Ah ! to be sure ; an excellent reason. 
 Thank you for your candor, Mrs. Courtenay," 
 he added, sarcastically. 
 
 He turned away, but his mother-in-law fol- 
 lowed him anxiously. 
 
 " Then you are not angry with Dora ? " she 
 said. 
 
 " Oh ! not at all," replied Mr. Templemore. 
 " I am too happy to have your daughter on any 
 terms ! " 
 
 The words were very bitter, if Mrs. Courte- 
 nay had but understood them rightly, but the 
 mood in which they were spoken was far more 
 bitter still. Love, tenderness, passion, every- 
 thing that had once made Dora dear, seemed 
 to have vanished in the humiliation of his be- 
 trayal. To be duped, to be deceived, to be 
 made a tool and a jest of— such had been Mr. 
 Templernore's lot. 
 
 OHAPTEK XLI. 
 
 " Miss Moore is very anxious to speak to 
 you, sir," said Fanny, meeting her master. 
 
 " Very well," he replied, with bitter impa- 
 tience, and, retracing his steps, he went back 
 to the drawing-room. 
 
 Miss Moore was not alone. A lady stood in 
 the middle of the room, attired in a travelling- 
 dress, with a shawl on her arm, and looking 
 as if she were going to step that moment into 
 a railway carriage. And that lady was Mrs. 
 Logan. She laughed at Mr. Templernore's 
 amazed look, and curtsied to him with mock 
 politeness. 
 
 " Oh ! but I must see Mrs. Luan too," she 
 said, nodding ironically. " I am not afraid of
 
 FLORENCE'S EXPLANATION. 
 
 225 
 
 ber now, though I was so silly as to think her 
 mad, you know. I must see her with you, Mr. 
 Templemore." 
 
 " Never ! " he answered angrily. " Mrs. Luan 
 leaves this house today, and never will I ad- 
 dress her, or willingly remain five seconds in 
 the same room with her." 
 
 Miss Moore clasped her hands and said piti- 
 fully, " I knew it could not end well ; " whilst 
 Mrs. Logan exclaimed scornfully, " Poor Mrs. 
 Luan ! is it so soon over ? " 
 
 Mr. Templemore looked angrily at these 
 two women. His blood was boiling within 
 him, and seeing Florence fresh as a rose, and 
 taunting him so lightly with his lost liberty, 
 he forgot her wrong, and only remembered 
 that her folly had abetted Mrs. Luan's cun- 
 ning, and helped to his undoing. 
 
 " Dear me, Mr. Templemore, how odd you 
 do look ! " ironically said Florence. " Well, I 
 shall not trouble you long. I owe you an 
 answer to a. question, and I come to give it. I 
 have been waiting for your return this fort- 
 night. I would not write — letters get opened 
 by the wrong people, and not delivered some- 
 times to the right person. I am getting 
 shrewd and clever, you see. Well, I must not 
 miss the train, so you will excuse me if I come 
 to the point. You wanted to know, when I 
 last had the pleasure of meeting you, through 
 whose agency I had entered this house and 
 surprised you with Miss Courtenay on the 
 night of the storm. You were kind euough 
 to suppose that I bribed the servants. Allow 
 me now to tell you that the person who ad- 
 mitted me, who received, and guided, and 
 helped me, was your wife's aunt. To her, Mr. 
 Templemore, you thus owe your present hap- 
 piness, and I am not so cruel or so unjust as 
 to rob that good and kind Mrs. Luan of your 
 gratitude." 
 
 "Yes, Mrs. Logan," replied Mr. Temple- 
 more, with emphatic bitterness, " you fell into 
 
 a trap, and now that you see it, it is too late." 
 15 
 
 " I can't help it," she said, desperately. 
 "You might as well tell a bird not to be 
 caught as tell me not to be deceived. Besides, 
 why did you let them deceive you, Mr. Tem- 
 plemore ? " 
 
 His color deepened, his dark eyes flashed, 
 he bit his lip to check the angry words that 
 might have come up as she put the taunting 
 question. Ay, he too had been snared by the 
 net of the fowler, and its meshes were woven 
 thick around him. Adieu to a noble life, 
 adieu to liberty, ay, and almost adieu to 
 honor ! Never more should his footsteps be 
 free, never more should he know the happy 
 solitude of his own thoughts; he was tied, till 
 death should part them, to that girl who, in- 
 nocent or guilty, had stepped in between him 
 and all his desires. What though she had 
 wakened in him the folly of a moment ? Was 
 he the man to go on loving a woman for the 
 soft, shy look of her eyes aDd the pretty turn 
 of her neck ? She loved him, perhaps — she 
 had said so, at least, and he remembered . her 
 fond confession with a sort of fury — but had 
 she entrapped him because of that love ? Had 
 he given her a double triumph over him — 
 that of tirst deceiving his judgment, then of 
 conquering his proud heart? 
 
 " Yes," he said, " you are right, Mrs. Logan 
 — I, too, have been cheated, and where is our 
 remedy ? " he added, the veins in his forehead 
 swelling with anger, as he felt both his wrong 
 and his powerlessness to avenge it. " Where 
 is our remedy ? We have been deceived and 
 betrayed. Mrs. Luan was the arbitress of our 
 fate, though we knew it not, and we must bow 
 to her decrees." 
 
 " Yes, it was Mrs. Luan's doing, but it was 
 Dora Courtenay's too," cried Mrs. Logan, 
 with her old jealous anger. " She planned 
 it, and she did it, Mr. Templemore." 
 
 ne turned pale as death, and moved away 
 from her side; and when he came back he. 
 looked at her and Miss Moore, and said :
 
 22G 
 
 DORA. 
 
 "Do not say it — do not believe it, Mrs. 
 Logan. She is my wife. You made her such, 
 remember that, and also that her honor and 
 mine are one." 
 
 " You want me to be silent ! " she cried. 
 " I will not— I will not, Mr. Templemore. The 
 world shall know, and the world shall judge 
 between her and me." 
 
 " Do as you please. You will find my wife 
 guarded by something to which the world, 
 skeptical though it may be, ever adds faith — 
 the respect of her husband." 
 
 "Your wife!" repeated Mrs. Logan, turn- 
 ing pale at something in the tone with which 
 he uttered the word "wife." — "Yes, I know 
 she is your wife, Mr. Templemore, and you are 
 newly married, too, and, of course, your 
 honeymoon not being over — " 
 
 She ceased, and looked at him. The blood 
 had rushed up to his very brows — his very 
 heart was thrilled at the remembrance of his 
 lost happiness. He could not help it. A pas- 
 sion, even though it be but two weeks old, 
 cannot be conquered at once in a man's heart ; 
 and as Florence spoke, there came back to 
 him, not the remembrance of the love which 
 had bound them — not the resentment of the 
 fraud by which they had been divided, but 
 fervid and sudden, like the glimpse of a warm 
 summer landscape, the memory of those two 
 impassioned weeks which he had given to an- 
 other woman. Florence stood before him, 
 beautiful, angry, and jealous, and he saw 
 Dora, pale, beseeching, and sorrowful — Dora, 
 witli love in her upraised eyes and her parted 
 lips. lie saw her, do what he would; but 
 with angry wonder he also asked himself 
 what brought her image before him then, why 
 days had been stronger than years, and why 
 he thought of the girl who had ensnared him, 
 whilst he looked at the chosen one of his 
 heart ? 
 
 " She is not innocent ! " cried Mrs. Logan, 
 breaking off from sarcasm into impetuous ac- 
 
 cusation. " Did I not say to her, ' Tell me 
 how it happened — explain it, Dora, and I will 
 believe you,' and did she not turn away with- 
 out a word — without a word ? I tell you, Mr. 
 Templemore, that she plotted to marry you 
 from the moment she entered your house. " «_ 
 
 " She did not ! " he said, sullenly. 
 
 " Then why did she marry you ? " 
 
 " She had her fair name to redeem, thanks 
 to you. " 
 
 " Ay, she risked much, but she won — she 
 won, and I lost ; but it is not all gain to her, 
 Mr. Templemore. The world will have some- 
 thing to say to her yet." 
 
 " Then the world will lie ! " cried Mr. Tem- 
 plemore, his dark cheek crimsoning, and his 
 voice trembling with passion as the pure and 
 pale image of his young wife seemed to rise 
 before him. In all his misery it was some- 
 thing to know that — so far, at least, she was 
 innocent. Of that knowledge nothing and no 
 one could rob him. Mrs. Logan looked at him, 
 then clasped her hands in indignant amaze- 
 ment. 
 
 " Mr. Templemore, " she said, " were you 
 Mrs. Luan's accomplice, and was all this a plot 
 to make me break my engagement, and set 
 you free ? " 
 
 He gazed at her more in sorrow than in an 
 ger. She was unchanged, after all. She read 
 the meaning of his cold, grave looks, but she 
 would persist in this new outrageous fancy. 
 
 " I know what you think, " she said, speak- 
 ing very fast — " you think she is the same silly 
 creature she ever was ; but I am not so fool- 
 ish as you imagine me to be, Mr. Templemore > 
 and I say that you always liked her — always, 
 Mr. Templemore — and that, if she had been a 
 plain girl, you would not have married her 
 from honor. " 
 
 " If Dora Courtenay had been a plain girl, 
 you would never have suspected her, Mrs. 
 Logan. " 
 
 "Yes, yes, I know; but tell me, if you can,
 
 HER DEPARTURE. 
 
 227 
 
 'I did not marry her for love' — just tell me 
 that, if you can, Mr. Templemore ? " 
 
 " I decline your right to put such a ques- 
 tion," he coldly answered; "you broke our 
 engagement, Mrs. Logan." 
 
 She sank down on a chair, and burst into 
 tears. Mr. Templemore stood by her side, 
 and as he beheld her sorrow, he looked around 
 him with mingled grief and shame — the shame 
 which a noble heart feels at its own frailty. 
 That room, those pictures, those familiar 
 objects, all seemed to upbraid him with infi- 
 delity. Here he had been calmly, purely blest. 
 Here gentle love, not feverish passion, had 
 held him in tender bonds. Here an innocent, 
 though not brilliant woman, had loved him — 
 here it had been sweet to sit with her day after 
 day, forestalling the peace of marriage,^ and 
 not taking into marriage the troubled joy of 
 unwedded love. 
 
 Florence wept on as if her heart would 
 break, but dull and heavy felt Mr. Temple- 
 more's heart. He did not love her — he did 
 not love his wife — he loved no woman then. 
 Twice love had cost him so dear, that now he 
 felt as if he were too poor ever to buy it back 
 again. The tears of Florence pained him, but 
 so would those of Eva if they had had the 
 same bitter cause to flow. With- a sort of 
 wonder at his own coldness, he remembered 
 how dear this wronged woman had once been, 
 and now he could gaze on her as if from a re- 
 mote shore. His love was dead, and dead, 
 too, felt that other love which had suddenly 
 flowed between them, and wrought in a few 
 weeks the work of time. 
 
 " I must go now," said Mrs. Logan, rising 
 as she spoke. 
 
 Even as she said it, the door opened, and 
 Dora entered the room. Miss Moore looked 
 scared, Florence defiant, and Mr. Templemore 
 turned crimson. Dora looked at them quietly. 
 Whatever she might feel, no token of it ap- 
 peared on her pale face. No wonder, no 
 
 anger, no jealous indignation were to be read 
 there. 
 
 "I beg your pardon, Richard," she said, 
 with a proud and tranquil smile ; "I did not 
 know you were engaged." And, bowing to 
 Mrs. Logan, she passed on. Slowly and 
 leisurely she crossed the long drawing-room 
 leaving it by another door than that through 
 which she had entered. Mr. Templemore 
 could not help looking after her. She might 
 be an adventuress and a schemer, but she 
 would never, if jealous, have betrayed that 
 jealousy by watching her lover ; she would 
 ■never have come to that lost lover's house and 
 humbled her pride so far as to reproach him, 
 or to accuse her more fortunate rival. Yes, 
 she still had, even in her humiliation, that 
 cold charm which reserve and pride give a 
 woman, and which allures man far more than 
 the fondest seduction. Florence felt stung, 
 for she saw that look, and half read it. Dora's 
 sun might be under a cloud just then ; but a 
 wife's day is a long one, and in how calm, how 
 cold a voice she had called him "Rich- 
 ard ! " 
 
 " I beg your pardon ! " exclaimed Florence, 
 bitterly ; " I came to enlighten you, but find 
 you enlightened. I might have spared myself 
 the trouble of coming ; but you see, being silly 
 and foolish as ever, I thought I had but to 
 speak to confound Mrs. Luan and justify my- 
 self, even though it was too late." 
 
 Mr. Templemore could not help feeling a pity 
 both tender and deep for this beautiful but 
 very foolish creature as she spoke thus. She 
 had no judgment, no pride, no dignity, no gen- 
 erosity even, but she had been shamefully 
 wronged, and it stung him that he, who had 
 once so loved her, should have been made the 
 instrument of that wrong. Dora would never 
 have acted thus. But surely her very folly 
 ought, like a child's, to have made Florence 
 sacred to generous hearts, for how could a crea- 
 ture so frivolous resist even the most transpar
 
 228 
 
 DORA. 
 
 ent artifice, or save herself from perfidy? 
 There was indignation, there was sorrow and 
 emotion in Mr. Templemore's voice as he now 
 said to her : 
 
 " Good-by, Florence— God bless you ! We 
 are cousins ; we have been friends, and we 
 wore to have been more. Let not the base- 
 ness which parted us so prevail as to break the 
 old tie. You have no brother to protect you, 
 no near relative to befriend you, but remember 
 that you have me." 
 
 Mrs. Logan did not answer, but her color 
 deepened, and as she stood with her hand 
 clasped in his, she thought, looking at the 
 floor, "Ah! if Dora were to die — but she is 
 sure to live. Good-by, Miss Moore," she 
 added aloud. 
 
 Miss Moore, who had prudently kept her 
 handkerchief to her eyes, sobbed a good-by, 
 which darkened Mr. Templemore's face. How 
 he hated all this ! How bitterly he felt his 
 lost privacy ! He said not a word to detain 
 Florence. He went down with her and accom- 
 panied her to the gate, where a carriage was 
 waiting. She entered it, he saw it drive away, 
 then he walked down the sunburnt, dusty road, 
 brooding over his odious, intolerable wrong. 
 He had been cheated to save John Luan from 
 a poor marriage — also for his money. Such 
 things take place in life daily ; Mr. Temple- 
 more had often seen them, and looked on with 
 mingled scorn and pity for the victim. And 
 now the case was his. These three women 
 bad ensnared him as only women can ensnare 
 man, with the subtle arts which nature lias 
 p*en theii ■ ■. as the compensation for weak- 
 ness. Mr. Templemorc had a credulous, gen- 
 erous nature, loath to suspect; a nature which 
 made him liable to deceit, mid lie knew it, and 
 could laugh at it once the first vexation of dis- 
 •'■r. Bui be had never thought 
 the ould take this aspect, or that the 
 
 1 1 aid wear Dora Courtenay'e face. 
 ii-h of that thought overpowered his 
 
 fortitude, and conquered even wrath. His 
 whole flesh quivered with the pain, and he 
 stood still, mastered by grief, and unable to 
 go on. When he looked around him, Mr. 
 Templemore found that, led by habit, a more 
 faithful guide than love, his steps had brought 
 him to Mrs. Logan's door. 
 
 Again the house was closed and silent. Flor- 
 ence was really gone this time — she was gone, 
 after having made Dora's guilt deeper and 
 plainer. She was gone, and never, unless in 
 some great crisis, must Dora's husband cross 
 that once friendly threshold, or enter those 
 once-loved rooms, now haunted with the spec- 
 tre of the past. With cold and gloomy eyes 
 he looked at that silent dwelling. If Florence 
 could have seen him then, she would have 
 known it was not her loss that had brought 
 that dark meaning to his face ; if she could 
 have read his heart she would have felt more 
 jealous of his grief than she had felt of his brief 
 happiness. 
 
 Dora had said it truly — his love for her was 
 man's passion for youth and that beauty which 
 his eyes see in a loved woman ; but a noble 
 nature is the alchemy which transmutes the 
 baser metal into pure gold ; and Mr. Temple- 
 more's love for his young wife could not live 
 on the fleeting charms which had subdued 
 him. He wanted to revere, he wanted to trust ; 
 and now that he could do neither, his love felt 
 expiring — but in what throes — in what ago- 
 nies ! He roused himself from that mood, both 
 passionate and bitter — he walked back to Les 
 Roches. He had thought enough over his 
 wrong. It was clear, it was certain, it was 
 irremediable. 
 
 " Now I must see my wife," he thought. 
 His wife ! Oh ! bitter, insupportable 
 thought ! She was his wife. It was the fond- 
 est name she had heard from him — the most 
 tender he had found it possible to give her, 
 and now it sounded so dreary, so ominous, so 
 fatal !
 
 "A SEVERE TRIAL." 
 
 229 
 
 CHAPTER XLIL 
 
 "When Dora left John Luan's room she tried 
 to think, but she could not. She went down 
 to the garden, and walking along one of its 
 gravel paths, she bade herself be calm — and 
 calmness would not come at her bidding. Her 
 misery was so new that she could not believe 
 in it yet — not at least with that settled belief 
 which we give to great and undoubted calami- 
 ties. It flowed upon her like a torrent, stun- 
 ning and overwhelming her, ere it carried her 
 away down to the dark deep waters whence 
 there was no returing. For if Mr. Temple- 
 more believed her guilty, she could see no 
 escape from her grief — nay, she would accept 
 of none. He could no more detest the pro- 
 faned tie that would bind them than she 
 would. If love be not reverence and honor, it 
 is nothing to the pure and the proud. But 
 could she have lost his esteem ? Was it pos- 
 sible ? No, he was staggered and deeply hurt ? 
 and perhaps even he could love her no more, 
 so great was his sense of his wrong — but how 
 could he doubt her ? It was a sweet and aveng- 
 ing thought, that though no longer adored, she 
 must be honored. Let love be lost — there are 
 many such bitter wrecks in life — but let her 
 innocence be confessed. 
 
 " His liking will go back to Florence," 
 thought Dora, and tears rushed to her eyes, 
 and her heart swelled ; " but he must do me 
 justice. There will be a great darkness be- 
 tween us — it may last years — but light will 
 return, as morning follows night; and though 
 age should have come and youth fled in the 
 meanwhile, his love shall be welcome were 
 it but for the sake of the two happy weeks he 
 has given me. But he must do me justice — 
 oh ! he must ! " 
 
 She turned back toward the house. She 
 wanted to see him — to speak to him that 
 moment. She felt upon her a flow of proud 
 and tender eloquence — of words that would 
 
 come from her heart, and must needs reach 
 his. She asked where he was. In the draw- 
 ing-room, said Fanny ; but she did not add 
 that Florence was with him. The blow fell 
 full upon Dora when she saw these two ; and 
 calm though she looked, her heart was bitter 
 to overflowing when she left them. He was 
 with Mrs. Logan ! If she could have avoided 
 one enemy, she could not, it seems, escape 
 the other. If her aunt had not spoken, 
 Florence would. She went up to her own 
 room — it was vacant. The sun shone in 
 through the open window, and the breeze 
 fluttered the muslin curtains ; but no foud 
 husband sat in the arm-chair waiting for his 
 wife's return ! He was below with Mrs. 
 Logan ! 
 
 " I must dress for dinner," thought Dora 
 with a sigh. 
 
 She shook out her long hair, and began 
 combing it slowly. A gleam of sunshine fell 
 on the glowing tresses and turned them into 
 gold, and Dora remembered how one morning, 
 at Deenah, her husband, coming in upon her 
 and finding her thus, had admired that beauti- 
 ful hair, and lifting it up with a caressing 
 hand, had said it was matchless. 
 
 " He loved me then ! " thought Dora. 
 " Yes, he loved me then ! " 
 
 And was all that over ? She could not be- 
 lieve it. It is so hard to fall asleep a queen, 
 and waken a beggar. She hoped, but that 
 hope died as the door opened and Mr. Tem- 
 plemore entered the room. With her two 
 hands she parted her long hair, put it back 
 from her face, and looking at him calmly, she 
 said : 
 
 " How ill you look, Richard ! What ails 
 you ? " 
 
 She could put the question. 
 
 " Something does ail me," he replied, 
 " something which I need not tell you, 
 Dora." 
 
 "You have seen Mrs. Logan," she said,
 
 230 
 
 DORA. 
 
 wilfully misunderstanding him, " but I am 
 not jealous." 
 
 She said it, and she looked it so thoroughly 
 that he felt strong. 
 
 "Mrs. Logan told me nothing I did not 
 know," he said, very coldly. 
 
 " And what do you know ? " asked Dora, 
 with a proud, sad smile. 
 
 " I have no wish to enter on that subject," 
 he replied ; "I do not wish to wound, or 
 offend, or even seem to accuse you, Dora." 
 
 " Accuse me ! — of what, Mr. Templemore ? " 
 
 " Of nothing. I tell you I do not wish it. 
 You are my wife — I do not forget it ! " 
 
 She clasped her hands and looked at him. 
 Was this her fond, impassioned husband? 
 Was this the man who for two weeks at least 
 had adored her ? She was his wife, and he 
 did not forget it. That was the end. She 
 had been the toy, the pleasure of an hour, the 
 sultana of a day, but he was no Eastern 
 despot, he was a Christian gentleman ; and 
 there was the law, too, and she was his wife, 
 and he did not forget it. 
 
 " God help me ! " was all she said, or could 
 say. 
 
 He looked at her. He had denied her 
 guilt to Florence ; but in his heart he believed 
 it. He believed that she had been her aunt's 
 tacit accomplice, and that she had betrayed 
 him, perhaps for ambition, perhaps for love. 
 Whichever it was, he felt her prey and her 
 victim. It was not in Mr. Templemore's na- 
 ture to think that, and not resent it. He 
 almost hated her just then, not merely for 
 the fraud which she had abetted, but because 
 she had shaken the very foundation of faith 
 within him. If she was false — who was true ? 
 But bitter though his resentment was, he was 
 master of himself now, and lie scorned to be- 
 tray it; the magnanimity of his nature re- 
 volted at the thought of crushing that hum- 
 bled woman, and there was pity in his tone — 
 a pity which stung his wife, as he said — 
 
 " Dora, this is a severe trial ; let us go 
 through it as wisely as we can — we have a 
 whole lifetime before us. Let us be patient ! " 
 
 " I would give my life to set you free," she 
 replied in a low tone ; " I would give my life, 
 Mr. Templemore, that the last three weeks had 
 never been ! " 
 
 No other word of deprecation or regret 
 passed her lips. Mr. Templemore saw no 
 signs of genuine sorrow or repentance in his 
 wife ; nothing but pride and sin — defiant, 
 though conquered and revealed. 
 
 "Dora," he said again, "this is a cruel 
 trial ; perhaps we could not pass through it 
 safely if I were to remain here. I do not wish 
 the wrong I have suffered to make me forget 
 the relation in which we stand to each other. 
 Therefore, I shall go away for a time. When 
 I return we shall both have learned to be silent 
 on a subject which must never be mentioned 
 between us." 
 
 He spoke very coldly, " When I return ! " 
 No gleam of joy shone in his eyes, but dull 
 and heavy remained his look, as the words 
 were uttered. He bore his burden as patiently 
 as he could, but it was a burden, and in his 
 heart he hated it. Again she clasped her 
 despairing hands ; she raised her eyes to 
 heaven in wondering appeal at his injustice 
 and her misery. 
 
 " I am not jealous," she said, " but there are 
 wrongs beyond endurance, and this is one. 
 You married me two weeks ago, and now my 
 presence is irksome to you, and you go. I 
 am not jealous, but if you had married Flor- 
 ence, would you treat her so ? " 
 
 " If I had married her," he sternly replied, 
 his cheek flushing with anger, "I should not, 
 at least, have been cheated into it." 
 
 Dora felt tried, judged, and condemned, 
 everything which a human being can feel in 
 the way of condemnation, as he said this. 
 Duty would bring him back to her, but love 
 was over. She had no hope to win that back,
 
 THE WORD OF HONOR. 
 
 231 
 
 but she made a desperate effort to save her 
 honor. 
 
 " Mr. Templemore," she said, ** your wrong 
 is great; but so is mine. I am a proud 
 woman ! Then imagine, if you can, my shame 
 and my humiliation. Your gifts, your caresses, 
 y.our tenderness can only sting me, now that I 
 know treachery and fraud made them mine. I 
 have said it already ; I say it again — I would 
 gladly die to give you back your liberty." 
 
 Her pale face was very fine ; there was a 
 light in her eyes, and a proud smile on her 
 lips, which went to her husband's very heart. 
 The embers of love were there still, and it 
 would have taken very little — a few caresses, 
 a few fond words — to kindle the old flame 
 anew, and subdue him. But Dora was a 
 proud woman, as she said — one whom sus- 
 picion wronged, and she could not do that. 
 Not to secure an eternity of love could she 
 now have thrown her arms around the neck 
 of the man on whom she had been forced, and 
 who so plainly thought her an accomplice in 
 the fraud. Some questions are not questions 
 of will merely, but also of power, and the 
 power to do that was wanting. Her coldness 
 was fatal to her cause. Mr. Templemore could 
 reconcile all she said with guilt, and though 
 the thought of that guilt wrung and tortured 
 him, he could not dismiss it. Had not her 
 aunt declared it? — had not her mother be- 
 trayed it? — had not Florence asserted it? and 
 did not his own judgment confirm it ? Was it 
 possible that such a plot could bo carried on 
 under her eyes for her benefit, and that, 
 though warned from the beginning, she should 
 never suspect it ? Oh ! that he could believe 
 her to be so simple and so guileless ! But he 
 could not, and his agony spoke in the very 
 tones of his voice as he said : 
 
 " Oh ! Dora, Dora, how could you allow it ? 
 — how could you die so to your better self? 
 I had such faith in you ! If there was a being 
 whom I respected, it was you ; you seemed to 
 
 me so pure, so stainless. I could have placed 
 my honor in your keeping, and placed it blind- 
 fold. And oh ! that you should have come 
 to this ! Would to Heaven that all else had 
 perished, and that I stood a ruined and penni- 
 less man, with Eva and you, so I still had that 
 innocent wife, whom I looked at sleeping this 
 morning ! " 
 
 She could not bear this. Her pride melted 
 before the sight of his grief. Looking up to 
 heaven, she said, passionately, "I am inno- 
 cent ! — oh ! believe that I am innocent ! — only 
 believe that, and love her, if you like. Look 
 at me, Mr. Templemore, and believe that I am 
 innocent." 
 
 He looked at her as she asked, but he only 
 read love and despair in her face ; he did not 
 see innocence there, but with a deep, sad sigh, 
 he made one desperate effort for belief. 
 
 " Dora," he said, " I do not wish to wound 
 or offend you, but tell me this : Is it true that 
 when you came here for the first time, Mrs. Luan 
 promised that you should become my wife ? " 
 
 Dora felt the blow, but she replied, calmly, 
 
 " She predicted — she did not promise it." 
 
 Her lips quivered as she uttered the words. 
 He pitied her, and made no comment upon 
 them. 
 
 " Is it true," he continued, " that when Flor- 
 ence asked you what had taken me to you 
 that night, you refused to reply ? " 
 
 " It is true," she answered, and she smiled 
 rather proudly. 
 
 There was a pause, then he said, gently, 
 
 " Good-by, Dora." 
 
 As he uttered the word, the smile passed 
 from her face, as sunshine passes from the sky. 
 Her eyes darkened in the intensity of their 
 gaze ; her lips turned white, and her features 
 grew rigid as stone or death. From head to 
 foot she shook like an aspen-leaf in a strong 
 wind, but she looked bravely in his face. 
 The storm that might rend her asunder should 
 not, at least, conquer her.
 
 232 
 
 DORA. 
 
 " Then you are going ? " she said — " on 
 such testimony you condemn me! I am a 
 schemer and a plotter in your eyes — a woman 
 who will do anything to win a husband ! Did 
 I ever seek you, Mr. Templemore ? — was I for- 
 ward or alluring ? " 
 
 "No," he said, with sudden energy. "If 
 ever a girl was free from that vice, you were. 
 If ever I saw modesty in woman, it was in you." 
 
 " That much justice you do me," she said, 
 and her lip quivered a little as she spoke ; " but 
 perhaps you think me mercenary — perhaps you 
 think that, being a poor girl, I must needs covet 
 being a rich man's wife, Mr. Templemore ? Mr. 
 Templemore," she said, the tears rushing to her 
 eyes, and her voice broken by the weeping she 
 could not check, " I know a poor girl who met 
 a poor man, or one who seemed such, and who 
 liked him though he looked a man of broken 
 fortunes. I know a poor girl who thought 
 that, if he liked her too, it would be pleasant 
 to lead a life of toil and poverty with him, and 
 whose heart ached sorely on the day that 
 proved him wealthy. That girl — " She could 
 not go on ; she buried her face in her hands, 
 and when she looked up, she was in her hus- 
 band's arms, and his eyes were dim. " No, 
 you must not kiss me," she said, turning her 
 head away; "I will not' be caressed if I can- 
 not be loved, and I will not be loved if I am 
 not honored. I am a proud woman, Mr. Tem- 
 plemore, and I warned you not to take me. I did 
 not want to marry you — it frightened me — I 
 ran away from you, and you followed, and 
 persuaded me, and now I am your wife. If 
 heaven and earth were to tell me that you had 
 broken your honor, would F believe them ? 
 Then, as I trust you, so must you trust me — 
 bo must you think me incapable of a falsehood, 
 implied or spoken. You must trust me even 
 though every voice should condemn me — do 
 you ? " 
 
 She turned upon him suddenly, with a flush 
 on her cheek and a light in her eyes, that 
 
 made him feel both dazzled and bewitched. 
 He had never loved her more than at that mo- 
 ment. He could not resist her — he felt sub- 
 dued and won over. With tears and caresses 
 he said he loved her — that he believed in her ; 
 in her his wife dear, honored, and beloved. 
 . " And you will not go ? " said Dora, smiling 
 through her tears. 
 
 Go ! he had forgotten all about going — all 
 about doubt and estrangement. He was her 
 lover once more — her fond, enamoured lover, 
 and what could part them ? But there are 
 many jealous recesses in a woman's heart. 
 This sudden return of tenderness was not what 
 Dora wanted — for this, perhaps, she had never 
 lost. She gently moved away from Mr. Tem- 
 plemore's side; she put her two hands on his 
 shoulders, and looked up in his face. - Never 
 had he seen that piercing glance in her soft 
 bright eyes. 
 
 "Mr. Templemore," she said, "give me 
 your word of honor that there is not a doubt 
 left on your mind against me." 
 
 Honor ! there is something strangely solemn 
 in the word. It is more than a mere appeal to 
 truth, and sacred though that be, it is more 
 than truth. Honor ! it is the pure stream 
 from which some of our noblest virtues spring- 
 it is the grace of manhood. It is what neither 
 man nor woman can sully nor taint in vain. 
 We can sin, repent, and be forgiven; but-, 
 upon earth, at least, a lost honor can never be 
 restored. Mr. Templemore would have given 
 anything to be able to comply with his wife's 
 request. Some of the words she had spoken 
 had stirred the very depths of his heart. Ho 
 would have given her anything — done any- 
 thing to please her but this. And this he 
 could not — he could not. He could not give 
 her his word of honor that no shadow of doubt 
 remained on his mind against her. 
 
 "Dora," he said, " is not all this over? " 
 
 "Yes," she replied vaguely; " it is." 
 
 She had seen and read his troubled face,
 
 
 
 - 
 
 i 
 
 I ■'■"- 
 
 "no, YOU MIST NOT KISS me." 

 
 •
 
 END OF THE HONEYMOON. 
 
 233 
 
 and she could read, too, the very tones of bis 
 voice, so fond, and yet so hesitating. 
 
 " Dora," he said, " have pity on me. I be- 
 lieve in you ; I know you are innocent and 
 good." 
 
 " But you cannot give me your word of 
 honor ! " she said. 
 
 He took a few turns in the room. He felt 
 dreadfully agitated. 
 
 " Have pity on me," he said again, coming 
 back to her. " You would despise me if I 
 could utter the shadow of a lie to please 
 you." 
 
 " Yes, I should," she replied calmly. She 
 did not reproach him — she did not even look 
 at him ; but Mr. Templemore felt that a wall 
 of ice had risen between him and his wife. 
 He could better forgive the sin than she could 
 forgive the doubt. 
 
 He looked at her very moodily. 
 
 " I see I must go, after all," he said, bitterly. 
 
 " I suppose so," she replied, apathetically. 
 
 " I shall soon return," he continued, looking 
 at her ; but she did not answer. 
 
 And so they must part ! These two, who, 
 but a while back, had been clasped in so fond 
 an embrace, must part. One had split on the 
 rock of pride, and the other was lost in shoals 
 of doubt, and the waves of life must, for a 
 time, at least, flow between them. The bond 
 of love was strong still — strong and ferveut ; 
 but the nobler bond of faith was broken. 
 
 " Yes, I must go," he said, desperately ; " it 
 is best." 
 
 Dora had not believed she could suffer so 
 much. She had been married two weeks — 
 not three — and he left her either because her 
 presence was an infliction he could not bear, 
 or because the conviction of her guilt was one 
 he could not conquer. All wish of justifica- 
 tion died within her. She felt turned to 
 stone. He might go, he might stay; not 
 another protest of innocence could now pass 
 her lips. 
 
 " Good-by," he said again, and he. kissed 
 her ; alas ! how coldly now, and he left her. 
 
 " He will go soon," she thought ; and, having 
 locked herself in, she went to the window, and 
 stood there waiting. She looked down the 
 road. How often had she watched for his re- 
 turn when'he had no thought of her ! She 
 remembered how he and Florence had once 
 entered the house together. She remembered 
 how her laughing face was raised to his, and 
 how their two sunlit figures dazzled her with 
 their brightness. The jealous thrill that shot 
 through her as she looked at them, the flush 
 of pain which rose to her face as she turned 
 away from the sight, and Eva's wondering, 
 " Oh ! how red you are, Cousin Dora ! " She 
 remembered them every one, and thinking of 
 all she had suffered for the sake of that man, 
 and how she was requited, she passionately 
 wished that she had never been born. 
 
 No one came near her. Solitary was her 
 bitter hour. Its keenest pang was soon over. 
 She heard the carriage-wheels grinding on the 
 gravel, she saw it going down the steep road. 
 She sank on her knees and looked at it 
 through blinding tears, and when it had van- 
 ished she remained there still weeping, how 
 long she knew not. 
 
 When Dora rose, at length, her heart felt 
 changed within her — a bitterness, a resent- 
 ment were there which even his accusation 
 had not wakened. " Deserted," she thought, 
 " betrayed, wronged, and cast away at the end 
 of two weeks ! " 
 
 CHAPTER XLIII. 
 
 It was thus Mrs. Luan kept her promise of 
 making Dora Mr. Templemore's wife ; but her 
 boon had been fatal — like that of the evil 
 spirit in the legend, it had turned into calam- 
 ity, and only led to the deepest woe. Mr. 
 Templemore was gone; he had left his wife. 
 Whether in doubt or in weariness, in coldness
 
 234 
 
 DORA. 
 
 of heart or in aversion, for howsoever short or 
 how long a time, he had left her. It was best, 
 no doubt, not to pass from such fervid affec- 
 tion to the desolation of coldness and doubt ; 
 it was best, but, oh ! how dreary ! 
 
 " And Miss Moore and Eva are gone too, 
 and they have taken away Fido, "indignantly 
 exclaimed Mrs. Courtenay. 
 
 Dora smiled bitterly. The dog too ! And 
 the child had not so much as bid her good- 
 by. She was an outcast in her husband's 
 house. But she did not complain. She felt 
 wrecked on a shore which no joy could reach, 
 and no murmur passed her lips. It was so 
 useless to repine. " I suppose it is all right, 
 after all," thought Mrs. Courtenay, seeing her 
 so calm ; and when they met that evening in 
 the garden, whither Dora had wandered to 
 seek that peace which came not, Mrs. Courte- 
 nay's mind was full of another theme. 
 
 " Dora," she said, mysteriously, " I met 
 Mrs. Luan here awhile back. What ails her ? 
 How came she to leave John ? " 
 
 " I don't know," apathetically replied Dora. 
 "What should ail her?" 
 
 " Why did she creep along that avenue, 
 Dora ? And, when she saw me, why did she 
 smile, and look as cunning as a fox ? " 
 
 Dora put her hand on her mother's arm and 
 looked at her. Each saw what the other 
 meant, and Dora at length said it in covered 
 speech. 
 
 " If she be so," she said, " she has been so 
 years." 
 
 "But surely — surely," gasped Mrs. Cour- 
 tenay, " Mr. Templemore would have seen it." 
 
 "Has John seen it? I gave him a hint 
 once, and he received it with scorn. No, Mr. 
 Templemore could not see it. She was never 
 the same when he was by — never. Every- 
 thing was against me — everything." 
 
 "But, Dora, what are we to do?" asked 
 Mrs. Courtenay, looking frightened. " What 
 arc we to do ? " 
 
 " Nothing," said Dora. 
 
 " I wish Mr. Templemore were here," said 
 Mrs. Courtenay, looking wistfully at her 
 daughter. 
 
 Dora could not answer this. Even her 
 mother felt how desolate they were without 
 him — how his presence would have brought 
 security with it, how his absence meant uneasi- 
 ness and dread. 
 
 " The first time he took me in his arms," 
 thought Dora, " I felt, ' Now have I found a 
 refuge against every ill man can inflict, now 
 God's hand alone can reach me here ! ' That 
 was on our wedding-day — not a month back 
 — and now where is he ? — where am I ? " 
 
 " Dora ! " cried Mrs. Courtenay, for Dora'a 
 tears were flowing. 
 
 " I did not know I was crying," she said, 
 trying to smile. " Do not mind it, mamma." 
 
 " I am afraid it is not all right," began Mrs. 
 Courtenay, hesitatingly. 
 
 " Hush ! " whispered Dora. " Look at 
 aunt ! " 
 
 She did not see them. She was going down 
 an avenue, peeping first on one side then on 
 the other, evidently seeking something or 
 some one. 
 
 "Why has she left John?" asked Mrs. 
 Courtenay. 
 
 " I don't know," replied Dora, with a 
 wearied sigh. 
 
 At that moment Mrs. Luan turned round 
 and saw them. She immediately came tow- 
 ard them with a cheerful aspect. 
 
 " John is so well," she said, " that I have 
 come out for a walk." 
 
 Her manner was calm and composed. Dora 
 looked at her, and thought bitterly : " Mad ! 
 she is not mad; but she hated me with a 
 deadly hate, for John's sake." 
 
 They entered the house together. Dora 
 neither looked at nor spoke to her aunt, and 
 Mrs. Courtenay whispered confidentially, as 
 Mrs. Luan left them to go back to John —
 
 MRS. LUAN'S INSANITY. 
 
 235 
 
 " I dare say she is all right, after all." 
 The two ladies retired early ; but Dora did 
 not retire in order to sleep. She long stood 
 on the balcony of her room, looking at the 
 sky, black and starless, and when she came in 
 she did not go to bed at once. She sat by 
 her toilet-table, undid her hair, and looked at 
 herself in the glass. It already seemed so long 
 ago since the sad face she saw there had had 
 so bright a story. Was this indeed the beg- 
 gar-maid, the girl with gray eyes, and hair of 
 brown gold, whom King Cophetua loved ? 
 Was such a change possible — was it credible? 
 " I know he will come back," thought Dora ; 
 " but that is not it. I do not want Mr. Tem- 
 plemore, I want my husband, and something 
 tells me that I shall find him no more. If 
 he could forgive — I cannot. And yet, who 
 knows ? If he should come back as he said 
 he would — if sitting thus I were to see the 
 door open — " 
 
 She paused in her thoughts. The door was 
 opening — she did not hear it, so softly did it 
 move on its hinges — it was known later that 
 they had been oiled — but a wax light burned 
 on her toilet-table, and its pale gleam reflected 
 in the glass showed her, though dimly, every 
 corner of the vast room. Thus she saw the 
 door open — her heart beat — could it be her 
 husband ? — no, it was Mrs. Luan's head she 
 saw in the aperture. A sudden and deadly 
 fear paralyzed Dora. Her heart beat no 
 longer, her tongue clove to the roof of her 
 mouth, she was voiceless and motionless. The 
 door continued to open, Mrs. Luan stepped in, 
 but no velvety-footed creature could have 
 made less noise than she did. Swiftly she 
 shut the door behind her, and, as Dora, who 
 had not stirred, saw distinctly, she bolted it. 
 " She has come to murder me ! " thought Dora. 
 She did not look round, she did not cry, but 
 as Mrs. Luan slowly crept toward her with 
 the serpentine motion of a feline beast, she 
 suddenly blew out the light, and stepping 
 
 round the toilet-table, was out on the balcony 
 in a moment. 
 
 A baffled cry of rage burst from the mad 
 woman when she thus suddenly found herself 
 in the darkness of the vast room. She groped 
 about for Dora, shrieking in her frenzy ; and 
 Dora, standing on the balcony, never moved, 
 never spoke, never by the slightest motion 
 gave her enemy the least clew to the spot 
 where she stood sheltered by the darkness of 
 the night. 
 
 But Mrs. Luan's screams had roused the 
 house. Dora heard exclamations of alarm in 
 the garden, on the staircase, but she also 
 heard her aunt saying, " I shall get you ! — 
 I shall get you ! — you are out on the bal- 
 cony ! — I shall get you ! " 
 
 She heard her groping near the toilet-table 
 — within a few paces of her — she felt the 
 window move, and still she had self-command 
 enough to keep in the wild scream of terror 
 which nearly passed her lips. Meanwhile the 
 sounds of help came nearer, they gathered 
 round her door, it was tried, shaken violently, 
 then burst open. Mrs. Courtenay and the 
 servants rushed in, and with them came a 
 flood of light. Pale as death, but- still calm, 
 Dora stepped out from her hiding-place, and 
 standing with the crimson window-curtains 
 behind her, she said, pointing to Mrs. Luan, 
 who crouched and cowered in a corner of the 
 room, "She has gone mad! — take care! — she 
 wanted to murder me ! " 
 
 There was a pause of wonder, of fear, and 
 doubt ; then the men approached the mad 
 woman. The struggle was violent, but brief 
 and silent. Neither Mrs. Luan nor the men 
 who tried to master her uttered one word. In 
 a few moments they had succeeded, and Mrs. 
 Luan, firmly bound, sat silent and sullen in 
 Dora's chair. Dora gtood and looked at her, 
 and as she looked, she could hear John laugh- 
 ing up-stairs. That fierce, wild creature, as 
 dangerous as a wild beast, and as fell in its
 
 236 
 
 DORA. 
 
 instincts, was the mother who had borne John 
 Luan, reared him, and loved him with such 
 passionate tenderness, that it had helped to 
 make her what Dora saw. As she stood thus 
 gazing at her moody aunt, with the dishevelled 
 hair falling around her sullen face, Mrs. Tem- 
 plemore heard a voice near her saying, " Please, 
 ma'am, here is a letter Mr. Templemore left 
 for you. Jacques was to give it, but forgot it." 
 
 Dora started, and waking from her dream, 
 she saw Fanny. With a trembling hand she 
 took her husband's letter and broke the seal. 
 A bundle of silk notes fell out, and fluttered 
 on the floor; but Dora did not heed them. 
 With feverish eagerness she read the first 
 letter Mr. Templemore had written to her 
 since their marriage. It was brief, cold, but 
 strictly courteous. Mr. Templemore placed a 
 large sum at his wife's disposal, and informed 
 her that he should expect to find her alone on 
 his return to Les Roches. Dora turned very 
 pale. Money and her mother's banishment! 
 — this was her sentence. He had gone to 
 seek his pleasure, and place his child in safety, 
 and he had left her at the mercy of whatever 
 sorrow or evil chance might come in his ab- 
 sence. Was this what he had promised on 
 their wedding-day ? Fanny had picked up the 
 notes, and she handed them to her mistress, 
 bnt even as she put them back in the envelope 
 Dora felt that her resolve was taken. "I 
 will die before I eat his bread or live on his 
 money," she thought. 
 
 Mrs. Luan now spoke for the first time. 
 
 " I have made a lady of you," she said — " I 
 have made a lady of you, Dora." 
 
 "You have," answered her niece, looking 
 at the madwoman with a passion of grief she 
 could not control — " you have, and I know 
 the cost." 
 
 Even as she said it, John laughed again in 
 his room. He, too, had paid the price of 
 Dora's elevation to the rank of Mr. Tcmple- 
 more's wife. 
 
 " Oh ! Dora, Dora," pitifully exclaimed Mrs. 
 Courtenay, "what does it all mean?" 
 
 Dora looked at her and smiled — oh ! how 
 sadly ! — how drearily ! 
 
 CHAPTER XLIV. 
 
 We may decree a thing in the first bitter- 
 ness of our resentment, and Providence may 
 so far favor us that we shall not be able to 
 fulfil our angry desire ; but it was not so with 
 Mr. Templemore's wife. The day after he had 
 left Les Roches, Dora received a letter from 
 Mr. Ryan enclosing a check for fifty pounds. 
 The shares of the Redmore Mines had turned 
 from so much waste paper to gold, and Mr. 
 Ryan, in the exuberance of his joy, wrote to 
 Miss Courtenay, advancing a sum which he 
 considered that she might need. That she 
 had left Les Roches, and gone back to Ma- 
 dame Bertrand's he knew, but happiness is 
 selfish, and Dora had forgotten to tell him of 
 her marriage. 
 
 " People should send cards," very sensibly 
 remarked Mrs. Courtenay. 
 
 She said this by John's sick-bed, where a 
 nurse had now taken Mrs. Luan's place. The 
 young man's case had been pronounced des- 
 perate, and for his sake Dora had resolved 
 to wait till all was over. But neither was 
 that to be. The peril which had cost her so 
 dear passed away. John's life hung on a 
 thread for a few days, then youth and strength 
 prevailed, and he came back to life, and, alas ! 
 too, to grief. He bore his sorrow manfully, 
 but the place where he had suffered so ter- 
 tibly was hateful to him. He would not wait 
 till his recovery was final to leave Les Roches, 
 and Dora did not detain him. The sooner 
 all was over the better it would be. 
 
 Mrs. Courtenay had been very unwell since 
 the terrible evening on which her sister-in- 
 law's insanity had broken out, and Dora went
 
 HER SON'S DEPARTURE. 
 
 237 
 
 no farther than the gate of Les Roches with 
 her cousin. There they parted. He was go- 
 ing to resume a life of labor shorn of every 
 hope which had once made it dear, and he 
 looked at her in sad silence. 
 
 Mrs. Courtenay's querulous complaints that 
 Mr. Templemore did not write, had told John 
 a sad story, which Dora's pale face now com- 
 pleted. He knew nothing of the circum- 
 stances which had attended her marriage, 
 nothing of the causes which had estranged 
 her husband, nor of his own connection with 
 her grief; but that grief he saw, and when 
 she stood so wan and languid before him, he 
 looked at her with sullen and jealous sorrow. 
 Who was that cold husband, that Dora should 
 love him thus ? What right had that stranger, 
 that man whom she had detested years, the 
 successful rival who had laid Paul Courtenay 
 in his grave, thus to go robbing other men, 
 snatching the sweet prizes of life from them — 
 then casting them away so ruthlessly ? For 
 a moment John Luan was his mother's son ; 
 if a thought, a wish of his could have an- 
 nihilated Mr. Templemore, Dora's husband 
 would have ceased to exist. What ! had he 
 lost her for this ? Was the girl whom he 
 had loved years, about whom he had dreamed 
 so fondly, whose loss had brought him to 
 death's door, was she to be treated like a 
 cast-off mistress by the man who had deprived 
 him of all joy ? " If I could kill him I would ! " 
 thought John Luan, setting his teeth. Yes, 
 he would gladly have murdered Mr. Temple- 
 more just then, and, of course, have married 
 his widow. 
 
 It is well that a man's feelings are not al- 
 ways spoken ; it is well, too, that the thoughts 
 and wishes which enter his heart when he has 
 left the door open to the tempting devil who 
 comes to all in such evil hours — it is well, 
 we say, that these abide not, unless with the 
 dangerous and the . bad. John Luan was 
 neither. But neither was be very good, for 
 
 good-nature is not goodness, ne could be 
 sullen and revengeful when ho thought himself 
 wronged, and from that hour he hated Mr. 
 Templemore, whom he had not loved before. 
 
 Something of this Dora saw, for she 
 thought : " Yes, John, the living husband has 
 avenged the dead brother on the faithless 
 sister ; " but all she said, as she looked down 
 the road was — 
 
 " I envy you — I envy you, John Luan. 
 Your cares are heavy, your sorrows are cruel, 
 and you are alone, and yet I envy you. You 
 can go forth and strive. You can go forth 
 and conquer, perhaps." 
 
 " Conquer what ? " he asked, moodily. 
 
 " What you need, John— forgetfulness." 
 
 With what passionate longing she looked 
 down that white road which wound away to 
 the busy city below ! If it had led to that an- 
 cient world of the poets, that world where 
 Lethe flowed, her gaze could scarcely have 
 been less intent and yearning than it was. It 
 could scarcely have taken less heed than it did 
 of him. He saw and felt it. 
 
 " I must go," he said, a little hurriedly. 
 " Good-by, Dora." 
 
 " Good-by," she replied, listlessly. 
 
 She gave him her cold hand. He might go, 
 he might stay — John felt it changed nothing 
 in 'her life. He walked down the road, fol- 
 lowed by the servant who carried the carpet- 
 bag, and he never looked back. Yet Dora long 
 watched him. Even when he was out of sight 
 she stood there, envying him. He might go 
 away and strive, as she had said, and forget. 
 " If I could but forget," she thought, as she 
 at length turned away. "Oh! if I but could ! " 
 Her heart beat — her whole being trembled. 
 " Forget ! " she thought. " God, forbid that 
 I should ever forget ! " 
 
 And she was right. There is something both 
 passionate and sweet in the memory of lost 
 happiness. It is one of the few sorrows to 
 which we cling. Proserpina never forgot, wc
 
 238 
 
 DORA. 
 
 are told, the flowers wfiich she was gathering 
 in the plains of Enna, when the dark king 
 bore her away. If he had taken her to 
 Olympus itself, and not to Hades, she could 
 not have forgotten them. Never again should 
 there have been such perfumed violets and 
 anemones so fair. Goddess though she was, 
 and immortal, she, too, had a youth, and looked 
 back with vain yearning to its golden gates 
 closed forever. Time could not wither, age 
 could not fade her beauty, but something 
 there had been for her, something which there 
 could be no more. But to remember is not to 
 forgive, unfortunately, and though there was 
 a smile on Dora's lips when she went back to 
 her mother, there was also a settled resolve in 
 her heart. She found Mrs. Courtenay much 
 depressed. 
 
 " I cannot get over it," she said plaintively, 
 in answer to her daughter's question. " Poor 
 Mrs. Luan ! I miss her so, Dora. And then 
 Mr. Templemore stays away so long." 
 
 Dora did not answer at once. She sat with 
 her look fixed moodily on empty space. The 
 walls with their pictures, the brown and grave 
 furniture of her mother's room, the window 
 and the landscape it framed, had vanished 
 from her view. She saw a sea-beaten shore, 
 a rocky coast, a low village straggling aloug 
 the beach, and there she made a refuge and a 
 home, far away from Mr. Templemore's house 
 and his money. 
 
 "Mamma," she said suddenly, looking up 
 at her mother, "you want a change, and you 
 must take one." 
 
 "Of course I want a change," said Mrs. 
 Courtenay, a little peevishly; "and if, instead 
 of running away, Mr. Templemore had stayed 
 here, he could have taken us somewhere." 
 
 Never was unconsciousness of the offence of 
 her presence more complete than Mrs. Courte- 
 nay's. 
 
 "Mr. Templemore is enjoying himself in 
 London, I dare say," replied Dora ; " and Lon- 
 
 don would not do for us, mamma. You want 
 rest and quietness, after the shock you have 
 had. Why should we not go to Ireland ? " 
 
 " My dear ! " cried Mrs. Courtenay, much 
 startled, "what would your husband say to 
 that ? " 
 
 " Why should he say anything ? " com- 
 posedly replied Dora ; " I have no reason to 
 believe that he misses me just now. He will 
 come and look for me when he wants me, 
 mamma." 
 
 She spoke so calmly, with so little appear- 
 ance of resentment, that her mother was de- 
 ceived. She did not, indeed, yield an imme- 
 diate assent to Dora's proposal ; she hesitated 
 and demurred, but Dora's quiet arguments 
 conquered her resistance in the end. Little 
 by little she gave way, and finally she saw 
 nothing that was not right or feasible about 
 this expedition to the Irish coast. 
 
 "A child could cheat her," thought Dora, 
 looking at her guileless little mother with tears 
 in her eyes ; " and it is this innocent being — 
 my mother, too, for whom there is no room in 
 Les Roches ! It is she whom Mr. Templemore 
 could believe an accomplice in a base plan to 
 rob him of bis liberty. If his heart had 
 not already been turned from me, would my 
 poor mad aunt's story have prevailed against 
 us?" 
 
 It is dangerous to sting a woman's pride, 
 and most dangerous of all when she loves. 
 Indifference is a wonderful peacemaker, and 
 there are few wounds it will not heal. Dora 
 longed, though perhaps she did not know it, 
 to pay Mr. Templemore back in coin, and to 
 show him that she, too, could live without 
 him. And yet she prepared but slowly for 
 their departure, and lingered over the task ; 
 perhaps she had a secret hidden hope that her 
 husband would return suddenly, and prevent 
 her flight, but he did not. Slow though Dora 
 was, everything was soon ready, and she said 
 gayly to her mother one evening :
 
 LES ROCHES FORSAKEN. 
 
 239 
 
 " We go by the first train, and I am so glad ; 
 the change will do us a world of good." 
 
 " I hope so," answered Mrs. Courtenay, 
 rather languidly. 
 
 " I am sure of it," said Dora, still cheerful ; 
 and she went out for a lonely walk, but look- 
 ing " as bright as sunshine," thought Mrs. 
 Courtenay. The evening was fair and still. 
 A dewy freshness was falling on the garden. 
 Never, it seemed to Dora, had its flowers sent 
 forth a fragrance so penetrating. She bent to 
 gather some, then, turned away, leaving them 
 on their stems. "Stay here," she thought 
 — "stay and blow and wither here. If I 
 leave this place, what have I to do -with 
 you ? " 
 
 She entered the shady grounds. How cool, 
 
 how fresh, how mysterious they looked — but 
 t 
 
 how sad, too, was their loneliness ! In these 
 
 alleys Eva's loud, joyous laugh had rung. On 
 that old bench Mr. Templemore and Florence 
 had sat and talked of love. Dora stood be- 
 fore it, looking at it as moodily as if it were 
 an altar on which her youth had been laid and 
 sacrificed by some pitiless Calchas. 
 
 " Why did I ever come between them ? " she 
 thought ; " why did he ever seek me ? The 
 sordid cares of life would have saved me from 
 love. I dare say I would have married John 
 Luan in the end — out of very weariness, as so 
 ' many girls do marry. And I would have read 
 novels, and wondered at that happy love-match 
 one reads of so much and sees so seldom, and 
 my life would have been as a quiet dream. 
 And now it is all woe and bitterness. I am 
 as a usurper who cannot abdicate. I cannot 
 set him free — and he cannot love me. For a 
 few days he was bewitched ; something was 
 on him which looked like love, but was not it ; 
 and now that something has left me, and his 
 heart has gone back to her. And I must 
 either see it and suffer agonies, or leave him, 
 as I do — and suffer still. Never again can I 
 be happy— never, and I am not twenty-five ! 
 
 Paul — Paul — my brother, why did I forget 
 
 you 
 
 !» 
 
 She sank on her knees on the damp earth, 
 and laid her fevered cheek on the stone bench. 
 She could not weep, but she let the flood of 
 bitter thought rise and overwhelm her; and 
 when remembrance returned, and she left the 
 past and its dead for the present and the 
 living, she was shivering, and the dullness of 
 the spot and the hour seemed to have reached 
 her very heart. She went back to the house 
 and entered it, but she did not go to her 
 mother's apartment. She took a light and 
 went over every room that had once been dear 
 and familiar to her. " After all, I could stay," 
 she thought, "and he would come back. I 
 could stay, but I will not; and when he re- 
 turns, he shall find that solitude he went so 
 far to seek. No more need he leave his home 
 to shun me." 
 
 Dora was standing in the school-room as she 
 came to this bitter conclusion. Eva's globes, 
 her books, her piano were there, and Dora's 
 own chair by the window. Some pleasant and 
 some severe visions haunted this apartment. 
 She had been very happy here, but here too 
 she had suffered keenly. Well, both that joy 
 and that sorrow were over now. She had en- 
 tered a dull, cold world, where neither abided, 
 where all was shade and endurance. " I will 
 write to him here," thought Dora. She sat 
 down, and taking up the pen which had so 
 often corrected Eva's exercises, and lay there 
 unused, she wrote to Eva's father. She did 
 not complain, she did not reproach, but she re- 
 fused to accept the fate he laid upon her. It 
 was a proud, cold letter, but it was also, though 
 Dora did not think so, the letter of a woman 
 who still loved the husband whose house she 
 was leaving. It lay before her, and leaning 
 back in her chair, she looked at it, thinking : 
 " This is my first letter to him. I wonder 
 what love-letters are like, and how they feel 
 who write or read them ? " She wondered too
 
 240 
 
 DORA. 
 
 how he would feel when this letter was placed 
 in his hands. Would he seek and follow her, 
 fond and repentant ? Would he come and 
 claim his wife, angry and authoritative, or 
 would he simply leave her in scornful sileuce? 
 " I could burn it and stay," she thought ; 
 " nothing compels me to go — nothing. It is 
 time yet, and to-morrow it will be too late." 
 But what avails time when we will not take 
 that inestimable boon ? Nine times out of 
 ten that Fate, of whom we speak with mysteri- 
 ous dread, lies in our hand, and is the servant 
 of our own will. " He left me," thought Dora ; 
 " days and weeks have passed, and he has not 
 written, not made a sign — I do not know where 
 he is — I do not even know the abode of his 
 child. His last act was to signify my mother's 
 exile, and to give me money." 
 
 She rose as this stinging thought came to 
 her, she went up to her room, she took out the 
 bank-notes from her desk ; she enclosed them 
 with her letter, sealed the packet, then rang 
 for Fanny. 
 
 " We leave early to-morrow morning," she 
 said, trying to speak calmly ; " Mr. Temple- 
 .more will soon return. It is not worth while 
 sending this by post — you will give it to him 
 when he comes back, Fanny." 
 
 The girl held out her hand, and mechanical- 
 ly Bora gave her the packet ; but, after a few 
 moments' pause, she took it back, and put it 
 in the drawer. "You will find it there to- 
 morrow," she said. 
 
 " Very well, ma'am," replied Fanny. She 
 looked as unconscious as she well could look, 
 but she had felt the soft, limp notes through 
 the envelope, and she knew the meaning of 
 Bora's journey. 
 
 " He may follow me if he chooses," thought 
 Bora ; " but never unless he seeks for me shall 
 I enter the house where he left me after we had 
 been married a fortnight. The sin, if sin there 
 be, lies with him, and not with me." 
 
 CHAPTER XLV. 
 
 The long sleepless night was over. A dull 
 gray light told of coming dawn when Bora rose 
 and dressed. It was too early, and she knew 
 it, but she was wearied of her own restlessness, 
 and it seemed as if motion alone would calm 
 the fever within her. Besides, she wanted to 
 go to Rouen before leaving Les Roches with 
 her mother. 
 
 The porter at the lodge was taking what he 
 called his morning nap when the voice of his 
 young mistress unexpectedly roused him by re- 
 questing the iron gate to be opened. The por- 
 ter's conclusion was that he was dreaming, and 
 that this was not his morning nap but his mid- 
 night sleep, and he made no attempt to stir ; 
 but Bora's voice rose higher, and by knocking 
 at his door she convinced the porter that he 
 was not. asleep and dreaming, but that Mr. 
 Templemore's wife wanted to leave Les Roches. 
 So he rose wondering, and let her out, and 
 looked after her as she glided down the gray 
 road where the light of morning was gradually 
 stealing, wakening the tall trees from their 
 long, calm sleep, and giving a token to the 
 closed daisies in the dewy grass that *.he sun 
 was coming fast. 
 
 Swiftly, and with a sort of longing, Bora 
 went on till she reached her old home and* 
 Madame Bertrand's house. Madame Bertrand 
 was in the act of opening her shutters, aud 
 she still wore the cotton handkerchief around 
 her head, preliminary to the donning of the 
 close white cap by which it was to be suc- 
 ceeded. She smiled brightly and nodded 
 cheerfully on seeing Bora. 
 
 " Good-morning, mademoiselle — madamc, I 
 mean," she added, correcting herself, " for I 
 have been told you are madame now, the wife 
 of Boctor Richard." 
 
 Bora stood like one transfixed. The wife 
 of Boctor Richard ! How much happiness had
 
 AT MADAME BERTRAND'S. 
 
 241 
 
 once seemed comprised in these words ; and 
 now what was their meaning ? 
 
 " Will you not come in ? " asked Madame 
 Bertrand, still bright and cheerful ; and as 
 Dora nodded cousent, she came and opened 
 the door to her with a look that had a world 
 of knowing and shrewd congratulation in it. 
 Dora soon recovered herself, and tried to look 
 like a happy bride. 
 
 " I have come to bid you good-by, Madame 
 Bertrand," she said ; " we are leaving Les 
 Roches, and as I do not know when we shall 
 return, I would not go without seeing you once 
 more." 
 
 Madame Bertrand was very grateful, and 
 made a few inquiries which showed that she 
 concluded Mr. Templemore to be bent on the 
 same journey with his wife. Dora did not un- 
 deceive her, there was no need to do so, but, 
 after a brief pause, she said : ■*> 
 
 " I see your rooms are not let. Will you 
 let me see them again ? I always intended 
 drawing the view from my room window, but 
 I never did ; I fancy that if I look at it now I 
 can make a sketch of it." 
 
 Madame Bertrand felt delighted and flat- 
 tered at the request. She always had said the 
 view from mademoiselle's room was a pretty 
 view, but a Parisian family who had looked at 
 the apartment yesterday had declared it was 
 trisfe, and enough to give one the spleen, and 
 had gone to live near the Rue de l'lmpera- 
 trice, which was so glaring that it was enough 
 to dazzle one's eyes out, in Madame Bertrand's 
 opinion. 
 
 Thus she chattered as she went up-stairs 
 
 with Dora, but luckily she did not stay. The 
 
 baker and the milkman summoned her below. 
 
 Her sabots clattered down the staircase, and 
 
 Dora was alone in her old room. Madame 
 
 Bertrand had opened the window ; the sun 
 
 was up now, the outlines of the gray old 
 
 church were cut on a blue sky, and though its 
 
 body was still in shadow, the flowers that 
 10 
 
 grew in the buttresses stirred gently in the 
 little wiud that came from the river, and had 
 an air of young, bright morning life about 
 them. How gay they looked on that carved 
 stony background, from which centuries had 
 taken away its first hardness, giving instead a 
 tender though massive grace ! How pure and 
 transparent was the green of the vine-leaves 
 through which the fresh morning breeze was 
 playing, as if to toy thus with Nature's beau- 
 tiful things were the end of its being, and how 
 everything she saw seemed to Dora to be tell- 
 ing her again the story of her lost happiness ! 
 She stood and looked with a beating heart. 
 Her hand was idle, no pencil traced that view 
 on paper, and yet she was drawing it all the 
 time — drawing it in outlines which man's hand 
 could never efface, in colors which time could 
 not fade, on a poor, frail mortal tablet, in- 
 deed, but one which would last as long as her 
 own being. 
 
 "Doctor Richard's wife," she thought, turn- 
 ing away as she remembered how she had sat 
 waiting, watching and dreaming too, by that 
 window. " Yes, thus it might have been well ; 
 but I am like you, Griselidis, I too have been 
 taken from low estate, and I too must pay the 
 cost, for the full price is not told yet ; but oh ! 
 how bitter these first instalments have been ! " 
 She lowered her veil and went down-stairs 
 hastily. 
 
 " Good-by, Madame Bertrand," she said — 
 " good-by. God bless you ! " 
 
 Madame Bertrand looked for the drawing ; 
 she uttered an exclamation. She wanted to 
 see it, also to send her respectful compliments 
 to Madame Courtenay, but Dora was gone. 
 Swiftly though she went away, however, Ma- 
 dame Bertrand had seen tears glistening on 
 her checks through her veil. 
 
 " The dear young creature ! " she said, when 
 mentioning the fact of Dora's visit to one of 
 her gossips. . " She was so affected at parting 
 from me, that she wept. But all my lodg-
 
 242 
 
 DORA. 
 
 ers doted on me, excepting Monsieur Theo- 
 dore." 
 
 Another errand, besides the wish of seeing 
 Madame Bertrand, once more had brought 
 Dora to Rouen ; but this was soon fulfilled, 
 and Mrs. Courtenay had only finished dressing 
 when her daughter entered her room. 
 
 " My dear, where have you been ? " said 
 Mrs. Courtenay. " Fanny told me you were 
 out — I got quite uneasy." 
 
 " I went to order a carriage," replied Dora, 
 calmly; then, seeing her mother's amazed 
 look, she added : " you know how particular 
 Mr. Templemore is about his horses. I can- 
 not say what the coachman would do, once he 
 had put us down at the station." 
 
 Mrs. Courtenay supposed her daughter was 
 right, but it was plain that, as the hour for 
 leaving Les Roches drew nigh, she felt bewil- 
 dered and perplexed. Dora looked very 
 cheerful, though she also looked very white. 
 She was lively and talkative, but she ate no 
 breakfast; yet Mrs. Courtenay was lulled to 
 sleep, and she innocently said, as she looked 
 out at the garden from the breakfast-table : 
 
 " I like going, because I like a change ; but 
 do you know, Dora, I shall also like coming 
 back to Les Roches ? It looks so bright and 
 gay this morning." 
 
 A strange expression passed across Dora's 
 pale face, but she sat with her back to the 
 light, and Mrs. Courtenay's sight was not very 
 good, so the meaning, which a person of 
 keener mental and physical vision than she 
 was might have read there, escaped her. 
 Jacques came, with the intimation that the 
 carriage had arrived, breakfast was over, and 
 it was time to go. Dora went up to her room 
 to put on her bonnet, also to give the letter, 
 which had lain in the drawer all night, into 
 Fanny's hand. The girl noticed how cold and 
 pale her mistress looked, also how her little, 
 nervous hand shook ; bnt well-bred servants 
 Lave eyes, and see not, and nothing in her 
 
 pretty, stolid face betrayed that she had 
 guessed Mrs. Templemore's secret. 
 
 This was the end of the long, bitter struggle. 
 It expired with the last pang. What remained 
 to be gone through was mere mechanical en- 
 durance. Dora went down to her mother ; they 
 entered the carriage, it wheeled round the 
 gravel path, passed through the gates, then 
 went down the road at a rapid pace. The 
 trees, the hedges, the villas on either side 
 rushed past them. Children in gardens, ser- 
 vants at bedroom windows, were seen, then 
 vanished. The cool streets of Rouen were 
 entered. Sunshine stole down the roofs of 
 houses, lit up dark alleys, and poured in full 
 broad radiance on church fronts, rich with 
 carving. 
 
 " That is Saint Ouen," said Mrs. Courtenay, 
 looking out of the carriage window. But 
 Dora leaned back and closed her eyes. She 
 would not see the entrance to the Gallery. 
 She had gone through sufficient bitterness 
 that morning, and needed no more. 
 
 The rest was nothing. It was merely get- 
 ting into a railway carriage, and being con- 
 veyed through a green landscape, which 
 Dora's eyes saw not, whilst Mrs. Courtenay 
 made pretty childish remarks, or uttered little 
 screams of wonder, which her daughter did 
 not hear. Both speech and exclamations 
 ceased rather suddenly, and Dora did not 
 miss them. She was again going through 
 that meeting in the parlor at Kensington, 
 when, reading sudden and unexpected love in 
 Mr. Templemore's eyes, she had placed her 
 hand in his. Had she been all deceived, then ? 
 Surely he had cheated himself before he had 
 thus convinced her, and led to their mutual 
 loss and betrayal. But even if it had been so 
 — even if he had loved her for a few hours — 
 what mattered it now ? Was not every second 
 of time separating them, and had she not her- 
 self done it, and did she repent it ? 
 
 Dora roused herself, and compressed her
 
 MRS. COURTENAY AGAIN ILL. 
 
 243 
 
 lips, and kept in the quick, troubled breath 
 that would come with that vain yearning tow- 
 ard a broken past. The tame, commonplace 
 parlor, the trees, the gray twilight, all faded 
 away, and the bright green landscape, and the 
 railway carriage, and her mother's presence 
 came back. Suddenly she uttered a sort of cry. 
 
 " Mamma ! mamma ! " she said, seizing Mrs. 
 Courtenay's hand, " what is it ? — what ails 
 you ? " 
 
 " I — I am not very well," faintly said Mrs. 
 Courtenay. 
 
 The change in her countenance was so 
 striking and ominous, that a cold terror struck 
 on Dora's heart. This was no trifling ailment, 
 no passing weakness or fainting-fit. 
 
 " Mamma," she cried, her voice rising with 
 sudden anguish, "mamma, do tell me what 
 ails you ? " 
 
 " I — I don't know," stammered Mrs. Cour- 
 tenay. " I felt very strange all night — but I 
 thought it would go." 
 
 She leaned her forehead on her hand and 
 seemed unable to say more. They were alone 
 in the carriage. 
 
 " We shall alight at the next station'," said 
 Dora. 
 
 Mrs. Courtenay did not answer. Her coun- 
 tenance was vacant, and the hand which Dora 
 held was cold and clammy. How drearily slow 
 felt the motion of the train, yet it soon slack- 
 ened its speed and stopped at a branch station. 
 The line here passed through a green park, at 
 the end of which Dora could see the closed 
 windows of an old chateau; no other dwelling 
 was visible, yet Dora remembered the place at 
 once. She alighted, put a few questions, and 
 learned that they were, as she thought, within 
 a quarter of a mile of that, village inn where 
 they had once dined with Mr. Templemore. 
 Mrs. Courtenay was helped down, and a mes- 
 senger was dispatched to the " White Horse " 
 for a vehicle ; it came, after a brief delay. Mrs. 
 Courtenay was lifted up into it, and they drove 
 
 slowly through a green, happy landscape, that 
 made Dora's heart ache. Yet her mother was 
 no worse when they reached the " White 
 Horse." She even said she felt better. 
 
 " The doctor is waiting," said the landlady, 
 coming out to receive them. 
 
 Nothing was changed about the old place, 
 and this homely woman's face was not altered. 
 Time had told her no sad story, her bright blue 
 eyes and ruddy cheeks spoke of unbroken con- 
 tent and steadfast cheerfulness. That gulf which 
 existed between Mr. Templemore's wife and her 
 lost happiness had all been smooth level ground 
 to her. Small cares and daily tasks had filled 
 those days which Dora had found so dreary 
 and so eventful. But she had no time to linger 
 over these thoughts ; her mother was conveyed 
 to the best room of the house — she remembered 
 it too — and there they found Doctor Gentil, a 
 brown old man, a real village doctor, rather 
 rough of aspect, but kindly in manner. He 
 put a few questions to Mrs. Courtenay, wrote a 
 prescription, and left, saying he would call in 
 the afternoon, Dora followed him out. 
 
 " Is it a serious case ? " she asked, in a low 
 tone. 
 
 He read her face. It was pale but brave, 
 
 " Very serious," he replied, gravely, " but 
 not hopeless." 
 
 " Not hopeless ! " The words seemed to 
 stun Dora; but she rallied at once, and re- 
 turned to her mother with a smiling face. 
 
 " We shall have to stay here a few days," she 
 said. 
 
 " I suppose so," vacantly replied Mrs. Cour- 
 tenay. "Yet I feel better — only so strange, 
 quite stupid." 
 
 Dora looked at her silently. She had never 
 before seen Mrs. Courtenay with that pinched 
 face and those sunken eyes. 
 
 " I do believe I could not make out a pa- 
 tience," resumed Mrs. Courtenay ; then she 
 added, with sudden liveliness : " Did you bring 
 the cards ? "
 
 244 
 
 DORA. 
 
 " If I did not we can buy some, mamma." 
 
 " Buy ! — why buy ? Why not use our own ? " 
 But she could not follow out this train of 
 thought. It proved too much for her, and she 
 shook her head rather drearily. "It is no 
 use," she said. " I am getting stupid." 
 
 In the afternoon Doctor Gentil came again. 
 He found Mrs. Courtenay neither better nor 
 worse, and still he said, " It was a serious case, 
 but not hopeless." Two wearisome, anxious 
 days passed thus. On the third Mrs. Courte- 
 nay was slightly better, but also very restless, 
 and toward evening she insisted that her 
 daughter should go out. Dora resisted, then 
 yielded to please her. 
 
 " You want fresh air, you know," said her 
 mother, " and that good old soul, the landlady, 
 will stay with me. You know I like old peo- 
 ple." 
 
 Dora went, but her heart still felt heavy and 
 sad as she walked up a green, winding path 
 that led to the church. Her mother was not 
 out of danger, and she feared the worst. It 
 seemed as if some terrible doom weighed upon 
 her, and as if every step she took in life only 
 helped to work out its fulfilment. The strong 
 wind of calamity, division, and impending death 
 was sweeping everything and every one from 
 her side. A little more, and she would stand 
 alone, with the great desert of life around her. 
 
 It might have been better for Dora's nature 
 if her lot had not been so hard a one just then. 
 "We are not always the wiser for sorrow, for v, e 
 do not always know how to receive that severe 
 chastener, grief; and there was too much re- 
 sentment, not against Providence, but against 
 one of its human instruments, in the heart of 
 Mr. Tcmplemore's wife. She could not forgive 
 her husband, ne had left her for a few days 
 only, but these had been calamitous as years, 
 and by giving her no clew to his whereabouts, 
 he had signified very plainly that he wanted to 
 forget as well as to leave his wife. " Be it so," 
 she thought , " it is his act, not mine — the sep- 
 
 aration, the forgetfulness, shall be as deep as 
 ever he can have wished them to be." 
 
 She was walking with her eyes bent as she 
 thought thus. She looked up as the path 
 widened. The village was far behind her, and 
 before her stood the little gray church, with 
 its churchyard around it. "I have been here 
 once before," thought Dora, with a pang, " and 
 shall I soon come here again ? " Yet she 
 could not resist the bitter temptation of sur- 
 veying the spot that might soon be her 
 mother's last home. A few graves were scat> 
 tered within the narrow space which a low 
 wall enclosed around the ancient edifice. 
 Through the open door Dora could see the 
 altar, and above it a richly-painted glass win- 
 dow. Purple hues, with bright streaks of 
 ruby and emerald, fell on the white altar-cloth, 
 and on the cold stone floor. But not a soul 
 was visible. No old woman had gone in to 
 say her prayers ; no lingering urchin had 
 strayed in to loiter away time. Equally silent 
 and lonely was the little churchyard. Tall 
 trees rose everywhere around it, making a 
 background of green gloom, and shutting out 
 from the dead the friendly aspect of human 
 dwellings. But to Dora, in that dark hour, it 
 seemed well that it should be so. Such a 
 mound of red earth as that of a new-made 
 grave, which her eye fell upon, might soon 
 hold, if not all that had been dear, all at 
 least that now faithfully loved her. "One in 
 Glasnevin and one here," she thought. " Oh ! 
 if I could but go down there with you, my 
 poor darling — if* when he comes back, he 
 could but learn that mother and child are lying 
 in the same cold bed, he would be free at 
 List — free and happy, who can doubt it? " 
 
 She could not weep, she could not pray — 
 there are thoughts too bitter for tears, feelings 
 too earthly to soar on the strong wing of 
 prayer. She could only stand there looking at 
 that grave, and brooding over a blank future. 
 For a blank it must be. " Never, if I leave
 
 THE STRANGE ENGLISH LADY. 
 
 245 
 
 her here, 1 ' thought Dora, " never shall he find 
 me. I will vanish from his life, as she will have 
 vanished from this earth. I will beg my 
 bread, I will toil like a hireling before I go 
 back to his house and live on his money." 
 
 Suddenly a keen, remorseful thought smote 
 on this resentful mood. What was she do- 
 ing here, brooding over irreparable wrongs, 
 when her mother might be dying ? Eagerly, 
 swiftly she retraced her steps. She hurried 
 down the path, through the village, and she 
 was breathless when she reached her mother's 
 room. On seeing her, the landlady rose, and, 
 looking mysterious, made a sign. Dora fol- 
 lowed her out. With many needless words 
 the good woman informed Dora that au Eng- 
 lish lady, young and richly-dressed, had come 
 to the inn in consequence of an accident on 
 the line, but that on learning Mrs. Courtenay's 
 presence and illness, she bad looked alarmed 
 and left hastily. 
 
 " She thought it was some contagious dis- 
 ease," said Dora. 
 
 "No, no, mademoiselle. I am sure she 
 knew you," shrewdly answered the landlady ; 
 " I saw it in her face." 
 
 "You are mistaken," sadly said Dora; "no 
 one knows me." And she went back to her 
 mother. 
 
 " I am glad you came back," said Mrs. 
 Courtenay ; " I want to sleep, and I did not 
 like to do so while you were away. Of course 
 the poor old thing is honest ; but having all 
 that money — " 
 
 " What money, mamma? " 
 
 "All those notes Mr. Templemore sent 
 you." 
 
 Dora said nothing. Where was the use of 
 enlightening and troubling her ? 
 
 "And so I am glad you came back," re- 
 sumed Mrs. Courtenay, " for I am very 
 sleepy." 
 
 Dora smoothed her mother's pillow. Mrs. 
 Courtenay's head sank back upon it with a 
 
 luxurious sigh, and, saying languidly, " Oh ! 
 what a sweet sleep I am going to have ! " she 
 closed her eyes and fell into a deep, calm 
 slumber. 
 
 Dora looked at her in a sort of dream. 
 Forth from the recesses of memory there came 
 to her an Eastern saying which Doctor Richard 
 had once told her — " It is better to sit than to 
 stand ; it is better to lie than to sit ; and 
 better to be dead than lying." 
 
 A fatalist first said this ; and yet how it 
 answers to a feeling within us — to a weariness, 
 a languor, and craving for repose, which 
 nothing mortal can content, and which goes 
 forth to meet that something more than mor- 
 tal, of which death holds the keys ! 
 
 "My poor little mother!" thought Dora, 
 looking at her with dim eyes and quivering 
 lips. "She is so innocent, so guileless, so 
 childish, that if she were to pass away thus 
 from life like a sleeping baby, I could feel no 
 uneasiness, no fear — no more than if she were 
 a child indeed. And for her it would be well, 
 but oh ! for me — for me ! " 
 
 She could not bear the thought. She rose 
 and went to the window and stood there. The 
 summer beauty of the day was gone. Sullen 
 clouds were gathering in the sky. A south- 
 westerly wind bent the summits ot a few tall 
 trees that rose above the village. Dora knew 
 them by the church spire which rose amongst 
 them — these were the trees that overlooked 
 the churchyard. The inn was very quiet ; 
 the village, indeed, looked lonely and almost 
 deserted. There was a great fair iu the neigh- 
 borhood, and the men and women had gone 
 to it. A few old people and young children 
 alone had remained behind. One house facing 
 the inn attracted her attention by a group at 
 the door. An old man and two children 
 stood looking up the road. Presently the 
 elder of the boys ran toward a man and a 
 woman who walked slowly. They were heavi- 
 ly laden, and the woman looked footsore ; but
 
 246 
 
 DORA. 
 
 she put her hand in her pocket and drew out 
 something which the boy flourished aloft like 
 a prize till his brother came jealously forward 
 to claim his share. Then they all mingled 
 and entered the house together; and present- 
 ly a bright fire sprang from the kitchen 
 hearth ; and through the open window Dora 
 saw them all on the vivid background, and 
 as she looked a feeling of great desolation 
 fell upon her heart. She thought of her hus- 
 band, of Eva, of the home she had left, of her 
 mother, who might die in a village inn, and 
 be buried with unknown dead in a village 
 churchyard — and the bright, happy picture be- 
 fore her was lost in tears. 
 
 The clouds broke into rain — soft summer 
 rain, that would renew the drooping aspect 
 of nature, and give it a more brilliant beauty ; 
 but the tears which Dora shed, as she thought 
 over the bitterness of her lot, brought no 
 relief to her full heart. For her there seemed 
 no bright, no happy morrow in store — no 
 renewal of love and joy. Nothing but a long, 
 sad darkness, deep and melancholy as that of 
 the coming night. 
 
 CHAPTER XLVL 
 
 It might have softened the bitterness at 
 Dora's heart, if she had known how keen an 
 agony it was for her husband to doubt her, 
 and leave her with that doubt upon him. He 
 had told her, and told her truly, that the loss 
 of Florence had been to him as the lopping of 
 a limb; but to lose his wife thus was like 
 death itself. Life and health do not perish 
 because of the pangs of amputation, and Mr. 
 Templemore, once the surgeon's knife had 
 gone through him, had felt a sound and living 
 man again. He would not, indeed, have 
 chosen such a time to love and marry ; but 
 marriage having seemed compulsory to him, 
 he bad neither wished nor sought to avoid 
 love. And love had come to him delightful 
 
 and engrossing as a second spring. Dora had 
 gifts which he had always appreciated, but 
 which he prized keenly and very fondly when 
 they became his. He liked her bright youth- 
 ful aspect, her warm heart, her joyous laugh, 
 and her fine clear mind. He admired her, he 
 was tenderly proud of her, and he loved her 
 with a passion as sudden as it was engrossing. 
 She was his wife — bis dear wife, linked to him 
 by ties sweet, sacred, and indissoluble — linked 
 to him for years, for life, and with no parting 
 possible but the bitter inevitable parting of 
 the grave. 
 
 And now this fervid dream was over. Love, 
 honor, admiration were dead. It was over, 
 and he left her stung and mortified with his 
 wrong, ashamed and humbled at his mistake, 
 and even at the gleam of passion which had 
 survived it, and nearly betrayed him anew, 
 and again made him her slave. He left her, 
 angrily feeling that he must return to her 
 some day — yes, this guilty wife, w r hom he had 
 thought to go on loving less passionately, per- 
 haps, as time passed, and youth fled, but not 
 less truly, held him fast, and he must return 
 to her. He was thrown on a lifelong com- 
 panionship, from which the soul of love had 
 departed. Bitterness and indignation availed 
 him nothing ; he was Dora Courtenay's hus- 
 band. 
 
 Passion is like a stormy sea. It has waves 
 that rise high or fall back as with the breath 
 of the tempest. If Dora had but known it, 
 there had been a moment when, innocent or 
 guilty, she had prevailed — when a word, a 
 look, a caress, would have kept Mr. Temple- 
 more forever. But she had let him depart, 
 and when the door of her room closed be- 
 tween them, his longing for faith, her charm, 
 and her power, had all vanished alike. She 
 had allowed those full waters to go back to 
 their fountain-head, and the doubt and anger, 
 allayed awhile by the seduction of her pres- 
 ence, to rise anew when she was seen no
 
 MR. TEMFLEMORE IN PARIS. 
 
 247 
 
 more. She had allowed Mr. Templeruore to 
 * remember that a fraud had made him her 
 husband, to believe that she had looked on 
 and accepted all passively, the sin and its 
 reward, and the higher had been the tide that 
 bore him to ber, the stronger was the reced- 
 ing power of that which now carried both 
 love and him away from Dora. 
 
 To give and to receive is one of the strong- 
 est of human ties, and perhaps because man 
 and woman can never give or receive more 
 than in the marriage state, is that link held so 
 sacred, and felt to be so potent. The more is 
 given, and the dearer grows the bond ; but 
 woe to the day when the once generous supply 
 is stinted — when the heart has no more to be- 
 stow, and feels no joy in receiving. That sad day 
 now seemed to have come for Mr. Templemore. 
 
 " Never, never can I love her again ? " he 
 thought, as he leaned back in the railway 
 carriage that took him on to Paris, after he 
 had left Miss Moore and Eva at St. Germains. 
 " And yet I must go back to her, or take on 
 myself the frightful responsibility of utterly 
 forsaking a young and attractive woman, who 
 has not been my wife three weeks." 
 
 The alternative sickened him. If he left 
 her to her fate, might she not, in the bitter- 
 ness of her heart, turn desperate, and give 
 him cause to rue his abandonment ? Mr. 
 Templemore was not of a jealous nature, and 
 he did not even then doubt his wife's virtue ; 
 but he remembered that John Luan loved her, 
 and that Dora never forgot a wrong. His 
 conscience and his pride alike told him that 
 he must return to her if he wished to avoid 
 for both the risk of ruin and shame. Yes, he 
 must go back, and though he had never con- 
 templated not doing so, the necessity galled 
 him. He must go back to the woman who 
 had entrapped him, and who had now a legal 
 right to his name, his home, and his love. The 
 thought chafed him, and added its irritation to 
 the despair of that dark hour. 
 
 Two ladies — well-dressed women — were Mr. 
 Templemore's travelling companions. He had 
 not seen them at first, but now he became 
 conscious of their presence. They were young 
 and pleasant-looking. They were cheerful, 
 too, and seeing him so gloomy and absorbed, 
 they talked pretty much as if he were not 
 there. The younger one of the two took off 
 her gloves. He saw her rings flash on her 
 slender fingers ; the scent from her little per- 
 fumed handkerchief was that which Dora 
 used ; the rustling of her silk dress reminded 
 him of the pleasure with which he used to hear 
 his wife move about the house at Deenab. 
 Something in her attitude, as she looked out 
 on the green landscape, made him remember 
 with a sharp pang his happy wedding-day, and 
 Dora's radiant face as they journeyed togeth- 
 er, and Mr. Templemore felt the happiest of 
 bridegrooms. And now, what was left to him 
 of all the dreams he had that day indulged in? 
 The graceful, elegant woman whom he had 
 wedded was his still — the woman who had a 
 charming figure, a pretty hand, fine eyes, and 
 hair of a beautiful color — yes, she was his till 
 death should them part, and long after those 
 fleeting charms should have faded she would 
 still be his. But that other dearer woman, 
 the companion and friend — she who had 
 already made him feel that there is a tie 
 stronger than blood, more potent than the af- 
 fection of habit, sympathy in some of the noble 
 things for which God gave man life — she was 
 gone — she was lost ; and seek for her long as 
 he would, he could find her no more. 
 
 Oh ! if he could have believed her to be 
 guiltless ! If he could have forgotten how she 
 had tried to prevent her aunt from speaking 
 and him from hearing ; if he could have for- 
 gotten her pale face, and her silence, her 
 weak defence, her assertions of innocence, un- 
 supported by proof; if he could have forgotten 
 all those tokens that had condemned her, and 
 risen before him to say, " Whether from love,
 
 248 
 
 > 
 
 DORA. 
 
 or hate, or vengeance, or cupidity, she has 
 abetted it — she let it be done, and she reaped 
 the gain ! " But he could not. He tortured 
 his mind to acquit her, and he could not. She 
 had not warned him, she had refused to answer 
 Mrs. Logan — if ever silence was guilty hers 
 was. But if the cloud which doubt had called 
 up would not be dispelled, if it ever floated 
 between him and his wife's image, and only 
 grew darker and denser with every effort he 
 made to break it, so there also rose in his 
 heart a bitter resentment against every human 
 being connected with his wrong. He hated 
 Mrs. Luan and Mrs. Courtenay for having 
 plotted it, and he could scarcely forgive Miss 
 Moore or Mrs. Logan for having helped to 
 reveal it. Toward Dora his feelings were too 
 implacable for either hate or forgiveness. She 
 was the embodiment of his misery — the being 
 whose betrayal had caused it, and whose false- 
 hood had given it a more cruel and a keener 
 pang. 
 
 On reaching Paris Mr. Templemore went to 
 one of the hotels in the Rue de Rivoli, where 
 he was in the habit of stopping. " And now," 
 he thought, as he entered rooms gay with sun- 
 shine, and beyond which he caught a bright 
 glimpse of the Tuileries gardens, "now how 
 am I to get rid of this pain ? " Question hard 
 to answer. Pleasure, which had never had 
 any charms for Mr. Templemore, was now 
 odious. He hated crowds, and solitude he 
 knew is cruel and dangerous. He would not 
 have Eva or Miss Moore with him, for one 
 could only remind him of his fond illusion, and 
 the other of its bitter wakening. So, as he 
 suffered cruelly and keenly, he did wdiat the in- 
 tellectual and the strong often do in such emer- 
 gencies, he took refuge in study from his pain. 
 
 There were few branches of knowledge which 
 he had not already tried, but for some he had 
 never felt any ardent devotion. Statistics and 
 political economy had been least favored by 
 him. He now took to them with a sort of 
 
 fury. Population, shipping, standing armies, 
 disease, had their turn ; he heaped his room 
 with blue-books, and covered quires of paper 
 with estimates, returns, and calculations ; be 
 worked night and day, not caring all the time 
 for the result of his labor, and he succeeded in 
 bringing on himself a fit of illness which lasted 
 a fortnight, and from which he issued languid, 
 listless, and more unhappy than ever. 
 
 Neither time, nor work, nor illness had 
 cured him. Time had only added to the re- 
 sentful bitterness of his feeling, and to the 
 severity of the condemnation his judgment had 
 passed on the offender ; but it was still the 
 same wound which bled inly, it was still the 
 cruel thought that Dora was his wife, and that 
 she was worthless of a man's love. Integrity, 
 honor, delicacy, were the ruling feelings of Mr. 
 Templemore's mind. The woman who had 
 failed in these, even though for love of him, 
 could never be again to him the woman whom 
 nothing and no one could have tempted to 
 sin. And yet, and though his sense of her 
 error grew keener daily, his feelings had un- 
 dergone a change. If he still thought of her 
 guilt, he now thought very little of his wrong. 
 He did not regret Florence, he scarcely re- 
 gretted his liberty, but he passionately regret- 
 ted his wife, that innocent being, all love and 
 brightness, whom he had had for a few days, 
 and who had so soon worn the common hues 
 of mortality. Oh ! to go back to that time of 
 dear illusions, to possess a girl so happy, so 
 fond, and so true ! To feel bound to her for 
 life, to dread no wakening, to look forward 
 without fear to the long future ! 
 
 But it is no relief to think a once loved be- 
 ing unworthy, and these thoughts seemed so 
 bitter to Mr. Templemore, one evening as he 
 sat by the window of his room looking out on 
 the stirring scene in the Rue de Rivoli below, 
 that he could endure them no longer. He re- 
 belled under their torture, and taking his hat 
 walked out.
 
 THE THEATRE. 
 
 249 
 
 He went forth idly, neither knowing nor 
 caring whither his steps took hina. On turn- 
 ing the corner of a street, he suddenly found 
 himself on the Boulevards. The night was 
 black, not a star shone in the cloudy sky ; but 
 • the two rows of lamps made an endless avenue 
 of light before him. The shops were brilliant 
 and gay ; cafes glittered like fairy palaces, 
 and crowds were abroad to enjoy what fresh- 
 ness there was in the stormy air. Mr. Tcm- 
 plemore found none. Close and sultry felt 
 the atmosphere. The young trees which rose 
 dimly before him, their trunks and lower 
 branches lit, and their summits vanishing in 
 gloom, seemed to him as oppressive as the 
 roof of a forest. Yet he went on, leaving 
 boulevard after boulevard behind him, and he 
 never thought of stopping till a dense group 
 suddenly checked his progress. Mr. Temple- 
 more then looked up. Before him he saw the 
 rising steps and the columned front of a 
 theatre. People were going in eagerly. He 
 hesitated awhile, then he too went up the 
 steps, paid for his place, and within five 
 minutes he was seated in one of the galleries. 
 
 Mr. Templemore had not gone to the play 
 for several years. He liked none save the 
 finest acting and singing, and, being a man of 
 fastidious tastes, he did not admit the exist- 
 ence of such very readily. Weariness of 
 spirit had alone tempted him this evening to 
 enter a second-class house, where the actors 
 were probably suited to the plays they per- 
 formed in. He wondered at himself for hav- 
 ing done so ; he looked around him, and 
 wondered still more at the gay, eager faces he 
 saw. The musicians in the orchestra we're 
 talking and laughing together as they tuned 
 their instruments — he wondered at them too. 
 Amongst them was a lively little dark man, 
 who could not lie quiet a moment; he shook 
 his black head of hair, he rolled his eyes, he 
 screwed his mouth, and looked very like an 
 animated nut - cracker. Mr. Templemore 
 
 watched him with a sort of interest ; the 
 vitality of that swarthy little musician was 
 attractive to one whose present mood was so 
 drearily languid. The curtain rose, the per- 
 formance began, the actors spoke, and ^still 
 Mr. Templemore's eyes were fixed on the 
 orchestra, aud he thought, " What a curious 
 idiosyncrasy that man must have ! " 
 
 " How charmingly she is dressed, whispered 
 a voice 'near him. He glanced toward the 
 speaker. She was a girl of eighteen or so, 
 plump and good-humored-looking. She ad- 
 dressed another girl, her sister, evidently, as 
 plump, and seemingly as good-tempered as 
 herself. Beside them sat their mother, a 
 bourgeoise of forty, who had been at twenty 
 what they were now. What absence of all 
 care appeared in these three faces ! Nothing 
 was there, not even the excitement of pleas- 
 ure ; nothing beyond the calm, sensual content 
 of satisfied animal existence. Mr. Temple- 
 more turned back from them to the musician, 
 but in so doing his look passed across the 
 stage, and he uttered a deep, startled " Ah ! " 
 which was heard over the whole house, aud 
 drew every eye upon him. 
 
 But Mr. Templemore saw and heeded but one 
 thing ; for there, on the stage before him, stood 
 his wife, dressed in white muslin, gay, young, 
 and lovely. She stood alone in a gloomy room, 
 with a dim and sombre background behind her 
 solitary figure, and her head half averted. It 
 was she — so said the first look ; that was the 
 turn of her neck, her figure, aud her attitude ; 
 but she looked round, and the charm was bro- 
 ken ; she spoke, and it was gone. But the shock 
 which that momentary illusion had caused could 
 not vanish with it; nor the subtle thrill of joy it 
 had wakened, cease. When this girl l-> 
 at the audience, Mr. Templemore could not 
 look at her ; but when she turned away and 
 became once more the image of his young 
 wife, in her light motions and easy attitudes, 
 he leaned forward, with his elbow resting on
 
 250 
 
 DORA. 
 
 the crimson velvet of the balustrade, uncon- 
 scious of the observation which his eager gaze 
 attracted. His very heart was moved within 
 him with a soft and delicious emotion. It was 
 like going back to the first wondering happi- 
 ness of his marriage to feel as he now felt. 
 All that love, which had seemed buried in 
 arid desolation, like sweet waters beneath the 
 sand of the desert, welled back to his heart 
 with tenfold power. Mr. Templemore did not 
 strive against it — he let that full tide come 
 and rise and master him, and he felt blest to 
 the very core in his subjection. 
 
 When the curtain fell, on the first act, 
 and she vanished, he breathed deeply, and 
 for the first time he tried to think and be 
 calm. Vain attempt ; thought would not 
 come at his bidding — nothing came but a 
 vague, passionate yearning to be gone, and 
 be with her once more. He could scarcely 
 resist the desire which bade him rise and de- 
 part that moment. An express-train left in 
 the middle of the night. It would take him 
 to Rouen in little more than two hours ; he 
 could be at Les Roches before dawn — long be- 
 fore Dora had wakened ! 
 
 The two plump girls and their mother gave 
 him wondering looks, and he did not heed 
 them. The little fantastic musician played 
 strange tricks with his violin, and Mr. Tem- 
 plemore had no eyes for him now. His 
 thoughts were far away in a large room, hushed 
 and dim, where his wife lay sleeping. A lamp 
 burned faintly on a white toilet-table, and was 
 reflected in its oval glass, half veiled by lace 
 and muslin. A far door opened, and he saw 
 himself enter slowly, with step that fell noise- 
 lessly on the carpet. He saw that wraith of 
 his own being approach, then stand still, and 
 look at Dora's face as it rested on her pillow. 
 And now the vision swiftly became retrospec- 
 tive. He remembered looking at her thus 
 once in Decnah. He remembered wondering, 
 as he looked, at the childish calmness of her 
 
 slumbering mien. The bright hair which had 
 strayed on her pillow, the closed lids, the calm 
 breath, came back to him with a sense of 
 pain. He felt as if he had wronged and de- 
 serted a child intrusted to his keeping. 
 
 " I should have stayed with her," he thought ; 
 " innocent or guilty, I should not have left her." 
 
 " Innocent or guilty ? " repeated a secret 
 voice. 
 
 " Oh ! my God, if she be guilty, what a lot 
 is mine ! Am I tied to treachery, to sin so 
 perversely allied with that look of innocence ? 
 Am I tied to grace and youth, it is true, but 
 also to horrible iniquity ? " 
 
 All his old anguish came back at the 
 thought. If his passionate nature, ardent and 
 susceptible to loveliness — as indeed is that of 
 most men — felt but too keenly the power of 
 his young wife's bright face, the nobler nature 
 within him made him revolt from the thought 
 of this ignoble bondage. He could not en- 
 dure the contrast between that fair outside 
 and the sullied soul. Ay, truly, it is hard to 
 us all to think that sin can abide behind the 
 roses of those cheeks and the star-like radi- 
 ance of those eyes. It is hard that we should 
 not ever find the breath of innocence on those 
 fresh young lips, which give us heaven when 
 they smile. It is a cruel case, but Mr. Tem- 
 plemore had not reached thirty without know- 
 ing that it is a frequent one — only he had 
 never thought it would be his. The bitter 
 doubt now waxed higher and higher, sweep 
 ing away before it every tender fancy, every 
 flower of love or hope. His neighbors 
 watched his darkening face and gloomy eyes 
 with something like uneasiness. What had 
 brought him here, a sullen, uncongenial 
 stranger, freezing the mere thought of pleas- 
 ure away ! 
 
 The curtain rose, the second act began. 
 At first he heeded nothing, but the girl who 
 reminded him of Dora appeared again, and 
 again the subtle thrill ran through his veins
 
 AT THE JEWELLER'S. 
 
 251 
 
 and subdued him. This time, too, lie paid 
 some attention to the" play. It was a love- 
 drama, with many a passionate scene, and no 
 doubt some pathos, for the two girls next Mr. 
 Tempi emore brought out their pocket-hand- 
 kerchiefs, and used them freely. Indeed, he 
 saw a good deal of this going on around him, 
 but he remained callous and unmoved, till, 
 all unwillingly, he was conquered. This hero- 
 ine had married a man whom she did not like, 
 and her husband, discovering it too late, felt 
 and said, " I shall never be loved — never ! " 
 The curtain fell as he uttered the words, 
 which rang through Mr. Templemore's brain, 
 wakening a whole train of fond recollection. 
 Dora was his wife, but she loved him. Ay, 
 though her sins were of the deepest and the 
 darkest dye, she loved him and she was his — 
 for better, for worse, she was his. He could 
 not renounce her or exclude her from his life 
 and his heart. Religion, duty combined with 
 love to say to him, " Why did you leave her ? 
 Had you not vowed that your arms should be 
 her shelter from every ill ; and is it not ber 
 right to live and die by your side ? You can- 
 not banish her thence without sin — then thank 
 Heaven that her affection, her youth and its 
 attractions, make obedience to this duty so 
 easy and so sweet." 
 
 Mr. Templemore heard this secret monitor, 
 and he did not answer it at once. He leaned 
 his forehead on his hand, and let a vision 
 come before him — a vision of a tearful yet 
 happy Dora, who welcomed him back with 
 a smile and a kiss. Often had she come thus 
 to him before this hour, and as often had he 
 banished her with a stern " Begone ! " But 
 now he could not — he would not. She was 
 his wife, and there was a protecting tender- 
 ness in his embrace. She was his wife, and 
 his heart yearned toward her with infinite 
 charity. His love should cover all her errors, 
 and lead her back to those pure paths whence 
 she had strayed ; his love should be to her as 
 
 a human redemption, making more easy her 
 return to the divine source of all goodness. 
 She was his erring lamb, who had wandered 
 in the wilderness, and whom he would bring 
 back to the gentle fold of love and home. 
 He remembered the solemn precept, too, much 
 forgotten by a passing world of the great 
 Apostle of the Gentiles : 
 
 " Husbands, love your wives, as Christ 
 loved the Church." 
 
 He remembered it in that vanity fair of 
 pleasure and its votaries, a theatre. For what 
 spot, howsoever profane, is there which the 
 voice of God will not pierce to reach man's 
 heart ? And if human passion and tender- 
 ness still mingled in Mr. Templemore's breast 
 with holier feelings — if he could not forget a 
 fair face and a soft voice — if one was the joy 
 of his eyes, and the other the sweetest of 
 music to his ear, yet over all ruled that feel- 
 ing of duty that had been the great guide of 
 bis life, and which had given him in Dora 
 Courtenay its mingled joy and torment. 
 
 How long these thoughts kept him, Mr. 
 Templemore did not know. The third act 
 was progressing, and bad reached its great 
 crisis of despair and passion, when he looked 
 at his watch, rose, and left the house. The 
 two girls and their mother looked after him 
 in some wonder, and exchanged puzzled 
 glances, then placidly returned to the play. 
 Truly they little guessed what a drama of 
 doubt, and love, and regret — ay, and of pas- 
 sion too — had been silently enacted near 
 them that evening. 
 
 CHAPTER XLVII. 
 
 The night was darker than ever when Mr. 
 Templemore went out once more on the Boule- 
 vards. The crowd was thinning, in expecta- 
 tion of a storm. Mr. Templemore's mood was 
 not one which such contingencies affect. He
 
 252 
 
 DORA. 
 
 had but one thought, and that mastered him ; 
 yet he suddenly paused, as he reached the Rue 
 de la Paix, and saw its shops alive with light. 
 He remembered the diamond cross he had or- 
 dered from one of the jewellers there, and he 
 wondered if it were ready. It was only ten 
 o'clock ; he had time to go and try. 
 
 These jewellers' shops in the Rue de la 
 Paix were a wonderful sight at night during 
 that year. Crowds gathered around them 
 evening after evening, gazing in eager admira- 
 tion at the treasures displayed within. Oue dia- 
 mond shop outrivalled all the others, and out- 
 rivals them still. Tiaras, necklaces, bracelets, 
 ear-rings, blazed in their immortal splendor. 
 Fair brows and fairer bosoms, on which they 
 glittered once, have shrunk into dust, and it 
 matters very little. They will outlive genera- 
 tions; that gorgeous bracelet will clasp the 
 slender wrist, that diadem will shine all light 
 in the dark hair of some beauty yet unborn, 
 and flatterers will tell her, "Your eyes are 
 brighter by far than these," and — who knows ? 
 — perhaps she will believe them. 
 
 As to that, all the diamonds in this shop, 
 which he now entered, could not have matched 
 Dora's eyes in Mr. Templemore's estimation 
 just then. ITe knew, indeed, that their lustre 
 would grow dim — that the blooming cheek 
 would fade, and the fair skin lose its youthful 
 beauty — but all the better reason was this for 
 holding them dear, and adorning them whilst 
 they lasted. With somethiug like eagerness, 
 he now asked if the cross he had ordered was 
 ready. 
 
 This temple of the god worshipped in Gol- 
 conda had a high-priest worthy of his office — 
 an aged man, with a lofty brow, white hair, 
 that flowed from beneath a black silk cap, and 
 eyes which had gazed so long on diamonds 
 that they could see little else in life. On 
 hearing Mr. Templemore's request, he opened 
 a drawer near him, and produced a small 
 morocco ease, which he handed to his cus- 
 
 tomer. Mr. Templemore opened it. On a 
 bed of blue velvet lay a diamond cross, con- 
 sisting of eleven perfect diamonds, not of large 
 size, indeed, but of sueh exquisite water, and 
 such dazzling lustre, that he uttered an excla- 
 mation of pleasure and admiration, qualified, 
 however, by the words : 
 
 " This is surely more expensive than the one 
 I asked from you ? " 
 
 " It is," mildly replied the jeweller ; " double 
 the price, I believe ; but, then, it is three 
 times more beautiful than you expected it to 
 be." 
 
 Mr. Templemore could not deny that. He 
 took the cross and looked at it in the hollow 
 of his hand. Each of its eleven diamonds 
 was pure and clear as a drop of morning dew 
 sparkling in the early sun. " Will you take a 
 check for this ? " he asked ; " I have not 
 money enough to pay you — besides, I am going 
 off at once." 
 
 " A cheek will do very well," replied the 
 jeweller, in his mild tone. " This is the 
 fifteenth, sir — the fifteenth of July." 
 
 And as Mr. Templemore sat down to fill up 
 the blank check which he took from his 
 pocket-book, the jeweller opened the drawer 
 again and took out another morocco case, 
 which he silently placed before him. 
 
 " I only ordered the cross," said Mr. Tem- 
 plemore, looking up, puzzled. 
 
 "Perhaps you would like a necklace," sug- 
 gested this mild tempter ; and he opened the 
 case and stepped back. 
 
 Mr. Templemore was dazzled. He had never 
 seen such a necklace as this. A queen alone 
 could have wprn it. This was no conjunction 
 of small diamonds artfully mounted in leaves, 
 and flowers, and pendants, and spread out to 
 the greatest possible extent. No, it was one 
 plain row of large stones, every one of which 
 seemed priceless to Mr. Templemore. Dora- 
 had a beautiful neck, soft and white — truly 
 these diamonds would lock well upon it. But
 
 THE DIAMOND CROSS AND NECKLACE. 
 
 253 
 
 was he a nabob, that he should even ask to 
 know the price of a gift so costly ? 
 
 " I chose every one of those stones myself," 
 saM the jeweller; "I went to Russia for this 
 centre one, and to London for that, one of the 
 smallest, but, as you see, it matches the ninth 
 stone perfectly, and unless in London I could 
 not have found it. It cost me three months 
 to negotiate for it, for it was in hands that 
 were reluctant to part with it — they knew its 
 value and its beauty, and it is one of the small- 
 est in the necklace. Guess from that, sir, 
 what toil and trouble the other stones have 
 given me." 
 
 " It is a wonderful necklace," said Mr. Tem- 
 plemore, taking and handling it — " a wonder- 
 ful necklace ; only there is no art in it. It is 
 plain and gorgeous." 
 
 " There should be no art in diamonds," re- 
 plied the jeweller, with a strange light in his 
 eye. " They are above and beyond it, sir." 
 
 " Well, perhaps they are," said Mr. Temple- 
 more, but he put down the necklace, and did 
 not ask to know its price. 
 
 " I believe, sir, you are newly married," 
 continued the jeweller, in his mild tone; "this 
 would be a beautiful wedding-gift." 
 
 Mr. Templemore felt almost provoked at this 
 cool seducer, who spoke of a priceless neck- 
 lace as a " beautiful wedding-gift." He little 
 knew that its owner offered it to every one of 
 the customers who entered his shop, pressed it 
 upon them even to importunity, and yet would 
 not have parted to a monarch with one of its 
 smallest diamonds. He little suspected that 
 these glorious bits of liquid light, all fire and 
 pure effulgence, slept every night in the bed 
 of that white-haired man — that he loved them 
 with something of the guilty, insane love which 
 two hundred years before made Cardillac 
 murder the men and women who bought his 
 jewels ; and that when they were stolen from 
 him a few months after Mr. Templeniorci's 
 visit, the shock of their loss, though they were 
 
 recovered within the week, sent him to the 
 grave a maniac. 
 
 Unconscious of the strange love which was 
 to lead to so tragic an ending, Mr. Templemore 
 only felt provoked at the persistence with which 
 the jeweller pressed this necklace upon him, 
 and putting the cross in his breast coat-pocket, 
 he left the shop. The jeweller, however, fol- 
 lowed him to the door, and still said in his mild 
 voice : 
 
 " It is a rare necklace, sir. You will never 
 get another like it — better have it." 
 
 Mr. Templemore walked away without giv- 
 ing him any answer. " The man is crazy, and 
 I am crazy too," he thought, taking the direc- 
 tion that led to his hotel ; " I suppose those 
 glittering pebbles have bewitched me, for here 
 am I foolish enough to wish I could buy them 
 and throw them round Dora's neck. 
 
 It was folly, no doubt, but it did not go away 
 at once. He saw the diamonds glittering be- 
 fore him like stars in the darkness of the night. 
 He saw them sparkling on his wife's bosom, 
 and if diamonds look strange and ominous on 
 yellow necks and bony shoulders, who can 
 deny their fitness and their beauty when they 
 rest on a satin skin and rounded outlines like 
 Dora's ? Mr. Templemore was fascinated with 
 the vision, ne felt almost tempted to turn 
 back and ask the price of this wonderful neck- 
 lace ; but he checked himself in time, and in- 
 deed waxed wrathful at his own folly. A year's 
 income of his fortune could not pay for the 
 bauble. Had he lost his senses that he even 
 contemplated this act of madness ? Alas ! it 
 was not all madness — there is a fond, passion- 
 ate instinct, which is a very part of love — the 
 wish to fling all that there is most costly, most 
 precious, and most rare, at the feet of the loved 
 object. For many days Mr. Tcniplemorc had 
 struggled against his love for Dora, ami spite his 
 doubts and his misgivings, that love now came 
 back to him powerful, mighty, and triumphant. 
 It came back to him not as it had left him, cou-
 
 254 
 
 DORA. 
 
 quered and sorrow-stricken, but like the spirit 
 in Scripture, who, after wandering midst bar- 
 ren places, returns with sevenfold power. 
 
 Mr. Templemore had not walked far, still 
 thinking of his wife and the diamond necklace, 
 when the long-threatening storm broke forth. 
 Drops of rain, large as crown-pieces, dotted the 
 white pavement of the Place Vendume, which 
 he was crossing. Then a lightning-flash pierced 
 the sky, and lit the dark column cast in can- 
 non won from many a battle-field, and whence 
 the first Napoleon looks down over his capital, 
 still seeming to triumph alike over foe and 
 subject. A deep-echoing thunder-peal fol- 
 lowed, then came a very deluge of rain, and long 
 before he reached his hotel, Rue de Rivoli, Mr. 
 Templemore was wet through. The rain was 
 summer rain, mild and soft, and he cared not 
 for it. He packed his trunk hastily, secured 
 a carriage, and drove off to the station, whilst 
 the storm was at its highest. It was a gale, 
 too, as well as a storm ; a furious tempest, which 
 might leave its traces on many a bleak coast, 
 as well as in crowded cities. Mr. Templemore 
 had seen a shipwreck once, and who that has 
 beheld the ominous sight can ever forget it ? 
 He remembered it now ; the noble vessel strug- 
 gling gallantly against the waves that dYove 
 her on, the long line of shore and cliff vanish- 
 ing in spray and in the darkness of the tem- 
 pest ; the pale moon looking down from a cloudy 
 sky, the silent crowd, and the fearful roar, as 
 waves and ship all came tumbling together on 
 the beach, whilst through all the din was to be 
 heard the faint, shrill cry of a woman. They 
 found heron the sands the next morning, a pale 
 corpse, with wet hair. Mr. Templemore won- 
 dered why that scene came back to him now, 
 as if he had beheld it but yesterday ? 
 
 " How do I know," he thought, " that this 
 summer storm will be so fatal as that never-to- 
 be-forgotten equinoctial gale on the shores of 
 the Atlantic ? Its roaring wind may indeed 
 uproot the mighty forest-tree, or its lightning 
 
 kill helpless flocks on distant moors ; but truly 
 I hope and trust that no drowning wretch will 
 call on Heaven this night in his agony ? " 
 
 Mr. Templemore reached the station as the 
 express train was going to start. Within five 
 minutes he sat alone in a railway-carriage, and 
 was going at full speed through the drenched 
 landscape. And now he had time to think 
 over a subject of some importance. 
 
 How would his wife receive him ? He re- 
 turned to her as he had left her— at his 
 pleasure. He could give no motive for the 
 one act, save that he did not choose to stay 
 with her, and for the other that he could do 
 without her no longer. "Would Dora, a proud 
 woman, accept either explanation ? Had he 
 not, then, best be silent, and take upon him- 
 self that law of bon plaisir which every now 
 and then comes up in the heart even of the 
 best of men ? For, after all, Mr. Templemore 
 could not ask his wife to forgive him. If his 
 passion for her, supported by necessity, was 
 so strong that he could not resist it, and must 
 needs go back to her, innocent or guilty, yet, 
 spite all the diamonds he had wished to give 
 her, he was not a convinced and converted 
 man. He would have given anything to be- 
 lieve in her innocence, and doubt still forbade 
 belief — even though his whole heart yearned 
 toward the one and revolted against the other. 
 With a sort of despair he went over the whole 
 sad story again, and wearied, but still per- 
 plexed, he came back to the old thought: 
 " She is my wife ; I cannot help that no more 
 than I can help loving her — I must keep to 
 that, and let the rest be." 
 
 But can love endure when its foundation of 
 reverence is wanting ? And if the fever which 
 was still so strong upon him ceased, would 
 not the final wakening be horrible ? Alas ! 
 he thought of that too ; but that time, which 
 it was so gloomy to foresee, had not come yet, 
 and as he reached Rouen, and, leaving the 
 train, entered a carriage which was to convey
 
 NEWS OF DEATH IN THE FAMILY. 
 
 255 
 
 him to Les Roches, he wilfully shut his eyes 
 to all the bitterness that had preceded his de- 
 parture, and only remembered that he was 
 going to the home where his young wife lay 
 sleeping, unconscious of his return. 
 
 The porter at the lodge had to be wakened 
 to let in his master, and Jacques to leave his 
 attic in order to admit him within. The clang 
 of the great bell, the grinding wheels of the 
 carriage on the gravel, made a loud noise in 
 the stillness of the gray morning ; but Mr. 
 Templemore looked in vain for signs of light 
 behind the window curtains of his wife's room. 
 Jacques, who let him in, seemed stupid with 
 sleep. His master did not question him ; he 
 took the light from the man's hand, merely 
 saying: 
 
 " You may go. I want nothing." 
 Jacques was a plethoric young man. He 
 liked his sleep above all things. He now 
 thought himself ill-used by his master's return 
 at such an hour, and he went back to his 
 room grumbling all the way. He had scarcely 
 reached the upper floor, however, when a 
 furious ringing summoned him below. He 
 found Mr. Templemore on the landing at the 
 door of his wife's room, pale as death, and 
 with the light still in his hand. 
 
 " Where is your mistress ? " he asked. 
 " Where is my wife ? " 
 
 His looks, his tones so confounded Jacques, 
 that he could scarcely reply. At length he 
 said, 
 
 " Madame is gone." 
 
 " Gone ! " He was going to ask " With 
 whom ? " but he checked himself. " Tell 
 Madame Gourtenay I wish to speak to her," 
 he said. 
 
 Jacques looked very odd. 
 " Madame Courlenay is dead, sir." 
 "Dead?" 
 
 " Yes, sir. Mademoiselle Fanny brought 
 the news when she came back for Madame's 
 things. Madame Courtenay died on the way." 
 
 "And Madame Luan and her son," ex- 
 claimed Mr. Templemore — " where are they ? " 
 
 Jacques looked very odd again. 
 
 " Monsieur Luan is gone, sir, we do not 
 know where, and Madame Luan is dead too. 
 She died in a madhouse the very morning 
 Madame Templemore went away. She had 
 attempted to kill madame one evening." 
 
 Mr. Templemore felt as if he were going 
 through a dreadful nightmare. Death, mad- 
 ness, danger had visited his deserted home 
 during his absence : and now where was 
 Dora ? Where was the wife whom he had 
 left to trials so fearful, and who had passed 
 through them alone ? 
 
 " Where is she now ? " he asked, much 
 agitated. " Where did she go to ? " 
 
 "Monsieur Luan took her to an asylum, 
 and she died there." 
 
 " I mean your mistress. Where is your 
 mistress ? " 
 
 But Jacques knew nothing. Madame had 
 not said anything. She had left no letter? 
 No — nothing that could give a clew. Ma- 
 demoiselle Fanny, when she came back for 
 madame's things had said they were going to 
 England, and the servants had supposed it 
 was to join monsieur. The servants had all 
 noticed that madame looked very miserable. 
 Perhaps she felt nervous, and afraid to remain 
 alone after having run the risk of being mur- 
 dered. " 
 
 So said Jacques, in a heavy, stupid, monoto- 
 nous voice. Mr. Templemore shuddered with 
 horror as he heard him talk thus stolidly of 
 his wife's peril. Yet he could not help ask- 
 ing to know the particulars of this domestic 
 drama. Jacques, nothing loath, and indeed 
 quite lively, went through the scene for his 
 master's benefit. " Madame was so by the 
 toilet, when she heard the door open and saw 
 Madame Luan enter. At once, and with great 
 presence of mind, madame put out the light 
 and stepped out on the balcony. And so,"
 
 256 
 
 DORA. 
 
 continued Jacques, assuming the part of Mrs. 
 Luan and groping with outstretched arms, as 
 if in the darkness toward the window, " so I 
 try to get at her and kill her. Though I can- 
 not see, I know where she is, and she is as 
 mute as a mouse — but I know where she is — 
 now I am at the window r , and the moon is 
 shining — now I have her ! " 
 
 But as Jacques, outstripping truth in the 
 fervor of his acting, was stretching his arm 
 toward an imaginary Dora, a hand of iron 
 seized his own throat and held him fast. 
 
 " How dare you ? How dare you ? " asked 
 Mr. Templemore, shaking with anger ; then 
 recovering his composure, he said, not without 
 some shame at his own violence, " You may 
 leave me now, Jacques." 
 
 "And I can tell you I left him pretty 
 quickly," was Jacques's comment as he re- 
 lated this incident to the porter the next morn- 
 ing. " For if ever man looked like a tiger, it 
 was our master as he held me then." 
 
 Mr. Templemore remained alone in his wife's 
 room, and locked himself up with this new 
 trouble. 
 
 He sat down and looked around him. Was 
 this indeed the return to which he had looked 
 forward ? This cold, vacant chamber bore no 
 likeness to that which his fancy had conjured 
 up a few hours before in the theatre. Dust 
 had gathered on the mirror" of the toilet-table, 
 . and thus told him how long it had ceased to 
 reflect Dora's image. No token of her pres- 
 ence lingered about. It was as if Mr. Temple- 
 more had never seen her there, sleeping or 
 waking. The very air of the unused apart- 
 ment had grown chill. Ah ! this was not 
 the meeting he had imagined as he came up 
 the staircase with a beating heart. Where 
 were the tears and reproaches he was to si- 
 lence with caresses ? His wife was gone, and, 
 insupportable thought ! she was gone with just 
 anger and bitterness in her heart against him. 
 Was she innocent or guilty ? He did not 
 
 think of that now. He only thought that he 
 had forsaken her, and that she had gone alone 
 through frightful danger and bitter sorrow. 
 Where was he when the madwoman attempted 
 her life ? — when her mother's eyes closed in 
 death ? His eyes grew dim, his lip quivered 
 at the question. Oh ! fatal error, ever to have 
 lef ther — fatal, and in one sense irreparable, 
 she was his wife, the law gave him full power 
 over her — he could pursue the fugitive and 
 compel her return; but could he make her 
 forget that he had believed a madwoman's 
 story against her ? 
 
 And these were not Mr. Templemore's only 
 thoughts. If Fanny's assertion were to be be- 
 lieved, his wife had gone to England after her 
 mother's death. What for, and to whom? 
 Surely not to John Luan ! Yet Dora had no 
 friends in England — at least, she had often 
 said so. Then what took her there ? 
 
 Mr. Templemore could not bear to wrong 
 her in this matter. And yet the thought that 
 she had gone to England, that she was near 
 John Luan, that she had her cousin to comfort 
 her in her sorrow, and to sympathize with her 
 in her wrongs, was more than he could endure. 
 It revived his lurking jealousy, and gave it 
 both form and substance. This young man 
 loved Dora ; and it is not pleasant, even to 
 the least jealous of husbands, to think that 
 the wife whom he has injured receives con- 
 solation from a rejected lover. And this had 
 been going on for days and weeks! The 
 thought stung him. She was his wife, after 
 all. What right had she to leave his home 
 without a word, spoken or written, and go to 
 a strange city and stay there ? What right 
 had she to expose their domestic differences 
 to the world by a flight he could not attempt 
 to disguise ? Gradually Mr. Templemore for- 
 got the wrongs he had inflicted, and only 
 remembered those he had received. He re- 
 membered them ; and with something like 
 wrath he resolved to set off for England at
 
 AN UNEXPECTED MEETING. 
 
 257 
 
 once, follow his wife, and bring her back with- 
 out delay. " Whether she likes it or not she 
 shall return," he thought, ringing the bell 
 angrily for Jacques, who had just fallen into a 
 pleasant doze. " She shall return to this 
 house, which she should never have left." 
 
 But of all men Mr. Teruplemorc was the 
 last who could stifle the voice of conscience. 
 He had left both his wife and his home. She 
 had only left the house whence her aunt had 
 been removed insane, whence he had banished 
 her mother, where not even his child had been 
 trusted to her care. 
 
 " I have been to blame," thought Mr. Tem- 
 plemore, with a sharp, remorseful pang; " but 
 I will make amends — I will make amends." 
 
 How many an erring heart has uttered the 
 words, and, alas ! to how few the power to ful- 
 fil them has been granted ! 
 
 CHAPTER XLVHI. 
 
 A distant church clock was striking eleven 
 when Dr. John Luan turned the corner of 
 Bedford Square. He had scarcely walked a 
 few steps toward his dwelling when a hand 
 was laid on his shoulder. He looked round 
 sharply, and, by the light of a gas-lamp, he 
 saw Mr. Templemore. They had never met, 
 yet John Luan knew at once this was Dora's 
 husband. 
 
 " Good-evening," gravely said Mr. Temple- 
 more. " I believe you know me. Your ser- 
 vant told me you are going away early to- 
 morrow morning, so I shall not detain you 
 long. My errand is quickly told. Mrs. Tem- 
 plemore forgot to leave her direction when she 
 went away from Les Eoches. May I trouble 
 you for it ? " 
 
 John Luan had got over the shock of un- 
 pleasant astonishment he had felt on seeing 
 Dora's husband, but this abrupt demand star- 
 tled him anew. 
 17 
 
 " You want Dora's address from me ! " he 
 said, sharply. 
 
 "Wby not? You do not mean to say, I 
 suppose, that your cousin is here in London 
 without your knowledge, Mr. Luan ? " 
 
 " And do you mean to say that your wife is 
 here in London without your knowledge, Mr. 
 Templemore ? " 
 
 He spoke with bitter emphasis, but Mr. 
 Templemore had come resolved not to lose his 
 temper. 
 
 " Am I likely to put such a question with- 
 out need ? " he said, gravely. 
 
 And so she had left him ! His cruelty and 
 his unkindness had compelled her to leave her 
 home and her husband. And her wronger 
 now applied to the man whom he had robbed 
 of his treasure for information concerning the 
 spot where it lay concealed ! John Luan's 
 blood boiled within him — but he was not given 
 to express anger, and he only said with sulky 
 bitterness : 
 
 " I know nothing about your wife, Mr. Tem- 
 plemore." 
 
 He turned to the house, as if to end the 
 matter ; but Mr. Templemore quietly stepped 
 between him and the door. 
 
 " I will not be balked thus," he said, dog- 
 gedly. " I impute no wrong to her or to you, 
 but you know her address, and I will have 
 it!" 
 
 " You impute no wrong," repeated John 
 Luan, in great indignation ; " and pray what 
 wrong could there be ? just tell me that, sir. 
 And, moreover, what do you mean by coming 
 to me to ask for your wife ? Ask her mother, 
 ask Mrs. Courtenay where she is, and do not 
 trouble me with a matter in which I have no 
 concern." 
 
 "Doctor John Luan," said Mr. Temple- 
 more, with some disdain, " Mrs. Courtenay is 
 dead, and I dare say you know it." 
 
 " Dead ! " repeated John Luan, with such 
 genuine amazement that Mr. Templemore's
 
 258 
 
 DORA. 
 
 heart fell. If the young man did not know 
 that, he knew nothing. Where, then, was 
 Dora? 
 
 The same question seemed to offer itself to 
 the mind of Dora's cousin. He turned almost 
 fiercely on Mr. Templemore. 
 
 "Where is she?" he said. " When and 
 how did my aunt die ? Where is Dora ? " 
 
 " I was away at the time," answered Mr. 
 Templemore, briefly ; " I believe Mrs. Courte- 
 nay died in England, but I have no cer- 
 tainty." 
 
 "And why were you away?" tauntingly 
 asked John Luan. " What ! married a fort- 
 night, and away so long that your mother-in- 
 law is dead, and your wife is vanished when 
 you return ? " 
 
 " Why I went away your mother might 
 have told you," bitterly answered Mr. Temple- 
 more ; "but let that rest. I did not come here 
 to account to you for matters of which you 
 are no judge. You say you do not know 
 where Dora is. Be it so. You can give me 
 no information, and I have nothing to tell 
 you." 
 
 He left him as he spoke thus; but John 
 Luan soon overtook him. 
 
 " Have you nothing to- tell me ? " he said, 
 losing all self-control in the bitterness of his 
 feelings ; " but may be I have something to 
 say to you. I tell you, sir, that if Dora does 
 not soon appear, I shall hold you guilty of her 
 fate, whatever that may be. I tell you there 
 is a great fear upon me, and that if this double 
 grief should have proved too much for her, I 
 shall hold you guilty before God and man ! " 
 
 "A fear — what fear?" asked Mr. Temple- 
 more, who was almost as angry as John Luan 
 now. 
 
 " You know what fear," was the taunting 
 reply, " for you feel it too. You know what 
 fear, for it brought you here to question me. 
 I say it again, if it prove true, I shall hold 
 you guilty." 
 
 He walked away abruptly, and Mr. Temple- 
 more did not follow him. 
 
 " I suppose he has a touch of his mother's 
 madness," he thought, trying to conquer his 
 wrath by scorn. 
 
 He felt angry, and nothing else. The fear 
 John Luan had alluded to could take no hold 
 upon him. That Dora had left him in anger 
 he knew — that she could have left him in the 
 despair which leads to the darkest end of a 
 human life he would not admit for a moment, 
 and as he, too, walked away in hot indigna- 
 tion, he wondered that John Luan should 
 have dared to suggest a close so cruel to 
 Dora's brief wedded life. But if Mr. Temple- 
 more rejected with anger and scorn this tor- 
 turing conjecture, he was full of perplexity 
 and grief as he walked home to his hotel. He 
 knew nothing, he had learned nothing, and he 
 felt powerless. Reason, philosophy, and will 
 had lost their boasted power over him now. 
 The wife whom he had so injudiciously left 
 had fled from him, and he knew not how to 
 conjure her back, how to charm away the sor- 
 rows he had caused, how to prevent the trou- 
 bles, and perhaps the dangers, that might be- 
 set her path. He knew that if he could find 
 her she would forgive him — he did not doubt 
 that one moment ; only where was the fugi- 
 tive, and how far had she fled? But if Mr. 
 Templemore felt troubled and perplexed, he 
 did not feel despondent. 
 
 Money is a great magician, and he knew it. 
 Money will unveil the most close! } - -guarded 
 secrets, and light up some of society's darkest 
 and most hidden nooks. It is the Sesame 
 before which doors fly open, or at whose bid- 
 ding they close again with inexorable stern- 
 ness. And money Mr. Templemore had. 
 With money he could soon be on her track, 
 and arrest her flight. He was of a sanguine 
 disposition, and he now felt certain of success. 
 Perhaps he was rather pleased, after all, not 
 to have found his wife through the medium of
 
 THE POLICE AGENT. 
 
 259 
 
 her cousin. Perhaps it was more soothing to 
 his pride to have to go and seek and pacify her 
 himself, than to have found her with BCarcely 
 an effort, but'through that young man's means. 
 However well he might think of Dora, it was 
 not to John Luan's care that he would have 
 consigned her. But the fact that she had not 
 sought this young man, who, though a lover, 
 was also her only relative, showed Mr. Temple- 
 more that his wife was still all his. Her grief 
 would admit no comforter, and had no need 
 to be spoken. She could make a dreary com- 
 panion of it, and take it with her to solitude. 
 " I shall soon find her," thought Mr. Tem- 
 plemore, as he paced his room up and down, 
 for he was too restless for sleep; "she is 
 either in Paris or in London. In either city 
 money will command men whose scent, quick- 
 ened by greed, is keener thau that of blood- 
 hounds, and who will detect her refuge, how- 
 ever close it may be. I shall soon find her, in 
 a week — in ten days, perhaps — in a fortnight, 
 at the utmost." 
 
 He looked out of the window on the gas-lit 
 streets ; he longed to detect a grayness in the 
 black sky and be gone ; but time and tide, 
 which wait for no man, will also hurry their 
 course for none. All Mr. Templemore's im- 
 patience only made the night seem more 
 tedious, and took not one second's weight 
 from its feverish hours. At length day came, 
 and with it departure. The train flew through 
 the country, the steamboat crossed the sea ; a 
 few hours more, and Mr. Templemore, after 
 stopping on a needful errand in Rouen, entered 
 Les Roches. He met Jacques as he was going 
 up the steps that led to the porch. A look at 
 the man's face told Mr. Templemore that 
 Jacques had no news for him. He put no 
 questions, but said briefly — 
 
 " I expect a visitor this evening or to-morrow. 
 Show him in at once, no matter what the hour 
 may be." 
 
 He entered the house, and said no more ; 
 
 but Jacques knew very well what this meant, 
 and when he went down to the kitchen, he 
 commented upon his master's domestic mis- 
 fortunes to the cook and the two housemaids, 
 whom he found there. " Monsieur had just 
 come back," he said, "and he had looked at 
 him, Jacques, so." 
 
 And as the gift, or at least the taste for 
 actiDg was strong upon Jacques, he rolled his 
 eyes in imitation of his master, and bent them 
 on the cook in a way that horrified her. 
 
 " You are hideous, Monsieur Jacques," she 
 said — " do not, you are hideous ! " 
 
 " I am only showing you how monsieur 
 looked," composedly replied Jacques ; "upon 
 which I looked so," he added, putting on, 
 with considerable success, the stolid, immova- 
 ble face of a well-bred servant-man. 
 
 The cook looked at him with more favor, 
 and said he was quite " comme il fant " when 
 he looked " so." 
 
 Jacques received the praise with profound 
 indifference (cook was forty-five), and con- 
 tinued his imitation of his master's looks, ap- 
 pearance, and language, ending with the sig- 
 nificant comment: "And so, as he could not 
 fiud madame, he has sent the police after her. 
 The ' agent ' is coming this evening, and I am 
 to show him in, no matter at what hour of the 
 night." 
 
 This interesting piece of information caused 
 some excitement in the minds of Jacques' three 
 listeners. There never yet was a household 
 without its factions, and Mr. Templemore's 
 bad bt^en divided ever since his wife's flight 
 had made his domestic troubles a subject of 
 discourse amongst his servants. Jacques, the 
 cook, and one of the housemaids, did not ap- 
 prove of Dora's elevation ; the younger house- 
 maid, on he contrary, admired so laudable a 
 precedent, ami gave it her warmest sanction. 
 On hearing of the police agent, she set up an 
 indigbant scream, and exclaimed that it was 
 " unc horrcur /"
 
 260 
 
 DORA. 
 
 " Stop, stop, mademoiselle, stop," dubiously 
 said Jacques, who wished to impress this 
 young lady with the extent of a husband's 
 rights — hoping he might have to exercise 
 them over her some day — to curb her ambi- 
 tion, which he considered dangerous, and yet, 
 oh ! difficult task, not to offend her. " Stop, 
 I beg. If monsieur has, as there is no doubt, 
 the right to get his wife brought back by 
 gendarmes, so has he the right to have her 
 found out by an ' agent.' The only thing is, 
 are they married ? Eich gentlemen do not 
 marry governesses every day. There was no 
 wedding. We saw nothing, and there may 
 be nothing. Her aunt wanted to kill her, her 
 cousin has a brain-fever, her mother dies, and 
 she runs away. I say again, are they mar- 
 lied '? Who saw it ? — who knows of it ? " 
 
 This daring hypothesis silenced them all 
 for a moment. Jacques resumed composedly : 
 
 " My belief is that poor mademoiselle, who 
 was a good young lady in her way, promised 
 her poor mother to behave better — and so 
 she ran away." 
 
 The young house-maid, who had recovered 
 by this, indignantly declared she did not be- 
 lieve a word Jacques had been sayiug, and 
 asked, with considerable asperity, what right 
 monsieur had to send gendarmes and police 
 agents after madame if she were not his wife ? 
 This logic being irrefutable, was met by 
 Jacques with the masculine reply, " that 
 women, though highly gifted, did not know 
 how to reason ; " and a quarrel, in which 
 cook took her share, followed, and led to a 
 considerable delay in the hour of Mr. Tcmple- 
 more's dinner. 
 
 He little thought, as he was pacing his 
 study up and down in a fever of expectation 
 and anxiety, waiting for news with alterna- 
 tives of hope and fear, that he was acting his 
 pad part just then to entertain, interest, and 
 excite his own servants. They are the first 
 spectators of that drama in which, at some 
 
 time or other of existence, we all appear, for 
 the benefit of our contemporaries. Whether 
 they stand behind a chair in a black coat, or 
 move about a villa in white cap and apron, 
 they have the best places in all that wide 
 audience which looks on so coolly whilst we 
 strive and suffer. Oh ! for the privilege of 
 silence and solitude in these sad hours of 
 life ; for the right of hiding our agony, as the 
 wild beast hides its death, in some dark hole 
 or other ! But from the days of the Roman 
 emperor downward, life and death are trans- 
 acted on the system of fame or approbation. 
 "Farewell, and clap your hands ! " says a dy- 
 ing Cfesar, when his part is out ; and the very 
 wretch on the scaffold dies not for himself 
 alone. He dies for the crowd, for the report- 
 ers, for the newspapers, for that world which 
 will coolly read of, or which beholds his last 
 pangs with a callous and a curious eye. And 
 he knows it and does his best. The evil is 
 beyond remedy, and we generally put a good 
 face upon it. Ignorance, besides, helps us to 
 endurance. We rarely know the precise 
 spot or hour when privacy ceases and publici- 
 ty begins. Human pity allows us a few illu- 
 sions, and we may hug ourselves on the hid- 
 ing of a pain which is world-known all the 
 time. Mr. Templemore knew in a geneial 
 way that his servants must be very busy with 
 his concerns just then, but he little knew how 
 far their comments extended. It surely would 
 have added a new sting to his lot if he could 
 have heard the construction Jacques put on 
 his young wife's flight. And yet some of 
 these comments showed Jacques to be gifted 
 with the acuteness of his class. On the after- 
 noon of the next day a handsome florid man 
 was shown into Mr. Templemore's study. He 
 stayed five minutes, no more, yet so potent 
 was his visit in its effects, that half an hour 
 after his departure Mr. Templemore was sit- 
 ting in a railway-carriage, going on to Paris 
 at express speed. In his right hand he held
 
 SOME INFORMATION OF MRS. TEMPLEM*ORE. 
 
 261 
 
 a scrap of paper, which he read again and 
 again. It ran thus : 
 
 " On the third of July a lady in deep mourn- 
 ing, with her veil closely drawn over her face, 
 entered the Rouen station, and took one first- 
 class ticket for Paris. The lady who delivers 
 the tickets could not see her well, but feels 
 sure that she was young. She also noticed 
 this strange lady's right hand ; it was un- 
 gloved, small, and remarkably pretty. She 
 likewise remembers that the lady wore a 
 peculiar ring — a small gold serpent, with an 
 emerald head." 
 
 That ring Mr. Templemore remembered 
 well. True, it might have been lost or stolen, 
 and its testimony could not be trusted abso- 
 lutely, but the pretty hand he had so often 
 admired, and which none could see and forget 
 again, convinced him that this was Dora. 
 This much he therefore knew, but he knew 
 no more. "What had happened during that 
 week which had elapsed from the day on 
 which Dora left Les Roches to the third of 
 July ? Where was Mrs. Courtenay ? Was 
 she living, or dead, as Fanny had said ? 
 Where was even Fanny? And what took 
 Dora to Paris ? These were questions which 
 the florid gentleman had candidly declared 
 himself unable to answer. With the clew in 
 his hands — a frail one — Mr. Templemore was 
 to find bis wife in the great human ocean 
 toward which he was speeding. 
 
 .CHAPTER XLIX. 
 
 The hot sunset was filling the busy streets 
 of Paris with a fiery glow, which shot up to 
 their highest balconies, and turned the trees 
 in the Tuileries into bronze and gold, when 
 Mr. Templemore entered once more the Hotel 
 Rue de Rivoli, which he had left three evenings 
 before. No other occupant had claimed his 
 rooms, and he returned to them as a matter 
 
 of course. He found on the table a torn 
 newspaper he had left there, and in a drawer 
 some cigars which he had forgotten. The 
 arm-chair was as he had placed it, near the 
 window, and when he sat down in it, his eyes 
 beheld the same bright scene they had gazed 
 on an hour before he went out on the Boule- 
 vards. The children and nursery-maids troop- 
 ing out of the Imperial Gardens, the tight little 
 sentinel looking at them as they passed, the 
 roll of carriages below, the loungers, all 
 seemed as much the same, as unchanged as 
 the glittering front of the palace itself, and 
 the rich masses of trees, with a white statue 
 gleaming through their sombre depths, or the 
 glimmer of a fountain shining far away. 
 Nothing was altered save his own mood. He 
 had beheld these things with a cold, dreary 
 gaze, the gaze of a man whom love and life 
 have wronged, and who cannot forgive his 
 wrongers. He looked at them now with the 
 feverish impatience of one who has wrought 
 his own undoing, who has cast the rare pearl 
 of happiness away, and who knows not whether 
 this world's deep and troubled sea will ever 
 yield it back again. 
 
 What if days, weeks, months, nay, years 
 should pass, and he should not find Dora ! 
 It was possible. Cruel and torturing was 
 the thought. It seemed to pierce his flesh 
 like a sharp arrow, and make it quiver with 
 the pa'in. And he was powerless. He might 
 employ such agents as he had already used, 
 but by his own efforts he could not hope to 
 succeed. Regret and baffled hope were his 
 companions now, and with their sad society 
 he must be content. Day after day memory 
 would haunt him with a fair face, and bright 
 hair, and the soft look of deep, gray eyes; 
 and in the meanwhile time would wither, and 
 death might destroy them — and what could 
 he do? The thought had something so cruel 
 and tantalizing in it, that, unable to bear it, 
 Mr. Templemore took his hat and went out.
 
 262 
 
 DORA. 
 
 He knew it was too late, that his erraud 
 was a useless one, yet he entered the gardens, 
 passed through them, went up the quays, then 
 crossed one of the bridges, and soon found 
 himself at the dull building where the Parisian 
 police sits in state. But as Mr. Templemore 
 had expected, the high official whom he want- 
 ed to see was gone, all the offices, indeed, were 
 closed, and the concierge informed " mon- 
 sieur that he had best return the next morn- 
 ing at ten." 
 
 Twilight was filling the streets as Mr. Tem- 
 plemore turned away; a few pale stars shone 
 in the summer sky, a faint breath of fresh- 
 ness came on the air; windows which had 
 been closed during the heat of the day now 
 opened, and laughing girls and women looked 
 out. But to Mr. Templemore all was vexa- 
 tion, all was weariness of spirit. The noble 
 river flowing through its quays, the distant 
 towers of Notre Dame rising dark in the hazy 
 air, the palaces and gardens and lines of trees 
 fading away in the soft heights behind which 
 lay Saint-Cloud, the vast, murmuring city be- 
 low, the calm and silent heavens above, were 
 nothing to him now. A thought was on him, 
 consuming as a quenchless thirst. That pas- 
 sion which had risen so suddenly in his heart, 
 which he had thrust away from him with cruel 
 and remorseless power, now came back to 
 him as the chastisement of his double faith- 
 lessness. He had loved two women, and he 
 had been quite true to neither. He had for- 
 gotten his betrothed in his wife, and he had 
 visited on his wife the sin of that forgetful- 
 ness. Yes, he knew it well enough now. 
 Shame at his own weakness had helped to 
 make him so prompt to judge and condemn. 
 He knew it, and what availed the knowl- 
 edge? — what good came of it through that 
 dreary evening and long, sleepless night ? 
 
 By ten the next morning, Mr. Templemore 
 had seen the high official whose assistance he 
 needed, and before noon he had received infor- 
 
 mation to the effect that, on the night of the 
 third of July, a lady, who gave the name of 
 Templemore, had slept at the Hotel du Pare, 
 Rue de la Vigue, which she had left the next 
 morning. It was useless to go and seek her 
 there, yet Mr. Templemore could not resist the 
 temptation of trying to find something beyond 
 this meagre intelligence. 
 
 The Rue de la Yigne was a grave, lonely 
 street, not far from the Havre railway-station. 
 It had few shops, but many private houses, 
 some of which were mansions, through whose 
 open gates you caught glimpses of dull court- 
 yards or green gardens. The Hotel du Pare 
 was a sober-looking house. No audacious 
 dancing pagan nymph adorned its quiet court, 
 but a modest, decorous muse stood in the cen- 
 tre of a grass-plot, which, by its green tone, 
 added to the cool, shady look of the place. A 
 sedate, steady-looking waiter of fifty stood at 
 the gate in a contemplative attitude — the house 
 was evidently both dull and respectable. 
 
 " Madame Templemore," said Mr. Temple- 
 more. 
 
 The waiter shook his head. They had no 
 such lady. But she had lived there ? The 
 waiter thought not, but was not obstinate, and 
 referred monsieur to the bureau. "There," 
 he said, stifling a yawn, " monsieur would get 
 every information." 
 
 The bureau was a little dark office on the 
 ground floor, where a decent-looking woman 
 sat reading a newspaper. On hearing Mr. 
 Templemore's request, she went to an old ink- 
 stained desk, opened a dingy manuscript vol- 
 ume, a Babel of names, and whilst she slowly 
 searched through its pages, Mr. Templemore 
 looked over her shoulder. Suddenly a fine, 
 delicate handwriting, which he knew well, 
 flashed before his eyes ; there it was, clear and 
 plain — " Madame Templemore, from Rouen." 
 
 "Ah! number twenty-one. The lady is 
 gone, sir — ^he came on the third, and left the 
 next mornins."
 
 REMARKABLE DISAPPEARANCE. 
 
 263 
 
 " And can you give me no clew to her pres- 
 ent abode, madame ? " 
 
 Madame feared not, but obligingly called the 
 waiter. From him, however, nothing could 
 be extracted. " Gone, sir," he mildly said ; 
 " that is all we know." 
 
 In vain Mr. Templemore questioned. What 
 the lady was like, if she had any luggage, how 
 she left the hotel, at what hour, on foot or in 
 a carriage, were matters on which the waiter 
 professed profound ignorance. He fancied, 
 indeed, that the lady had no luggage, and that 
 she must have walked out of the hotel after 
 paying her bill, but he would not pledge him- 
 self to it. They were full about that time, and 
 the matter had escaped his memory. The con- 
 cierge, the chambermaid, when questioned, 
 were as ignorant. They too remembered a 
 lady in mourning, with her veil down, but they 
 remembered no more. Mr. Templemore tor- 
 mented them all for an hour, and could get 
 nothing else out of them. At length the waiter 
 lost patience, and hinted that " monsieur had 
 better apply to the police," and, sick at heart, 
 Mr. Templemore turned away from that house 
 which had sheltered his wife for one night, and 
 kept no trace of her presence save that written 
 token. One thing, however, was beyond doubt, 
 Dora had come to Paris alone. " Her mother 
 is dead," he thought. 
 
 He went back at once to the high official 
 whom he had seen that morning ; and again, 
 on sending in his card, he was admitted to the 
 presence of a gentleman whose cheerful, good- 
 humored countenance gave not the faintest 
 index to the nature of his professional duties. 
 Surely those mild blue eyes might linger lazily 
 over the daily papers, "Figaro" in especial, 
 and take in accounts of theatres, dancers' quar- 
 rels, and the rest ; but they had never gazed 
 down the depths of social vice and crime. Such 
 was the impression Mr. Templemore had re- 
 ceived in the morning, and so strong was it 
 still, that he reluctantly entered anew on the 
 
 prosecution of the matter that had brought 
 him. 
 
 " I acted on the information you kindly sent 
 me," he said, sitting down with a wearied sigh ; 
 " it certainly was my wife who slept on the 
 third of July at the Hotel du Pare ; but she 
 spent only one night there, and lean ascertain 
 no more." 
 
 " Well, we know no more," said the high 
 official, smiling; "we told you so." 
 
 " Yes ; but surely you will be able to learn 
 more than this ? " urged Mr. Templemore. 
 
 " Oh ! of course — with time." 
 
 The qualification was thrown in carelessly, 
 as it were ; but it made Mr. Templemore bend 
 his keenest look on the man before him. 
 
 " I have great confidence in the Parisian 
 police," he said, watching the high official, 
 who leaned back in his arm-chair, and nodded 
 every now and then a sort of assent to Mr. 
 Templemore's words. "Their subtlety is un- 
 rivalled — nothing can equal their keenness 
 when on the scent, save their dogged perti- 
 nacity in pursuit." 
 
 "Very handsome and complimentary," said 
 the high official, smiling again, " and yet very 
 true. Our men are first-rate, and not all 
 French," he added. " We are cosmopolitan, 
 sir." 
 
 "And I feel no doubt of success in the 
 present case," continued Mr. Templemore. 
 
 " Nor do I ; but I anticipate delay. I sus- 
 pect we shall be stopped by the carriage as 
 usual." 
 
 " By the carriage ! " 
 
 " Yes, in all cases of mysterious disappear- 
 ance, there is invariably a carriage. You see, 
 since fiacres got their liberty, we have lost our 
 right hand, I may say. To be sure, they are, 
 or ought to be, numbered ; but the night 
 vehicles often evade the law. How did we 
 know that the lady went straight from the 
 Havre station to the Hotel du Pare ? By the 
 cabman ! But, unluckily, no cabman can be
 
 264 
 
 DORA. 
 
 found to say that he took her away on the 
 next morning. Yet it is very certain that she 
 only spent one night there." 
 
 " Perhaps she took a porter," suggested Mr. 
 Templemore, "and went on foot?" 
 
 " No porter in the neighborhood knows any- 
 thing about her," replied the high official, who 
 seemed perfectly conversant with every par- 
 ticular of the case. "We shall have hard 
 work, sir — hard work. It is not easy to find 
 people who are either unwilling or unable to 
 help us." 
 
 " Unable ! " said Mr. Templemore ; " in what 
 sense, may I ask ? " 
 
 " We have now several cases of mysterious 
 disappearance on hand," evasively replied the 
 high official, " and they are all utterly inex- 
 plicable. Take this, for instance, which I 
 shall call number one. A foreign nobleman 
 of high rank, free from debt or embarrassment 
 of. any kind, so far as our knowledge extends, 
 leaves his hotel one fine summer morning, and 
 returns no more. He goes out on foot, but is 
 seen driving in a common fiacre an hour later. 
 This, and no more, is all the knowledge we 
 have of his movements. His servants can give 
 no clew, his relatives know nothing ; and yester- 
 day his landlord sold his carriages, his horses, 
 and his furniture, to cover the rent, which 
 happens to be high. Where is that young 
 man ? Is he hiding, and if so, for what rea- 
 son? Is he dead, and how came he by his 
 death? These, sir, are matters on which the 
 keenest search has given us no sort of infor- 
 mation." 
 
 Mr. Templemore looked impatient. 
 
 " A young man's freak," he said. 
 
 " Very likely; but number two has another 
 complexion. An Indian merchant sends his 
 wife, bis sister, and his two children to Paris. 
 The wife is young — not beautiful — pious and 
 charitable — a fond wife and a fonder mother. 
 Her life is spent in the greatest retirement. 
 She seldom goes out alone. Well, sir, on an 
 
 unlucky day, when the sister-in-law is out, the 
 young wife goes out too — on business, she 
 tells her maid — and she never comes back. 
 Weeks and months are devoted to the closest 
 search, and we cannot find one trace of her — 
 not one. Did she go out on some charitable 
 errand, and fall into some dreadful trap, or 
 was she a false wife? Heaven knows, sir ; we 
 do not — but I forgot to tell you that she sent 
 for a carriage — a common fiacre — and that we 
 can find no trace of the same." 
 
 Drops of perspiration were standing on Mr. 
 Templemore's forehead. 
 
 " You spoke of a trap, sir — allow me to sug- 
 gest that you thus pay a poor compliment to 
 the Parisian police. Surely all evil-doers are 
 under its special control and notice." 
 
 The high official smiled. 
 
 " I doubt, sir, if you imagine how far that 
 notice and control extend. What will you 
 think, sir, when I tell you that we have not 
 merely the most accurate description of our 
 black sheep over all France, but that, thanks 
 to Caselli's telegraphic apparatus, their por- 
 traits and their autographs, sir,. can be sent in 
 a few moments to no matter what remote or 
 obscure station." 
 
 " Then what trap can be feared ? " impa- 
 tiently asked Mr. Templemore. 
 
 " We find some cases inexplicable on any 
 other hypothesis. Take number three, the 
 last case with which I shall trouble you. A 
 gentleman of middle age, of retired habits and 
 literary tastes, holding a responsible though 
 not lucrative position, suddenly declares that 
 he must take a short journey on some private 
 business. He takes little or no luggage with 
 him ; he is known to have but a small sum of 
 money in his possession ; he even leaves or 
 forgets a hundred francs on the table in his 
 room, and still, declaring that he shall not be 
 more than twenty-four hours away, he enters 
 a cab, which he had himself secured on his 
 way home from his office to his private resi-
 
 LEGEND "NUMBER FOUR." 
 
 265 
 
 dence. The cabman no doubt knew whither 
 to drive, for though the concierge stood at the 
 door to listen, the man received no direction 
 within her hearing. From that day to this we 
 have not been able to get the least knowledge 
 of number three. And do you know who 
 number three was, sir ? " asked the high 
 official, rising, and laying his hand on Mr. 
 Templemore's arm ; " he was one of the chief 
 men in our telegraphic office — the very man, 
 sir, at whose suggestion the Caselli apparatus 
 was first adapted to the detection of criminals." 
 
 If the high official had told Mr. Templemore 
 all this to damp Mr. Templemore's ardor, and 
 prepare him for ultimate defeat, he succeeded. 
 Mr. Templemore looked turned to stone, and 
 unable to speak. A trap ! — for to that fearful 
 suggestion his mind reverted — a trap in which 
 his young wife might have fallen ! — a trap so 
 deep down in the dark nether world of crime, 
 that, living or dead, it would never restore her 
 to light ! Was anything so sickening, so 
 frightful, possible ? He could not believe it, 
 and with a strong effort he shook off the 
 loathsome thought, and said, firmly : 
 
 '• Excuse me, sir, if I tell you that in this 
 great — this civilized city, perfect concealment 
 of crime is next to impossible." 
 
 " Forever, very true ; but for a time justice 
 can be baffled. In the three cases I have 
 mentioned we have found no corpses. The 
 Morgue has told us nothing, the river has 
 yielded back no victim, the lime-kilns and 
 stone-quarries, which abound round Paris, as 
 you may know, have been searched in vain, 
 the vast sewers in this city have not screened 
 the dead — in short, we are compelled to con- 
 clude that these missing persons have fled, 
 and are hiding willingly, or that they have 
 been foully dealt with, and buried in some 
 hidden spot. That they may have been con- 
 veyed away forcibly is just possible, but 
 wholly improbable." 
 
 "May I ask which you consider the more 
 
 likely hypothesis of the two ? " inquired Mr. 
 Templemore, as calmly as he could. 
 
 " I consider the chances equal. Crime is 
 but too frequent, as we all know ; and we all 
 know, too, that seemingly unruffled lives often 
 hide something which may make flight need- 
 ful. The motive is not always apparent, but 
 it exists, for all that. However, in this case 
 we will for the present take a third hypothesis 
 — that of ill-luck. A letter may have been 
 written which you did not receive ; some de- 
 signing or foolish person may have broken 
 the chain of evidence, and wantonly given us 
 all this work, but it does not follow that we 
 may not find the missing link again. We may 
 find it to-day, or, maybe, in three weeks. Our 
 agents are keen, cool, and steady, and we 
 spend five millions a year." 
 
 He ceased, and Mr. Templemore, after a 
 brief pause, which showed him that he had no 
 more to learn, rose slowly and took his leave. 
 But unreality was around him, and walked in 
 his steps. The streets, the houses in them, 
 the men and women whom he met, were all 
 shadowy and dim. He had but one thought, 
 and that was torture ; but little by little the 
 morbid and unnatural fear vanished. No, Dora 
 had neither been kidnapped nor ensnared. ' 
 She had fled from him in resentment, and it 
 might be hard to find her again ; but find her 
 he must. He was sure of it — even as sure as 
 that he could charm away her wrath. 
 
 By the time Mr. Templemore reached his 
 hotel, he was as sanguine and as hopeful as 
 ever. The event seemed to justify his antici- 
 pations. That very evening he received news 
 from the police which made him flu-h up with 
 joy. He seized his hat, went down-stairs, and 
 left the hotel without saying a word to any 
 one. 
 
 And now the high official had an excellent 
 opportunity, if he chose to avail himself of it, 
 to add number four to the list of his mys- 
 terious disappearances. Mr. Templemore
 
 266 
 
 DORA. 
 
 did not return that night, nor the next morn- 
 ing, nor for days that lengthened into weeks. 
 He had left his trunk, his carpet-bag, his 
 books, and even some money behind him, so 
 great had been his haste, and still he neither 
 returned, nor wrote, nor gave any clew to his 
 Avhereabouts. 
 
 The master of the hotel was at first satisfied 
 with scoring down the absent lodger's rooms 
 to his account ; but when a whole fortnight 
 had passed by he cleared the apartments of 
 Mr. Templemore's property, let them to other 
 guests, and went and laid the whole matter 
 before the police. 
 
 The police knew he was not in Paris, but 
 they knew no more ; the story spread and 
 created a sensation, then it became a legend 
 of the hotel, and still Mr. Ternplernore did not 
 return. 
 
 CHAPTER L. 
 
 As there can be nothing in this world which 
 does not belong to some one, so the legend of 
 Mr. Templemore's disappearance was early 
 appropriated and pertinaciously retained by 
 the concierge in his late hotel. Ee had but 
 one way of delivering it, but that was effec- 
 tive. Whenever a new-comer entered his 
 comfortable room, and made inquiries concern- 
 ing apartments to be had, the concierge would 
 ejaculate thoughtfully : " Why, yes, there is 
 number seven, the apartment of the poor 
 gentleman who vanished so mysteriously ; but 
 did you say one room, sir ? Then number 
 seven will not do ; better have number 
 fifteen." 
 
 Paris was very busy just then with mysteri- 
 ous disappearances. Number three had been 
 found drowned in England, but how he had 
 come by that fatal end no one could say. It 
 might be a suicide — it might be worse. A 
 mystery it was, and would probably remain till 
 ,thc great Judgment-Pay — the revealer of all 
 
 secrets. Now, the owner of Mr. Templemore's 
 legend cherished the secret hope that it would 
 have some such tragic ending. Thus — part 
 the first ; a mystery. Part the second : clear- 
 ing of the mystery by a second mystery, never 
 to be cleared on any account. 
 
 But it was not to be. A traveller came one 
 afternoon, a skeptical traveller, a Thomas of 
 Didymus, who sharply interrupted the legend, 
 and denied it peremptorily, and asked " what 
 ridiculous story this was ? " 
 
 " Monsieur ! " indignantly exclaimed the 
 concierge; but he said no more. He stared 
 with open mouth and eyes at the stranger, in 
 whom he recognized Mr. Templemore himself. 
 He was much worn, and looked haggard, but 
 his identity could not be disputed, and thus 
 ended number four and the legend. 
 
 Trouble and Mr. Templemore had been 
 closely acquainted since we saw him last. 
 Acting on information from the police, which 
 convinced him that he had at length found his 
 wife, Mr. Templemore had gone to a boarding- 
 house in Passy, and asked to see Mrs. Poster, 
 exactly a quarter of an hour after that lady 
 had gone to England. He followed her at once, 
 but reached the station ten minutes after the 
 departure of the train. He took an express 
 train, but the same ill-luck pursued him. There 
 was an accident, the train was delayed two 
 hours ; and when Mr. Templemore reached 
 Boulogne, he could see from the pier the smoke 
 of a steamer fading away on the horizon. Mrs. 
 Poster, he learned without a doubt, was on 
 board. 
 
 This was but the first step in a keen pursuit, 
 which ended in blank disappointment. For 
 several weeks Mr. Templemore was on the un- 
 known Mrs. Poster's track ; then she suddenly 
 vanished, and was found no more. Was she 
 really Dora ? He did not even know that ; he 
 knew nothing, he could learn nothing. If the 
 grave had received his wife, she could scarcely 
 have vanished more completely than this from
 
 MONSIEUR DURAND. 
 
 2G7 
 
 all knowledge of the living. No one had seen, 
 no one seemed ever to have known her. It 
 was as if the being who was so dear to him 
 had lived for himself alone, for Mr. Temple- 
 more could find no token of ber vacant place. 
 To have vanished was for Dora to have been 
 forgotten. 
 
 Wearied and disheartened, Mr. Templemore 
 returned to Paris, and, even before going to his 
 hotel,, called again upon the high official ; but 
 that gentleman was out of town, and in his 
 stead Mr. Templemore found a nervous little 
 man, who knew nothing, who would say noth- 
 ing, and who was evidently most anxious to get 
 rid of his visitor. 
 
 He "would place the matter in the hands of 
 Durand ; Durand was sure to know every- 
 thing about it ; Burand would call upon Mr. 
 Templemore, and save him the trouble of 
 coming again. Tes, Durand would be sure 
 to call and tell him, even if there was nothing 
 to tell. It was useless to insist, and though 
 burning with secret indignation and impa- 
 tience, Mr. Templemore had to submit and take 
 his leave. 
 
 For two days he waited. But no monsieur 
 Durand appeared. No letter, no message 
 even, came to set at rest the fever in which he 
 lived. On the evening of the second day, Mr. 
 Templemore, who had not left his room, went 
 out, but he could not stay away more than 
 a few minutes. He turned back as eager as 
 if he had been away on a long journey, and 
 expected news on his return. He entered the 
 lodge of the concierge, and looking at him 
 searchingly, he said — 
 
 "No letter?" 
 
 " None for monsieur." 
 
 " And no message ? " 
 
 " None of any kind ; monsieur," added the 
 concierge, looking injured, " has been gone 
 three minutes." 
 
 " I did not ask you how long I had been 
 gone," replied Mr. Templemore, with a sort of 
 
 fierceness — so the concierge called it — in hi,-; 
 looks, which greatly affronted that dignitary. 
 Unconscious, perhaps, of the asperity of his 
 reply, Mr. Templemore went back to his 
 apartment. 
 
 "I must renew the search on my own ac- 
 count," he thought, as he paced his room up 
 and down, " even though I fail again, and 
 allow myself to be led away by a mere ignis 
 faluus ; the search itself will relieve me, and 
 this waiting, this suspense, is maddening." 
 
 He had scarcely come to this conclusion 
 when he heard a low tap at his door. 
 
 " Come in," he said, with a sudden beating 
 of the heart, that came from neither hope nor 
 fear, but partook of both. 
 
 The door opened, and a low, thin man, with 
 a bundle under his arm, entered the room. 
 
 "Are you Monsieur Durand ? " 
 
 " I am, sir." 
 
 " Have you found her ? " 
 
 " I have not exactly found the lady, sir, but 
 I bring some information about the lady." 
 
 Mr. Templemore's face fell. He wanted 
 Dora. If they had her not, he cared little 
 about their information. 
 
 Monsieur Durand resumed, composedly : 
 • " Something was astray, too, and so I could 
 not come at once." 
 
 " What have you got there ? What do you 
 come to tell me ? " 
 
 Mr. Templemore spoke hastily. This Mon- 
 sieur Durand was hateful to him. He was a 
 pale, thin man, with restless eyes, and as Mr. 
 Templemore met their look, he could not help 
 thinking that if, instead of seeking out the 
 fugitive to bring her back to the fondness of 
 a repentant husband, their task had been to 
 hunt her down to shame or death, they would 
 have done it without shrinking and remorse. 
 
 Whether Monsieur Durand guessed or not 
 the feeling with which he was regarded by 
 Mr. Templemore, he preserved his composure, 
 and replied very calmly :
 
 268 
 
 DORA. 
 
 " An English lady in mourning, young and 
 pretty, lived in a furnished room, let by the 
 owner of a brie-d-brac shop, Rue de la Serpe. 
 She was Madame Smith. 1 ' 
 
 He looked at Mr. Templemore. 
 
 "Well," he said, impatiently, "Madame 
 Smith has left the place, I suppose ?" 
 
 " Oh ! yes, she has left it. And after she 
 left, a young Englishman came and inquired 
 after her — a good deal ; I suppose it was not 
 
 monsieur 
 
 9 » 
 
 The blood rushed up into Mr. Templemore's 
 face. 
 
 " A gentleman ! what gentleman ? " he 
 asked sharply, for he thought of John Luan. 
 
 But Monsieur Durand's knowledge did not 
 extend thus far. He shook his head — he 
 could not tell. 
 
 " Well, and what about Madame Smith ? " 
 asked Mr. Templemore, after a brief pause, 
 " for I suppose you have something to tell 
 me." 
 
 "I have, sir," and Monsieur Durand began 
 untying the bundle. He drew forth a woman's 
 dress, black, but dreadfully rumpled, and he 
 inquired " if monsieur knew that ? " 
 
 " It is impossible for me to know it," replied 
 Mr. Templemore; "that mourning — if it be- 
 longs to my wife — was purchased whilst I was 
 away." 
 
 " And linen — would monsieur know linen ? " 
 
 Mr. Templemore saw Monsieur Durand's 
 hands fumble at something white. 
 
 "The mark will tell us," he said, eagerly ap- 
 proaching. 
 
 " Ah ! there is none, unluckily," remarked 
 Monsieur Durand ; " look ! " and he showed 
 him that the mark had been cut out. 
 
 " Then how can I tell '? " impatiently asked 
 Mr. Templemore. " What are these things? — 
 how did you get them ? " 
 
 " I will tell monsieur directly how they came 
 into the hands of the police; but I may re- 
 mark, first, that the linen is fine, and that the 
 
 dress, though spoiled, is almost new, and was 
 expensive. And now I will tell monsieur all 
 about them. That Madame Smith to whom 
 they belonged took the room in the Rue de la 
 Serpe several weeks ago. She was in mourn- 
 ing ; she spoke little and cried often. A week 
 after taking her room she left it one evening, 
 and never came back. Her trunk was empty, 
 but her rent had been paid in advance, so her 
 landlady had nothing to say. On that same 
 evening, however — that is to say, the fifteenth 
 of July, when there was a great storm — a 
 woman in mourning climbed up on the ledge 
 of the Pont de la Concorde, and leaped into 
 the Seine. Three days later her body was 
 found and taken to the Morgue, where it was 
 identified by her landlady ; and these," calmly 
 continued Monsieur Durand, " are the clothes 
 she wore." 
 
 On the evening of the fifteenth of July ! — 
 that is to say on the evening when he was at 
 the play, when he paid for the diamond cross, 
 when he travelled home through the storm to 
 seek her ! — on that evening this woman, wno 
 was supposed to be his wife, had committed 
 suicide ! 
 
 " It is impossible ! " at length exclaimed 
 Mr. Templemore. "I will believe anything 
 else — that never ! Take those things away," 
 he added angrily, looking at the clothes, which 
 had kept such strong traces of their three days' 
 sojourn in the water; "and let me never hear 
 of that Madame Smith again ! " 
 
 "Then monsieur would rather not see the 
 photograph ! " said Monsieur Durand, leisurely 
 tying up the bundle. 
 
 "What photograph?" sharply asked Mr. 
 Templemore. 
 
 " Oh ! it was taken after death, you know." 
 
 A cold fear crept to Mr. Templemore's very 
 heart, but he would not yield to it. 
 
 "Show it to me," he said briefly. 
 
 Monsieur Durand fumbled in his pocket, 
 and drew forth a photograph ten inches square.
 
 THE SUICIDE. 
 
 2G9 
 
 As he first unwrapped and then handed it to 
 Mr. Templemore, he said: 
 
 " It had gone astray ; and, to say the truth, 
 that is why monsieur hud to wait two days." 
 
 Mr. Templemore did not heed or even hear 
 him. He stared breathless at that image of 
 the dead — so cold, so calm, and so awfully 
 like her, and the very beatings of his heart 
 seemed to grow still. Yes, thus he had seen 
 her sleeping, with closed eyes and half-parted 
 lips ; but in another slumber than this. How 
 heavy seemed this sleep ! The voice of love 
 would never bid those pale lids unveil the 
 bright eyes he remembered so well — never 
 more would those lips smile half fondly, half 
 shyly as he spoke. The head which a stran- 
 ger's hand had placed on the pillow had sunk 
 upon it in such weariness of all earthly things, 
 that it could never be raised again. Life held 
 nothing — no love, no voice, no aspect which 
 could waken this slumberer from her charmed 
 sleep. She was locked in it forever and for- 
 ever. 
 
 Was it thus? he thought. Perhaps not, 
 but it was thus he felt in the first bitter agony 
 of that moment. " my God ! can it be she ? " 
 he exclaimed, with parched lips — " can it be 
 she?" 
 
 The doubt following an awful certainty was a 
 sort of exquisite relief. For thi3 dead woman 
 might not be Dora after all. A dreadful past, 
 a bitter story, might have led her to a despair- 
 ing death, and she might not be his wife. 
 Perhaps even she was not so very much like 
 her. Surely there had been nothing — nothing 
 which could drive Dora to despair like this ? 
 He looked again, but he was not calm enough 
 to see well ; there was a mist in his eyes, his 
 hand shook, he dreaded that fatal resem- 
 blance ; but his will, which was a strong one, 
 prevailed and conquered that weakness. Once 
 more he saw that image, and oh ! how he 
 blessed Heaven from the fulness of his heart — 
 it already seemed less like ! 
 
 " This lady was older than my wife," said 
 Mr. Templemore ; " older and thinner." 
 
 " Photographs make people look old," re- 
 marked Monsieur Durand. 
 
 "She was older than my wife," persisted Mr. 
 Templemore, almost angrily ; " besides, I can- 
 not trust a photograph — every oue knows that 
 light, that position, that the slightest accident 
 can produce a complete change in a face, dead 
 or living." 
 
 He looked defiantly at Monsieur Durand, 
 who did not answer one word. He had not 
 come to argue Or to convince. All this was 
 nothing to him. Opposition could have made 
 Mr. Templemore vow that this dead woman had 
 never been his wife ; but this cold silence threw 
 him back on dreadful uncertainty. 
 
 "Is that all?" he asked feverishly; "is 
 there no more? — do you know no more ? " 
 
 "Xo more," laconically echoed Monsieur 
 Durand ; " I went to the Piue de la Serpe to 
 learn something before I came to monsieur, but 
 there was nothing." 
 
 "What color was her hair of?" suddenly 
 asked Mr. Templemore. 
 
 Monsieur Durand looked annoyed. " Brown, 
 I believe ; but they were very negligent, I am 
 sorry to say — they took none." 
 
 Monsieur Durand said this in a tone which 
 implied plainly that if the case had been in his 
 hands, so important a link in the chain of evi- 
 dence would never have been broken. 
 
 There was a brief pause, then Mr. Temple- 
 more said, " Take me to that Rue de la Serpe." 
 
 Monsieur Durand bowed, and said not a 
 word. He was one of the modern slaves of the 
 lamp, and to obey the master of the lamp — 
 namely, the owner and dispenser of a certain 
 amount of Xapoleons — was his duty. 
 
 It is easy to deny ; but, alas ! denial is not 
 always unbelief. 
 
 Mr. Templemore followed his conductor, and 
 felt in a sort of stupor. Could his keen and 
 anxious search for a loved and living wife, end
 
 270 
 
 DORA. 
 
 thus in the great gap and dark pit of Death ? 
 Could the tender frame which had been so dear 
 to him have drifted helplessly down the dark 
 river, with the chill waters flowing over that 
 loved face, and loosening the long bright hair 
 his hand had caressed so fondly ? 
 
 There is an unreality in the death of what we 
 love, which strong minds feel as well as the 
 weak. Death was familiar to Mr. Templemore's 
 mind, but not the death of a passionately loved 
 woman. It was not a certainty yet, and he 
 could not and would not believe it ; but be- 
 yond that revolt and denial loomed a possibil- 
 ity which invested the present and every sur- 
 rounding object with the vagueness of a dream. 
 The living streets through which he passed had 
 something abstract about them — they were 
 and they were not. The roll of the carriages, 
 the sounds of life, came from afar, and their 
 din and tumult were softened by that distance 
 which one thought placed between him and 
 all surrounding things. He did not believe it, 
 and yet he shuddered as he saw the swollen 
 Seine flowing on to the sea, and bearing away 
 with it to that great bourne, many an unknown 
 human burden. If it were true! 
 
 They passed by the Morgue. He saw Mon- 
 sieur Durand glance toward it. He looked at 
 it too — with what secret horror ! If it were 
 true ! If she had really rested there on one 
 of those cold stone slabs which he remembered 
 so well ! Heaven, was that the bed he 
 had made for her ! He revolted against the 
 foul thought — he bade it defiance. In the 
 name of the love which, though but for a few 
 . had bound them so fondly, he bade it 
 ne. It was not possible that she had thus 
 • 1. -paired of love and life — that she whom he 
 had known so joyous, with a brave, warm heart 
 and a living faith, had thus violently and sin- 
 fully denied both. 
 
 It was not possible ; but he breathed more 
 freely when they left the river behind them. 
 They entered a narrow stone world, dark and 
 
 stifling, and yet seemed to come no nearer to 
 the goal of their journey. At length Monsieur 
 Durand stood still, and when Mr. Templemore 
 came up to him, he said : 
 
 " This is the Rue de la Serpe, and yonder, 
 where you see the bric-d-brac shop, is the house. 
 Shall I go with monsieur, or does he wish to 
 go alone ? " 
 
 " I shall go alone. You need not wait for 
 me, thank you." 
 
 Monsieur Durand bowed, turned the corner 
 of a street, and vanished. Perhaps he did not 
 go very far, after all, but Mr. Templemore 
 neither knew nor cared. The setting sun filled 
 the street with its level rays, and half blinded 
 him as he walked up to the bric-d-brac shop. 
 Oh ! that the street had had no ending — that 
 this goal had never been reached, if it was to 
 lead to cruel knowledge ! 
 
 The house was mean and narrow. Above 
 the door dangled a yellow bill with " Furnished 
 Room to Let." The shop was one of the poor- 
 est of its kind. Here were no rare relics of the 
 past, each telling the story of a king's reign. 
 Xo tapestry, no Sevres, no Boucher and Wat- 
 teau shepherdesses, no traces even of Revolu- 
 tion and Empire, or tokens of the East, in blue 
 vases and gilt dragons, were there. Mr. Tem- 
 plemore saw nothing but the dingy, common- 
 place and dilapidated ruins of the present gen- 
 eration. Shattered mahogany chests of draw- 
 ers, ruined card-tables, with the green baize 
 half torn off, faded artificial flowers in com- 
 mon china vases under dusty glass shades, and 
 showy little gilt clocks, abounded. But com- 
 monplace though all these objects were, they 
 were also very dreary. They told of ruined 
 and broken homes, and told it without the 
 softening grace of the past. 
 
 Mr. Templemore entered the shop. A stout, 
 middle-aged woman came forward, and asked 
 his pleasure. 
 
 " You have a furnished room to let," he re- 
 plied — " let me see it."
 
 THE LOCK OF HAIR. 
 
 271 
 
 "This way, sir;" and leaving the shop in 
 the care of a child, she showed him up a dark, 
 steep staircase, into a small, gloomy bedroom, 
 which, spite the heat of the day, felt strangely 
 chill. Why are these places alike all the world 
 over ? Why do they all bear the same cold, 
 homeless look, which, with every difference 
 of climate and manners, we recognize at once ? 
 Mr. Templemore looked about him, but the 
 plain bed of walnut-tree wood, the chest of 
 drawers and toilet-table, told him no story. 
 Everything was tolerably clean and dreadfully 
 comfortless. He went to the window and 
 opened it. Below him lay a small yard. The 
 greenish hue of the stones with which it was 
 pived told of habitual damp. A tall, miser- 
 able-looking pump stood in one corner. A 
 few flowers in pots, withering for want of sun 
 and pure air, had been placed near it, Heaven 
 knows for what purpose. High walls dotted 
 with windows enclosed this court, and made a 
 well of it. Mr. Templemore shut the window 
 with a slight shiver. Was it possible that her 
 eyes had gazed on that dreary prospect ? Had 
 she lain and brooded over her wrongs in that 
 wretched bed, until she rose on her last morn- 
 ing, resolved to end all that night ? Oh, in- 
 sufferable thought ! 
 
 " It is a pleasant room, sir," said the mar- 
 cliande cheerfully — " nice and airy." 
 
 " Yet some people might object to it," re- 
 plied Mr. Templemore. 
 
 " Why should they, sir ? " was the prompt 
 reply. 
 
 " You know my meaning," he said. 
 
 "Ah! about the poor lady. Why sir, she 
 did not do it here. She was not even brought 
 home here." 
 
 She spoke of it in a commonplace, matter- 
 of-fact tone that sickened him. He could bear 
 this no longer. He opened his pocket-book, 
 and took out a paper, which contained a lock 
 of Dora's hair. 
 
 Brief though Mr. Templemore's wooing had 
 
 been, he aud Dora had, nevertheless, read to- 
 gether a few opening chapters of the long, fair 
 book of love. One day, when he pressed her 
 to importunity to accept a gift from him, anil 
 she refused, with the proud, sad question, 
 " What can I give you in return, Mr. Temple- 
 more ? " he had lifted up one of the locks of 
 hair she wore tied with a blue ribbon at the 
 back of her head in a nymph-like fashion, 
 which he had praised once, and he had said, 
 with a smile, " You could give me this." " Hair 
 is too dear," mischievously answered Dora. Mr. 
 Templemore, who knew that a lady's locks are 
 not always her own, blushed. Dora laughed, 
 and Mrs. Courtenay, untying the blue ribbon, 
 let her daughter's long rich curls flow loosely, 
 and at once cut off one, which she trium- 
 phantly placed in Mr. Templemore's hand. It 
 was Dora's turn to look rueful, and his to 
 smile. He had reached the age, indeed, when 
 even an enamoured man does not think it a 
 priceless boon to have a lock of a beloved 
 woman's hair; besides, that bright head was 
 almost his, and such instalments lose in value 
 when possession is near and sure ; but there is 
 a pleasure in receiving the keys of a con-, 
 quered citadel, even though its capitulation be 
 imminent; and so, as he held this token of 
 her subjection, Mr. Templemore looked at his 
 future wife with gentle and not unkind triumph, 
 and the lock thus won he kept very carefully 
 — it was useless, but it was dear. Now, how- 
 ever, its use had come. That lock of hair 
 might save him from long misery. 
 
 "Was her hair like this?" he asked, in a 
 broken voice, and with a face so pale that the 
 woman drew back startled. "Speak! Oh1 
 for God's sake, speak ! " he urged. " Tel! me 
 the truth, whatever that may be." 
 
 " I know nothing, sir," replied I 
 chande ; " I never saw the poor lady. It was 
 my cousin who kept the shop then." 
 
 " Your cousin, where is she ? She must 
 tell me — she shall ! "
 
 272 
 
 DOHA. 
 
 His looks and his tones had passed from 
 grief to menace. But there is one with whom 
 we must reckon in every human emergency, a 
 grim keeper of secrets, whom no threats can 
 terrify, whom no promises can bribe, and that 
 one now chose to step in between Mr. Tem- 
 plemore and the knowledge he wanted. 
 
 " My cousin is dead, sir," said the mar- 
 chande. 
 
 Dead ! That woman whom he had delayed 
 to'question till the last moment, so much did 
 he dread her reply, was now forever beyond 
 his reach. He was baffled again; another 
 dead woman stood between him and the truth ; 
 yet it was a terrible sort of relief to feel that 
 he could not get at the fatal certainty ; to 
 doubt meant to Mope. 
 
 " And so that was her hair," said the woman, 
 looking curiously at the lock of hair which his 
 passive hand still beld ; " very beautiful hair 
 — I remember my poor cousin said so." 
 
 She looked both inquisitive and interested. 
 He saw that the knowledge he so dreaded 
 would be welcome to that woman. She wanted 
 the mystery of that drama to be solved, and 
 there would be a grim satisfaction to her in 
 the knell of all his hopes. He hurriedly hid 
 the hair from her sight. He would not trust 
 her. In her wish to find a meaning to the sad 
 story of the unknown dead, she might deceive 
 herself and help to deceive him. 
 
 " I think it was chiefly by her hair my 
 cousin identified the poor lady," continued the 
 marchande ; " I know it was beautiful hair." 
 
 Mr. Templemore heard her and was mute ; 
 the conviction and the hope with which he had 
 entered this place were leaving him inch by 
 inch. He did his best to keep them — he 
 grasped them as a drowning man grasps his 
 last plank of safety, and they would not abide 
 with him. They floated farther and farther 
 away on the dark and dismal sea of doubt. He 
 did not indeed believe that the suicide and his 
 wife were one, but then he ivas no longer sure 
 
 that they were not. He could not speak, he 
 could not argue, he could not even hear this 
 mentioned. He went down-stairs, and slipping 
 some money in the child's hand, he left the 
 shop without saying a word. He walked 
 away, not knowing whither he went, neither 
 thinking nor remembering aught beyond a 
 ceaseless question, which ever rang within him 
 like a knell, "Was it Dora ? " 
 
 When thought returned to Mr. Templemore, 
 he was standing on the quays, with the river, 
 the bridges, and a distant prospect of church 
 towers on one hand, and the verdure of trees 
 on the other. The soft bluish mists of even- 
 ing w r ere abroad, and rosy clouds, still flushed 
 with the sunset, floated across the sky. It was 
 a fair and delicious picture, and yet Mr. Tem- 
 plemore felt as if it broke his heart. His for- 
 titude seemed to give way every time he gazed 
 on those dark green waters, and still he lin- 
 gered near them. Gradually his steps led him 
 to that bridge built with the stones of the 
 Bastile, whence the dead woman was said to 
 have taken her fatal spring. The palace of the 
 Corps Legislatif rises at one end of the bridge, 
 and at the other extends the Place de la Con- 
 corde, with its eight statues of the cities of 
 France, its bronzed fountains, and its old 
 Egyptian obelisk. The night was one of full 
 moon, and it was both bright and calm. The 
 reflection of the lights burning on distant 
 bridges scarcely quivered in the waters of the 
 quiet river. Mr. Templemore looked at it as 
 he walked up and down the bridge, striving 
 against the cruel tempter who ever whispered : 
 " What if it should be true ? " 
 
 It is strange how hateful senseless, inani- 
 mate objects can become when such a mood 
 as Mr. Templemore's is upon us. Every time 
 he came back to the palace of the French 
 Legislative Assembly, and saw the statues of 
 Sully, d'Aguesseau, l'Hopital, and Colbert, 
 who sit so calmly guarding its wide gates-a 
 sort of wrath at their stillness and unchang-
 
 DR. LUAN REPORTS IIIS COUSIN'S DEATII. 
 
 273 
 
 ing a'titudc, at that peace of the grave which 
 had been theirs so long, and now seemed trans- 
 mitted to their stone effigies, rose within him. 
 After awhile he felt that he could not bear 
 this any longer. He left the bridge and struck 
 into that long avenue of trees which follows 
 the course of the river. It was a green wilder- 
 ness in the days when Anne of Austria was 
 gay and young, and for her sake it is still 
 called Cours la Reine. lie went again over the 
 evening's dreary story, and the resemblance 
 between Dora and the photograph seemed 
 to fade away as he thought of it. 'Was not 
 Nanette's enamel like Dora ? Did not the 
 young actress recall her ? What was there in 
 that likeness, after all, that he should go 
 through stteh agony ? Hope grew stronger as 
 calmness returned to his mind, bringing with 
 it the greatest sense of relief he had expe- 
 rienced since his weary search began. It 
 seemed as if by passing through this terrible 
 doubt he had gained all that he bad not ac- 
 tually lost. 
 
 At length he turned homeward. He passed 
 by one of the Cafes Chantants. The little 
 stage looked bright in the darkness of the sur- 
 rounding trees. Three girls in scarlet cloaks 
 were sitting, a fourth in blue stood and sang. 
 " She is consumptive," thought Mr. Temple- 
 more, giving her a critical look. "Poor little 
 thing, how long will she last, with those bare 
 shoulders and the night air ? " ne had stopped 
 for a moment ; he now walked on, and as he 
 thus turned away he saw a pale, stem face be- 
 hind him — the face of John Luan. 
 
 " Pray hear the singer out," said the young 
 man; "I should be sorry to interfere villi 
 your pleasure." 
 
 He got no answer. There was something 
 in his aspect which sent a chill to Mr. Temple- 
 more's heart. It was as if his fate had risen 
 from the darkness of the night, and now stood 
 before him. They both remained a few mo- 
 ments silent, then John Luan spoke again. 
 IS 
 
 " I come to bring you the news you asked 
 of me two months back. I learned, no matter 
 how, that you were in Paris, and I followed 
 you for that." 
 
 Still Mr. Templemore did not answer, but 
 he walked beyond the circle of the crowd, and 
 John Luan followed him. When they stood 
 alone near one of the gas-lights of the avenue, 
 John Luan said : 
 
 " I bring you news of your wife, Mr. Tem- 
 plemore — she is dead ! " 
 
 " 'Tis false ! " angrily replied Mr. Temple- 
 more, speaking for the first time. 
 
 " She is dead," doggedly said John Luan. 
 " You have killed her — remember that. You 
 took her to your house young, innocent, and 
 happy, and you disgraced her — I know it all 
 now — you robbed her of fair name, peace, and 
 finally of life — remember that, I say ! Your 
 wife is dead ! " 
 
 " How and when did she die ? " 
 
 " That you shall never know from me. She 
 died a cruel, despairing death. That much I 
 can tell you." 
 
 " I defy you to prove it ! " said Mr. Temple- 
 more, trembling with passion. 
 
 "I shall never attempt to do that," replied 
 John Luan, with a cold, stern smile, " never. 
 She has been dead two months, and two 
 months I have known it, and I have not said 
 a word, I have not made a sign. Did you 
 think that I would help you, you her mur- 
 derer, to happiness and liberty ? Did you 
 think that any assistance of mine would en- 
 able you to marry Florence Gale ? No — she 
 is dead, but you shall never be able to prove 
 it. You shall never recover and enjoy your 
 liberty. If you really doubt, you shall doubt 
 on, and be thus chastised. And if you do not 
 doubt, yet, as you shall never be able to im- 
 part your certainty to others, so shall you 
 again be chastised. And thus," added John 
 Luan, looking him steadily iu the face, " I 
 Bhall have my revenge."
 
 274 
 
 DORA. 
 
 " Your revenge, because Dora loved me ! " 
 replied Mr. Templetnore, with much indigna- 
 tion. " If I did not think you half mad, Mr. 
 Luan — for your language is not that of a sane 
 man — I would tell you that my revenge for 
 your malice will be to recover my wife and 
 be happy with her. You say she is dead, and 
 I tell you she is living ! 1 tell you nothing 
 shall convince me that she and the unhappy 
 woman of the Rue de la Serpe were one. You 
 see I am better informed than you think, and 
 yet I am not convinced. I have seen the 
 house, the room, the clothes, the photograph 
 even of the dead woman, and I tell you, for 
 your comfort, that she was not your cousin 
 and my wife." 
 
 John Luan looked confounded, but he soon 
 recovered, and said : 
 
 " You were not in Paris, Mr. Templemore, 
 when she was taken out of the water, not very 
 for from this spot ; I was. You were away 
 when she was brought to the Morgue ; I was 
 here, and I saw her. I saw her lying dead 
 before me. I have known her from child- 
 hood, and I tell you I saw her. I stood be- 
 hind the grating as she lay there cold and in- 
 animate. I tell you I saw her. I neither 
 claimed nor identified her — why should I set 
 you free ? — but I saw her. And now you may 
 believe me or not — it matters very little. I 
 am mad — am I ? Good-night, Mr. Temple- 
 more." 
 
 He laughed scornfully, and walked away, 
 and Mr. Templemore let him go. He felt 
 stunned. Was it true ? Had John Luan 
 really seen her ? Had he been mistaken in 
 her identity — such things have been — or was 
 it really Dora? Was that photograph, so 
 strangely like her, the true image of his dead 
 wife ? And yet what is there in a likeness ? 
 Was not Nanette's enamel portrait, of a woman 
 who had been dead two hundred years, like 
 Dora ? 
 
 " But not so like as this," thought Mr. Tem- 
 
 plemore, with sudden anguish ; " besides, he 
 should know her. Only he may be mad, or a 
 liar ; this may be a plot to deceive me." 
 
 Imagination is a tormenting gift. As Mr. 
 Templemore walked home under the arcades 
 of the Rue de Rivoli, strange thoughts walked 
 with him. It was no longer the great ques- 
 tion, was Dora dead or living — but was Dora 
 false or true ? " Is this a conspiracy of that 
 young man against me," thought Mr. Temple- 
 more, as he went up to his room, "and is 
 Dora in it? Will they go away together 
 somewhere, and, deceiving me and the world 
 with a feigned tale of death, get married, and 
 be lost forever ? " 
 
 For a moment jealousy and wrath over- 
 powered every other feeling. Rgason was 
 wrecked, and Mr. Templemore could only 
 think, with impotent fury, of the hateful 
 story he had conjured up. Dora, his wife, 
 forsaking and betraying him thus ! But sud- 
 denly his wrath fell, and was followed by a 
 great calmness. How or why he thought of 
 this he knew not ; but he remembered how, 
 entering his wife's room one morning at Dee- 
 nab, he had found her praying. Her kneel- 
 ing attitude, her bent face and clasped hands, 
 came back to him, and softened him in a 
 moment. She, Dora, his young, pious, and 
 innocent wife, perjuring herself to commit 
 bigamy with John Luan ! 
 
 How could he think it, and yet remember 
 how utterly John Luan had failed, and how 
 completely he had succeeded with Dora ? 
 There is a strange sweetness in triumph ; the 
 wisest and the best are not insensible to it. 
 Mr. Templemore felt moved and softened as 
 the thought of the past came back to him. 
 Yes, he had prevailed, with scarcely an effort, 
 whilst John Luan, after patient years, had 
 been balked. He had won the prize for 
 which another had toiled ; and she had been 
 his, all his; too much his, for if he had 
 thought he could lose her, he would nt
 
 MRS. COURTENAY'S DISCONTENT. 
 
 275 
 
 have left her. She had been so easily won, 
 that he had felt secure, too secure by far, and 
 now he paid for his past folly by the torment- 
 ing doubts of the present. 
 
 For, after all, Mr. Templemorc doubted. 
 He had faith and hope, but no certitude. 
 Even if his wife were not now sleeping in an 
 unknown grave, he had her not, he knew 
 nothing of the road she had taken, of the 
 spot that held her, and, hard fate, he knew 
 not how to seek for her. No mariner lost at 
 sea, with neither chart nor compass, could 
 be more at a loss than he was. 
 
 It was inevitable, perhaps, that something 
 of resentment should mingle with these 
 thoughts. For, after all, he did not think 
 he had deserved to be so deserted, with aban- 
 donment so complete, and silence so scornful. 
 Dora might have remembered their dignity, 
 ere she had thus laid bare to the world the 
 sad secrets of their married life. And thus 
 one after the other the angry thoughts came 
 rising slowly, but surely, like the waves of a 
 sullenly wrathful sea, drowning in their tide 
 tenderness, regret, and even the fair image 
 of hope, till suddenly Mr. Templemore's eyes 
 fell on the photograph. Monsieur Durand 
 had taken the other things ; this he had 
 either forgotten or left designedly. Mr. Tem- 
 plemore took it in his hand, and looked at it. 
 How like it seemed, and how the likeness 
 grew as he looked on ! 
 
 " If I could believe it," he thought, and his 
 lips quivered as he said it to his own heart — 
 " if I could think this image showed her poor 
 dead face, and that unkindness of mine had 
 driven her to such a death, life would hence- 
 forth be a blank page, one on which neither 
 love, nor hate, nor happiness, nor enjoyment 
 could ever again be written for me." 
 
 Many have said such things in the bitter- 
 ness of remorse or in the first burst of grief; 
 #t how many have abided by them ? 
 " God help me ! " thought Mr. Templemorc 
 
 in the agony of his doubt — " God help me ! 
 It is cruelly like her ! " And st^ll he held it 
 and gazed on, and he could not put the 
 image by. 
 
 CHAPTER LI. 
 
 The light of a pale autumn sunbeam fell 
 exactly on Mrs. Courtenay's face, and it showed 
 very plainly that Mrs. Courtenay was frown- 
 ing. A frown was a very unusual thing in- 
 deed on that lady's smooth forehead, and it 
 required so ominous a fact as three successive 
 failures of her favorite patience, to bring any- 
 thing like it there. But nothing was incred- 
 ible or impossible after such a calamity ; and 
 there could be no doubt about it — Mrs. Cour- 
 tenay was frowning. She threw the cards 
 down pettishly, and murmured with ill-re- 
 pressed indignation as she looked around the 
 room, " It is all Dora's fault." 
 
 The room was not a gay one, certainly. It 
 was dull, meanly furnished, and it looked out 
 on a bleak, bare field, with a lowering autumn 
 sky above it. A pretty change, indeed, from 
 the grave old splendors of Les Roches ! 
 
 " I do believe the girl must be crazy ! " 
 thought Mrs. Courtenay — "as crazy as her 
 poor aunt ! " 
 
 Here Dora's voice singing gayly in the next 
 room added fuel to the fire of Mrs. Courte- 
 nay's indignation. 
 
 "Garry Owen indeed!" she thought; "a 
 pretty time to sing about Garry or Terry, or 
 Jerry even ! " 
 
 What Jerry had to do with it no one could 
 have said, not even Mrs. Courtenay ; but the 
 three names certainly relieved her, for the 
 frown was gone when Dora entered the room, 
 in full song, as her mother mentally called it. 
 
 Dora had never looked brighter, gayer, or 
 more cheerful than she looked now. Never 
 in the hopeful days of her girlhood had she 
 had a sunnier look than that which she wore
 
 276 
 
 DORA. 
 
 on this day. But for all hep cheerfulness, 
 Dora's cheeks were pale and thin, and gayly 
 though she sang, her eyes were sunk. Per- 
 haps, too, Mrs. Courteriay might have noticed 
 or remembered, that, in the old happy days, 
 Dora's songs had been sad — doleful, her 
 mother called them — whereas now they were 
 light and gay, when tbey were not actually 
 merry. But Mrs. Courtenay was not a very 
 clear-sighted person, and Dora's gayety now 
 so far exasperated her, that she sat mute and 
 sulky, and folded her arms in silent protest. 
 
 " What ! can't you get on with the pa- 
 tience ? " asked Dora in her lightest voice, 
 and with a little ringing, silvery laugh. " Let 
 me try." 
 
 She sat down and stretched her hand tow- 
 ard the cards; but Mrs. Courtenay took them 
 up, made a packet of them, and deliberately 
 put them underneath the cushion of the chair 
 on which she was sitting ; after which she 
 looked rather sternly at her daughter. 
 
 Dora laughed again. She laughed very 
 often now. 
 
 " What have I done now ? " she asked, in 
 her cheerful, good-humored voice ; " come, 
 tell me my new sin, mamma." 
 
 " Dora, I am very angry," solemnly said 
 Mrs. Courtenay. "Why did you lure me 
 away from Les Roches to — to this horrible 
 little hole ? " she added, suddenly raising her 
 voice into her favorite little scream. 
 
 "Dear mamma," replied Dora, looking 
 amused, "it was agreed we wanted a change — 
 and you know Les Roches was a dreadful 
 place, after what happened to poor Aunt 
 Luan. And this is a lovely spot, and not a 
 horrible little hole, as you very unkindly call 
 it." 
 
 " Why did we not go to Ireland ? " asked 
 Mrs. Courtenay. " I have been very happy 
 with my dear husband, and Paul and you, and 
 even with poor Mrs. Luan, in Ireland. And it 
 is quite absurd, Dora, that we should be living 
 
 here in this ridiculous little place, instead of 
 being down at Deenah ! Deenah was my 
 brother-in-law's, and it is your husband's ; 
 and it is quite absurd that I should never have 
 seen it, and more than absurd that we should 
 be paying rent here, whilst there is a beautiful 
 house doing nothing and waiting for us." 
 
 " Well, mamma, when Mr. Templemore 
 comes and looks for us, we will go to Deenah." 
 
 " But Mr. Templemore is not coming, and 
 he does not write, and you do not write to 
 him," said Mrs. Courtenay, rocking herself to 
 and fro in indignation and wonder. " I never 
 heard anything like it — never, Dora," she 
 added, with as much severity (and it was very 
 little) as she could infuse in the words, " you 
 have behaved very badly to your husband." 
 
 Dora seemed much amused, and shook her 
 bright head, looking all the time like a merry 
 girl who has been working some piece of mis- 
 chief, and who enjoys it ; but there was a 
 strange, nervous twitching about her lips, even 
 whilst she laughed. 
 
 " Dear mamma," she said gayly, "if he does 
 not care enough for me to come and seek me, 
 I cannot help it, can I ? And it is no use 
 being vexed or angry about it — he did not 
 marry me for love, you know." 
 
 " And how does he know where you are ? " 
 angrily asked Mrs. Courtenay ; "just tell me 
 .that?" 
 
 " He will find it out when he wants me," 
 replied Dora, with a pretty toss of her bright 
 head. 
 
 "Dora," said Mrs. Courtenay, with as much 
 solemnity (and again we say it was not much) 
 which she could convey into her look and 
 maimer, "are you getting frivolous? Why, 
 you seem to have no conception of a wife's 
 position and duty ! " 
 
 " Dear mamma," gayly said Dora, " I was so 
 short a time a wife ! And I have always been 
 HghtJiesrted, you know. Why, Mr. Temple- 
 more said to me once, it was like sunshine to .
 
 HOPE AND KEALITY. 
 
 277 
 
 have me is a room, I was so bright a creature. 
 For, you know, he used to make pretty 
 speeches to me, even though he was in love 
 with Mr;. Logan all the time. And I suppose 
 that sunny girls, if one may call them so, have 
 no great depth of feeling. Another woman 
 would fret and cry perhaps because Mr. Tern- 
 plemore is not coming. Better sing and be 
 gay, as I am," added Dora, with her brightest 
 smile. 
 
 " I never could understand you, Dora," said 
 Mrs. Courtenay, looking profoundly puzzled ; 
 " never. You adored Paul, and when we lost 
 him — " added Mrs. Courtenay, with a tremor 
 in her voice. 
 
 " I was as gay as ever, after a time," sug- 
 gested Dora. " Why, yes ; you see, mamma, 
 you are French, and I am Irish, that is the 
 difference. We Irish," she added, looking 
 very saucy, " are more Celtic than you are. 
 And we are not half civilized yet, as the whole 
 world can tell you. When we suffer we give 
 a great cry, a terrible wail, like a keene over 
 the dead ; then we are gay and lively again, 
 being, as the whole world also knows, a very 
 merry people, light-hearted and light-beaded. 
 It is a dispensation of Providence, I have no 
 doubt," added Dora, with a touch of irony ; 
 " but if I have my share of the national gift, 
 why reproach me with it ? After all, mamma, 
 I suspect I am a more cheerful companion 
 than if I had a solemn English grief or a dec- 
 orous French one. Then you have the com- 
 fort of knowing that when I leave you, as I 
 must this afternoon, I am not fretting my 
 heart out, but just taking life easily and 
 merrily." 
 
 "Yes ; but I wish you would not leave me," 
 said Mrs. Courtenay, a little pettishly ; " what 
 can you want in Rouen to-day '! " 
 
 " Must I not see about money — money ? " 
 gayly asked Dora : " good, kind Mr. Ryan is 
 not here to help me now — I must do it all my- 
 self, you know." 
 
 Still, Mrs. Courtenay was querulous, and 
 wondered why Dora must needs go to Rouen ; 
 but Dora gave her a kiss, told her not to won- 
 der if she did not come in to tea, and ran up- 
 stairs to dress. 
 
 "But she must come in to tea," thought 
 Mrs. Courtenay ; " I must tell her so." 
 
 But Dora did not give her mother the op- 
 portunity. She slipped down-stairs unheard, 
 and bade Mrs. Courtenay adieu by tapping at 
 the parlor window as she passed it on her 
 way out. Mrs. Courtenay, indeed, opened the 
 window, and called her daughter back — in 
 vain. Dora had already turned the corner of 
 the house, and did not, or would not, hear the 
 summons. 
 
 " She is getting a very disobedient girl," 
 thought Mrs. Courtenay, in some indignation. 
 " I need not wonder she behaves so badly to 
 Mr. Templemore when she treats me so." 
 
 But Mrs. Courtenay's wrath was never very 
 long-lived. It gradually calmed down, and 
 though she thought herself very ill-used, she 
 took refuge and sought for consolation in a 
 patience. But the pack of cards which she 
 had so indignantly put away out of Dora's 
 reach did not seem to Mrs. Courtenay a suffi- 
 ciently lucky one. 
 
 " I shall do it for a wish," she thought, " and 
 I shall take a fresh pack. If I succeed at 
 once, it is a proof that Mr. Templemore will 
 soon come and fetch us. If I have some 
 trouble about it, as is likely, why, then we 
 must wait, I suppose ; and if I fail — " Here 
 Mrs. Courtenay, who had risen, and was going 
 up-stairs for the cards, paused, with her hand 
 on the lock, and stood still in some perplexity. 
 She was not one of your bold spirits, who will 
 stake their all on one cast, and trust Fate with 
 too much, so she looked for a third alterna- 
 tive, which should neither be success nor 
 failure, and she found it in the evasive bit of 
 commonplace, " If I fail, it is sure proof that 
 Mr. Templemore knows nothing about it."
 
 278 
 
 DORA. 
 
 But about what Mr. Templemore knew noth- 
 ing, or how he could possibly be ignorant of 
 Dora's flight, Mrs. Courtenay forgot to say to 
 herself, and quite triumphant at the loophole 
 through which she had escaped destiny, she 
 went up-stairs to look for her pack of cards. 
 To her great annoyance, she found none in her 
 room ; she searched up and down, but no 
 cards were to be got. Yet Dora had bought 
 her a pack — it was only yesterday. Where 
 had she put them ? Mrs. Courtenay entered 
 her daughter's room, a poor and meanly-fur- 
 nished one. Mrs. Courtenay's heart swelled. 
 "Were this low bed, with its shabby chintz 
 curtains, this painted chest of drawers, that 
 dilapidated wash-hand stand — were these fit 
 for the mistress of Les Roches, and the wife 
 of Richard Templemore ? 
 
 " She must be crazy," indignantly thought 
 Mrs. Courtenay ; " her Aunt Luan was mad " — 
 they had heard of Mrs. Luan's death — " and 
 Dora got it from her, and is crazy. But my 
 mind is quite made up — I shall wait a while 
 longer, then write to Mr. Templemore, and 
 ask him what he means by letting his wife 
 run away from him so. Now the cards must 
 be in one of these drawers. I wonder in 
 which ? " 
 
 Mrs. Courtenay had a natural hatred of 
 trouble. She tried to guess which drawer 
 could possibly hold the cards she was looking 
 for, but as none bore a label telling lookers-on 
 its contents, she recklessly pulled one open, 
 and began her search by a slow, careful sur- 
 vey. 
 
 Dora had taken very few things with her 
 from Les Roches, a fact which, when she dis- 
 covered it, greatly exasperated her mother. 
 Linen, smelling sweetly of violet powder, now 
 met her view ; she closed the drawer pettishly, 
 and tried the next. This held collars and 
 sleeves, and a silk dress carefully folded. 
 " One," angrily thought Mrs. Courtenay. She 
 was closing that drawer too, when a little cas- 
 
 ket caught her eye. Were the cards in that ? 
 It had no lock, and Mrs. Courtenay opened it 
 rather curiously. She saw some papers, and 
 recognizing Paul's writing, she put them back 
 with a dim eye and a trembling hand. Her 
 step-son had been very dear to Mrs. Courte- 
 nay. Another paper, which she had taken out 
 at the same time, fell on the floor. She picked 
 it up. It was an envelope, on which Dora's 
 hand had written, " The first and the last." 
 
 The first and the last ! What could that 
 mean ? The envelope was not sealed, but it 
 was worn, as if it had been used often. Mrs. 
 Courtenay did not ask herself what right she 
 had to pry into her daughter's secrets, she 
 took out the two papers which the envelope 
 held, and she read them both. One was a 
 note which Mr. Templemore had written to 
 Dora as Doctor Richard, the other one was 
 that which intimated her mother's banish- 
 ment. One was Hope, as she had first come 
 to a dreaming girl; the other was Reality, 
 as she had visited a sorrowful woman. And 
 both, though Mrs. Courtenay knew it not, 
 had been read daily by Dora since she left 
 Les Roches. Daily she had gone back with 
 one to the exquisite visions of the past, and 
 daily, too, she had been led by the other 
 down to the unutterable bitterness of the 
 present. 
 
 Mrs. Courtenay remained with the paper m 
 her hand till she could not see it for tears. 
 Then, meek and subdued in spirit as in bear- 
 ing, she put it back, and went down-stairs. 
 But neither with the old nor with a fresh pack 
 of cards did Mrs. Courtenay question fate un- 
 der the guise of a patience. She sat in her 
 chair, crying silently, and now and then say- 
 ing, in a low, broken voice, " It was for my 
 sake, my poor Dora ! It was all for me !" 

 
 SAINT OUEN. 
 
 279 
 
 CHAPTER LII. 
 
 Mr. Ryan's advice concerning the shares in 
 the Redmore Mines had been to sell out whilst 
 they were at a premium, and Dora had gone to 
 Paris for that purpose. The money had been 
 placed in Mrs. Courtcnay's name at a banker's 
 in Rouen, and her daughter had therefore but 
 to go and present a check to be paid. The 
 transaction in itself could not betray her. Not 
 that she cared for concealment ; she neither 
 sought nor shunned detection, but let events 
 take their course recklessly. She saw no one 
 whom she knew on her way to Rouen, and no 
 one saw her ; besides, her crape veil was thick, 
 and protected her from the careless observa- 
 tion of strangers. But the check which Mrs. 
 Courtenay had given her failed in some re- 
 quirement, and the French clerk hesitated, and 
 would not cash it. Seeing Dora's annoyance, 
 he referred the matter to the head of the estab- 
 lishment ; but he was out for an hour — would 
 Dora call again ? She said she would, and left 
 the house to wander about the streets of that 
 city in which she no longer had a home. She 
 shunned Notre Dame and its vicinity, and went 
 toward Saint Ouen. She entered the little 
 garden around the church, and sat there to 
 rest, and as she sat she thought : " We must 
 not stay here. Why should we ? He has for- 
 gotten me. I must abide by my fate, and re- 
 member that, such as it is, I have chosen it. 
 We must go back to Ireland and live there. 
 He has forgotten and put me by ! I shall let 
 him feel and know that if I gave my love un- 
 sought, I, too, can conquer, and, if need be, 
 pluck it out, and yet live on." 
 
 She could do it, but it was hard. Besides, 
 Dora had not expected this. Few women seem 
 to understand that love, even strong vehement 
 love, is but one of the many features in a man's 
 life. And Mr. Templemore had so many things 
 to think of! He had his child, he had his 
 poor, his studies, and his articles oPvertu. 
 
 Passionately though he had loved Dora, that 
 passion could never have absorbed him for 
 more than a time. He had not, indeed, borno 
 his wife's flight with the scornful indifference 
 she attributed to him; his search had been 
 keen, his grief had been great, but perhaps he 
 had given up the one in despair, and perlmps 
 there was a weary lull in the other ; for though 
 she was so near him he had failed to find her. 
 " He scorns me," thought Dora, with a full 
 heart. " Well, I do not scorn him, but I, too, 
 can be proud ! " 
 
 But pride is a cold comforter, and Dora felt 
 it. She felt, too, what we all feel at some hour 
 of our life, that her sorrow was too much for 
 her. 
 
 " What ails me ? " she thought, with a sort 
 of despair ; " he has deserted me, allowed me 
 to go my own way, what ails me, that I cannot 
 forget him, but must remember and suffer 
 on?" 
 
 What ailed her ? Alas ! this much : that 
 life was impetuous and exacting, that love 
 would not be denied, and that both were too 
 strong for anger or pride. Still she strove 
 against them. If she were not his wife, if he 
 had but married Florence, she thought she 
 would not care. But we cannot lie to our own 
 hearts. From the depths of her being rose a 
 reply : 
 
 " Do not say so ; you know that it is better 
 to have been loved a few days, than not to have 
 been loved at all. You know that it would 
 have been the bitterness of death to have seen 
 him married to Mrs. Logan, even as there is 
 something of the sweetness of Paradise in being 
 linked to him. You know that if he has 
 wronged you, his nature is too great and too 
 generous not to do you justice later — and will 
 there not be a foretaste of heaven in your for- 
 giveness and that reunion ? Think of what 
 his repentance will be, and remember these 
 days of love which he gave you — few, but per- 
 fect. Can anything annihilate them? Are
 
 280 
 
 DOHA. 
 
 they not a portion of your life, the truest and 
 the best? What though years should pass 
 thus, in Tain hope and expectation ? A mo- 
 ment will yet come that shall crown all your 
 sorrow, and conquer it, a time when you too 
 can say to grief, " Where is thy victory — where 
 is thy sting ? " 
 
 Her eyes were dim with tears, but they were 
 tears full of softness. She looked around her. 
 The perennial charm of Eden seemed thrown 
 over the dusty garden. The noisy children, 
 the servant-girls, the gloomy mass of Saint 
 Ouen, all vanished, and if they were seen it 
 was with the thought — 
 
 " We will come here and study Saint Ouen, 
 as he once promised me in Deenah that we 
 should, and every sorrow and every wrong 
 shall be buried and forgotten — and it will be 
 Paradise — Paradise ! " 
 
 Delicious was the day-dream, but very brief. 
 Voices talking behind her roused Dora. She 
 awoke with a sigh, but yet did not feel all 
 unhappy. The gates of Eden were only just 
 closed, and its sweetness lingered around her 
 still. 
 
 "Now, where are they?" said a sharp ir- 
 ritable voice, a woman's in English. " Gussy, 
 come here directly." 
 
 " I never heard anything like it," said an- 
 other voice, feminine too; "how many weeks 
 has his wife been dead ? " 
 
 " Not merely dead, but drowned. It was 
 her cousin, that stupid Doctor Luan, who 
 knew her," says Florence. " Gussy, stay here. 
 Do you think these Grays handsome? " 
 
 " Handsome ! they have not got a nose 
 among them all. I wish they would not stare 
 so at Saint Ouen. I do think, like Florence, 
 that it is an old bore." 
 
 " How could she make up her mind to be 
 a third wife ? " 
 
 " Oh ! it was she whom he was to have 
 married, you know ; only he committed a 
 mistake, and took his daughter's governess 
 
 to church, instead of poor Flo. — I shall box 
 your ears, Gussy ! " 
 
 They now came forward, and stood in front 
 of Dora : two specimens of the English femi- 
 nine traveller and sight-seer, carrying a little 
 stock of scandal with them, as the ancient 
 journeyer carried his gods wherever he went. 
 
 " And is he married yet ? " asked one of 
 the pair. 
 
 The owner of Gussy smiled, and whilst that 
 smile passed across her face, Dora felt as if 
 her heart had ceased to beat. 
 
 " Not yet," she answered, " he went off 
 suddenly in his wild way a few days back, and 
 poor Flo is distracted. Miss Moore took 
 scarlatina, and the child took it from her. 
 She thinks he went for the diamonds." 
 
 The rest of the party joined them ; they all 
 moved on. They went talking and laughing 
 all the way, and leaving a wrecked happiness 
 behind them ! 
 
 How often do we feel this in life ! How 
 often, when a heavy blow comes, do we think, 
 " Ah ! the rest was nothing ! This was the 
 crowning catastrophe, the shipwreck, the last 
 cause beyond which there is no appeal." If 
 she could but have doubted — but it was not 
 in her power to do so. His name had not 
 been mentioned, nor Mrs. Logan's, for Flor- 
 ence might belong to any one, and yet a 
 certainty, against which she could not strive, 
 entered her very soul and tortured it. He 
 thought her dead, how or why mattered not — 
 he thought it. There lay the full explana- 
 tion of his silence. Alas ! she . had never 
 thought of that. She had imagined that the 
 voluntary forgetfulness of a bitter resentment 
 weighed upon her. She had not thought that 
 the cold oblivion of the grave already lay be- 
 tween her and her husband. He had for- 
 given her, she was sure of it now — her ima- 
 ginary sins were buried in the mercy we ex- 
 tend to the dead. She was no more his wife, 
 erring, indeed, but warm and living — she was
 
 THE FALSE EPITAPH. 
 
 281 
 
 that something impalpable and unseen, against 
 which \vc can cherish no resentment. That 
 thin veil, so thin, but so chill, which divides 
 us even from the most beloved, had spread 
 between her and him, and so his love had 
 returned — oh ! what wonder ! — to the fond, 
 childish Florence, the chosen one of his heart, 
 and, after a decent time given for mourning, 
 they would marry and be blest at last. 
 
 This fair future she must now break. A 
 second time she must be the cause of Mr. 
 Templemore's grief. Perhaps this thought 
 overpowered her — perhaps the consciousness 
 that her death had been welcomed as a de- 
 liverance was too much for her fortitude. She 
 did not faint, she did not even lose conscious- 
 ness, but when the sense of reality at last 
 came back to her, she saw that a silent and 
 wondering crowd had gathered around her. 
 She looked vacantly at a woman's face, and 
 saying, in a cold, monotonous voice, " I was 
 unwell, but I am well now," she rose and 
 walked away. 
 
 As fast as her limbs could bear her, she 
 walked through the streets ; with the eager- 
 ness of a lover going to a trysting-place, she 
 hurried to meet her bitter woe. If happiness 
 has its fever, so has sorrow — a cruel fever, 
 which drives us on and spares not. A pre- 
 sentiment, strong as a certainty, told Dora 
 that she would find the confirmation of the 
 fatal tidings she had heard on her aunt's 
 grave, and it did not deceive her. Day was 
 declining as she entered the cemetery. She 
 passed through the wooden crosses, and stone 
 and marble slabs, till she reached Mrs. Luan's 
 last resting-place. Yes, there it was, written 
 beneath Mrs Luan's name : 
 
 |it Ulcmoriant, 
 
 DOPvA COURTENAY. 
 
 This was her epitaph. No date of birth or 
 death, for one was shameful ; no record of 
 marriage, for it had been ill-fated ; nothing 
 
 but that name which was hers no longer, and 
 yet was the ouly one by which John Luan 
 would remember her. For it was he who had 
 had that "Dora Courtenay" inscribed — he, 
 and not Mr. Templemore, who had outlived 
 her loss, as he had survived that of Florence, 
 and had gone to get the diamonds for his 
 third nuptials ! 
 
 "Surely these graves ought to calm me," 
 thought Dora, looking round her ; " surely the 
 dead, who sleep here so soundly, admonish 
 me, if I but heard them." 
 
 But the dead were silent, or their voices 
 were very low, for when Dora left them they 
 had taught her nothing. 
 
 Her first words, when she entered the room 
 where her mother sat, alone and sad, were, 
 " How cold it is ! " 
 
 " How pale and ill you look ! " said Mrs. 
 Courtenay. 
 
 "Yes — it is so cold," replied Dora, shivering. 
 
 " Dora ! " exclaimed her mother, rising, 
 " you must go back to your husband ! " 
 
 " Go back to him !" impetuously exclaimed 
 Dora. 
 
 " Yes, you must. I know all. I know 
 why you left him — I feel sure he is broken- 
 hearted — " 
 
 " Broken-hearted ! " interrupted Dora ; " do 
 you know that he thinks me dead, that there 
 is a talk of his marrying Mrs. Logan, and that 
 I have just read my own name inscribed on 
 poor Aunt Luan's grave ? Yes, weeds are 
 beginning to choke the flowers John set there, 
 I suppose ; but my name is on it, and Mr. 
 Templemore is a widower, and he is going to 
 marry Mrs. Logan." 
 
 . Mrs. Courtenay stared confounded. Nothing 
 could exceed her amazement when Dora told 
 her all she knew, unless it was her indigna- 
 tion, when her daughter added, recklessly : 
 
 " Yes, it is so ; and yet, mamma, I am going 
 back to day to Les Roches." 
 
 " You are going to leave me ! " cried Mrs.
 
 282 
 
 DORA. 
 
 Courtenay, and, leaning back in her chair, she 
 gazed with a look full of dismay on her 
 daughter, who stood before her very pale, but 
 very calm. 
 
 "I cannot help it," replied Dora, with a 
 quivering lip. " He has forgotten me ; he 
 thinks me dead ; he is going to marry Mrs. 
 Logan, they say ; but, for all that, I must go. 
 I am his wife, and when I married him I un- 
 dertook to be the mother of his child. If he 
 were with her, I should write and merely tell 
 him I am alive, for, you see, I would rather 
 not read in his face what he must feel on see- 
 ing me ; but I cannot help myself. Eva is 
 left to the care of servants, or to that, scarcely 
 better, of Mrs. Logan. I must be true to the 
 child, who was always so true to me ! " 
 
 " Yes, and Mr. Templemore will come back 
 and keep you ! " querulously said Mrs. Cour- 
 tenay. 
 
 "He may not come back before Eva is 
 well," replied Dora ; " and surely," she added, 
 very sadly, " he has shown no wish to keep 
 me, mamma." 
 
 " But I say that he will keep you," persisted 
 Mrs. Courtenay, who was now in tears, " and 
 then what is to become of me ?" 
 
 Dora knelt before her mother, and, clasping 
 Mrs. Courtenay's waist, she looked up fondly 
 in her face. 
 
 "No one shall keep me from you," she 
 said, with a smile. " If Mr. Templemore locks 
 the doors I shall get out of the window. And 
 I will come back — I will come back ! " 
 
 Mrs. Courtenay looked down at her wist- 
 fully, but she still thought : " I know he will 
 keep Dora." 
 
 Her daughter had no such fear. She had 
 never felt very sure of her husband's affection, 
 and since the great bitterness which had divided 
 them, she had felt that his love was gone from 
 her, never to return. There was pain, there 
 was humiliation in the thought of now sroin"' 
 back to his house ; and Dora had said it truly, 
 
 she did it for the child. But Mrs. Courtenay 
 thought, as she saw her depart : " She is still 
 fond of him." 
 
 CHAPTER LIII. 
 
 The grayness of twilight was stealing over 
 the road when Dora reached the gates of Les 
 Roches. She had alighted and sent away the 
 carriage that brought her at a little distance 
 from the house ; but short though that dis- 
 tance was, Dora felt as if her limbs could 
 scarcely bear her thus far, and she had to 
 pause and recover her breath, and compose 
 herself before she went in. The gates were 
 open ; the porter was not even in the lodge. 
 No one was visible, but, looking up, Dora saw 
 lights in Eva's room, and in Miss Moore's. She 
 went up the flight of steps and entered the 
 house without meeting any one ; but as she 
 reached the door that led to the suite of rooms 
 she and Eva had occupied before her marriage, 
 it opened, and one of the maids came out with 
 a light in her hand. At first the girl only saw 
 Dora's figure in the gloomy passage. 
 
 "Who's that ? " she asked, sharply. 
 
 "Without waiting for a reply, she raised her 
 handle. The light flashed across Dora's pale 
 face. The girl saw and recognized her ; for a 
 moment terror held her mute, then, uttering a 
 faint scream, she dropped the candlestick and 
 fled down the staircase. Her cry roused 
 Jacques, who was in the room she had just left. 
 He came out as Dora, composedly picking up 
 the candlestick, was going to enter her old 
 apartment. Jacques' nerves were naturally 
 strong, and had just then been strengthened 
 by a cordial of which he and the housemaid 
 had been partaking before Dora's unexpected 
 appearance. On seeing his late mistress he 
 looked bewildered and confused, and uttered a 
 deep " Oh ! " but when Dora addressed him, 
 and said calmly, " How is Miss Eva ? " Jacques 
 was able to reply, though still with a wild stare
 
 MRS. TEMPLEMORE'S RETURN. 
 
 283 
 
 at this dead woman who had so unexpectedly 
 come back to life : 
 
 " Mademoiselle Eva is very well — very bad, 
 I mean." 
 
 " Is she conscious ? " asked Dora, fearing 
 lest her sudden appearance should agitate or 
 over-alarm the child. 
 
 Jacques shook hi3 head. It was plain that 
 there was very Utile consciousness to be ap- 
 prehended from Mr. Templemore's little daugh- 
 ter. 
 
 " Take that light," said Dora, handing it to 
 him as she spoke. * Her other hand was ex- 
 tended toward the lock of Eva's door ; but 
 Jacques, with a boldness and freedom he had 
 never shown before, stepped in front of her, 
 and effectually checked her entrance. 
 
 " Mademoiselle must excuse me," he said ; 
 " but I think mademoiselle had better not go 
 in now." 
 
 The blood rushed up to Dora's face, and 
 dyed it crimson. It was not possible that her 
 husband had given orders to deny her to his 
 child. Her blush and her silence confirmed 
 Jacques in his suspicion. 
 
 " I dare say that mademoiselle can see Made- 
 moiselle Eva to-morrow," he continued com- 
 posedly, and laying a slight stress on the word* 
 that proclaimed Dora unwedded ; " but she had 
 better not see her now." 
 
 " Where is Mr. Templemore ? " asked Dora. 
 " Monsieur is away, and that is just it. He 
 left no orders about mademoiselle." 
 
 This time Dora understood the insult. She 
 reddened again with mingled indignation and 
 shame ; but she scorned to acknowledge the 
 taunt, and it was composedly that she said : 
 
 "The-master of the house has no need to 
 leave orders about its mistress, Jacques. Let 
 me pass ! " 
 
 There was something in the flash of her 
 eye, something in the quiet gesture of her 
 hand, which Jacques, accustomed as he was 
 to obey and to recognize empire, could not 
 
 disregard. Yet he struggled against the very 
 feeling that made him step aside and give way 
 to Dora, and with something like remonstra- 
 tive sullenness in his tone, he said — 
 
 " Madame Logan is there." 
 
 Dora's heart sickened within her. This 
 w r as her welcome home. Mr. Templemore's 
 servants insulted her, and the woman he loved 
 had forestalled her, and taken her place by 
 her husband's child. But keen though the 
 pang was, it was also brief; and her look as 
 it fell on Jacques said so expressively, " What 
 about it ? " that the man replied in a tone of 
 excuse : 
 
 " I thought I had better tell madame." 
 
 This time he thought it better to drop the 
 offensive " mademoiselle." Without further 
 parley, Dora went up to the sick-room. She 
 opened the door and closed it again so noise- 
 lessly, that her entrance was not heard by 
 Mrs. Logan. A look showed Dora that Flor- 
 ence was not alone. She stood at some little 
 distance from Eva's white cot, talking to no 
 less a person than Doctor Petit. The very 
 man whom Mr. Templemore so much objected 
 to had been called in to attend on his sick 
 child ! The light of a night lamp fell full on 
 Mrs. Logan's pretty face, and showed it to be 
 full of concern. She raised her little dark 
 eyebrows, and gathered her rosy lips with an 
 assumption of grave anxiety which might be 
 yielded as much to decorum as to real uneasi- 
 ness. At least, even in that moment Dora 
 thought so. 
 
 " And so you are uneasy, Doctor Petit ! " 
 she said, with a look between perplexity and 
 trouble ; " really this is a great responsibility 
 upon me, and I do wish that poor dear Miss 
 Moore would recover, or that Mr. Temple- 
 more would return. Indeed, I wish both." 
 
 " My only uneasiness is lest my orders 
 should not be attended to," scntentiously said 
 Doctor Petit. " Let my orders be attended 
 to, and I answer for the result."
 
 284 
 
 DORA. 
 
 " Yes, but suppose your orders should not 
 be attended to ! " pettishly retorted Florence ; 
 " I cannot be everywhere, can I ? — and the re- 
 sponsibility is all the same. So I do wish, I 
 do, Mr. Templemore would come back ! " 
 
 As she uttered the words, she happened to 
 turn round slightly. Dora stood before her, 
 silent and rather pale, but with all the signs 
 of life about her. Oa seeing her, Josephine 
 had uttered a cry of terror, and Jacques had 
 looked bewildered and amazed ; but it was 
 blank dismay which appeared on Mrs. Logan's 
 face as her rival thus returned from the grave to 
 confront her. She stepped back, and clutched 
 the doctor's arm, and gasped for breath, but 
 she could not speak. Dora looked at her 
 with sorrowful severity. She knew what feel- 
 ing had brought Florence to Eva's sick-bed. 
 It was not love for the child, it was not kind- 
 ness or pity — it was the secret hope of win- 
 ning back a past which her own act had for- 
 feited — of conquering anew her lost lover, and 
 perhaps, too, the master of Deenah and Les 
 Roches. 
 
 " I am sorry to startle you, Mrs. Logan," 
 she said, with much composure. " I believe 
 a rumor of my death has been spread, and I 
 can see that it has reached you. But, as you 
 may perceive, I am not dead, but living, and 
 on learning Eva's illness, I came at once. — 
 May I ask, sir," she said, addressing Doctor 
 Petit in French, " what you think of the 
 child's state ? I trust you are not uneasy ? " 
 Doctor Petit did not answer at once. Mrs. 
 Logan's agitation had struck him as very 
 singular ; he looked at her for some clew to 
 guide him, but she had sunk down on a chair 
 pale as death, and her emotion was unintel- 
 ligible to him ; so, looking at Dora, he said, 
 point-blank : 
 
 " May I know whom I have the honor of 
 addressing ? " 
 
 " I am Mr. Templemore's wife, and Eva's 
 step-mother," simply replied Dora. 
 
 Doctor Petit bowed, but looked more sur- 
 prised than impressed — indeed, if Mrs. Logan's 
 silence had not confirmed Dora's words, he 
 would probably have looked incredulous ; but 
 as no denial came from that quarter, he was 
 compelled to believe this stranger. As he 
 had heard, however, that Mrs. Templemore 
 had left her husband's house very suddenly, 
 and as he had no sort of conception of the 
 degree. of authority which Mr. Templemore 
 would yield to her, were he to come back, 
 there was just a touch of polite supercilious- 
 ness in his reply : 
 
 " I am uneasy — slightly so, I confess it, but 
 still I am uneasy. Nevertheless," he added, 
 turning to Florence, " I do hope, as I was 
 telling you, madame, that, with care and 
 attention to my orders, the child will do." 
 
 And he drew on his gloves, and looked for 
 his hat, evidently considering Mrs. Logan as 
 the person from whom he drew his mandate, 
 and ignoring Mr. Templemore's wife. 
 
 Florence now roused herself from the stupor 
 into which Dora's appearance had thrown her, 
 and scarcely knowing, perhaps, what she was 
 saying, she repeated mechanically her previous 
 words : 
 
 " It is such a responsibility. I do wish, I 
 do, that Mr. Templemore would come back ! " 
 Dora looked from one to the other, and 
 she thought, with much bitterness : 
 
 " I have deserved this. On the day when 
 I left this house I brought all this on myself; 
 then I must bear it — I must bear it ! " So 
 her look remained calm, and the tones of her 
 voice were low and even as she addressed 
 Doctor Petit, and said, " I am much obliged 
 to you, sir, for the care you have bestowed 
 on the child, and I hope you will have the 
 kindness to continue your attendance." 
 
 " I shall call again to-morrow morning," 
 said Doctor Petit, rather more graciously — 
 " indeed, and spite the great distance, I have 
 called twice daily, as madame knows."
 
 AT EYA'S SICK-BED. 
 
 285 
 
 " I am much obliged to you," said Dora 
 again ; " but you -will not take it amiss, I 
 hope, if I call in one of your brethren, Doctor 
 Leroux, who usually attends on Eva, to assist 
 you." 
 
 Doctor Petit looked as if he did take this 
 very much amiss, and he said, rather stiffly, 
 that he would have no objection to hold a 
 consultation on Eva's case with Doctor Leroux. 
 "Though," he added, with marked emphasis, 
 " I cannot say I think it at all necessary." 
 
 " That is not my meaning," resumed Dora ; 
 " I wish Doctor Leroux to conduct this case 
 with you. And, indeed, on my way here I 
 left word for him to call." 
 
 Doctor Petit looked astounded. 
 
 "Madarae!" he said, with some heat, 
 " this is inflicting a very unnecessary affront 
 upon me. You must know that I can con- 
 sent to nothing of the kind, and your pro- 
 posal leaves me no alternative but to with- 
 draw altogether." 
 
 " But you must not withdraw ! " cried Flor- 
 ence, turning crimson, and wholly forgetting 
 how painful she had found her previous state 
 of responsibility, " / cannot allow it. I am 
 answerable to Miss Moore for the child's life." 
 
 " And I to her father," interrupted Dora, 
 with a slight flush on her pale cheek. 
 
 " Well, Mrs. Templemore," retorted Flor- 
 ence, speaking very fast, " you will acknowl- 
 edge that Eva was not left in your care." 
 
 " Was she left in yours, Mrs. Logan ? " 
 
 " She was left to the care of Miss Moore, 
 and all I have done has been done with .Miss 
 Moore's wish and authority." 
 
 She spoke triumphantly, and Dora felt the 
 force of the argument. Eva had not indeed 
 been left in her care, and she did not know 
 but her husband would resent her interference, 
 even as he might be displeased with her 
 return. But memory, crossing the bitter 
 chasm that now divided them, showed her a 
 face full of concern. To that she trusted. 
 
 " I acknowledge Miss Moore's claims," she 
 said, answering Mrs. Logan, "but Mr. Tem- 
 plemore's are greater still, and I act in his 
 name." 
 
 Mrs. Logan was going to reply, for having 
 always plenty to say, and being troubled with 
 no sense of dignity, she was not one to be 
 easily silenced ; but Doctor Petit interfered, 
 and with a quiet wave of his hand, said 
 loftily : 
 
 " I beg, madame, you will have the good- 
 ness to say no more. It is impossible, after 
 what has passed, that I should continue to 
 attend on this unfortunate child; but, in 
 justice to myself, I must say this : she is 
 now progressing favorably ; if, therefore, any 
 casualty should occur, I wish it to be well 
 understood that the blame cannot rest upon 
 me." 
 
 He moved toward the door, but Florence 
 attempted to detain him. 
 
 " I cannot allow this," she said, " I really 
 cannot. Miss Moore called you in, she is 
 Eva's aunt, and she left the child in my care, 
 and I cannot allow this ! " 
 
 She spoke angrily and fast, but Dora said 
 not a word to detain Doctor Petit, or to alter 
 his resolve, and if he had the misfortune of 
 being a very bad doctor, he was neither a 
 servile nor a mean man. 
 
 " It is quite useless, madame," he said, ad- 
 dressing Florence ; " I am not accustomed to 
 such treatment, and will not tolerate it. Ma- 
 dame, being the child's step-mother, no doubt 
 has the greatest and the strongest right to 
 dictate on this matter ; only I think I might 
 have been treated with more courtesy ? " 
 
 "I meant and mean no discourtesy," here 
 remarked Dora, "but knowing what my hus- 
 I mud's wish would be, I must obey it." 
 
 " I wash my hands of the result," said Doc- 
 tor Petit, with a slight sneer, "and I have the 
 honor to wish you a good-evening." 
 
 Florence saw him to the door, then came
 
 286 
 
 DORA. 
 
 back, her eyes sparkling with tears of anger 
 and mortification. 
 
 "Well, Dora," she said, "you have again 
 prevailed against me ; but if this child dies, 
 Mr. Templemore shall know that you came 
 back to prevent her from being saved. How 
 dare you do it ? " she asked impetuously, 
 " how dare you do it ? " 
 
 " And how dare you forget that the child 
 is mine ? " asked Dora, with a quivering lip. 
 " On the day he married me he gave her to 
 me. I asked him for her, and I got her. He 
 gave himself too on that day, but if he has 
 withdrawn one gift," she added, in a failing 
 voice, " as I dare say you know, Florence, he 
 has not yet taken back the other," she said, 
 pointing to the little low bed. "Besides, I 
 have another right. You had, perhaps you 
 still have, the father's heart; but even you 
 must confess that I have always had the child's. 
 And now pray let this cease — let there be 
 silence and peace about that poor little sick- 
 bed. Let there be no bitterness between us. 
 The two men whom I have most loved — my 
 brother — my husband, have preferred you to 
 me. Leave me the child, Florence — leave me 
 the child. But for my aunt and you, I should 
 be Dora Courtenay still. Remember that, and 
 grudge me not a position and a name which 
 have cost me so dear, that when I read today 
 my own epitaph on poor Aunt Luan's grave, I 
 wished it were true — I wished I were lying 
 there with her, away from all the bitterness 
 which made me leave this house, and which I 
 find in it on my return. Remember Paul, 
 Florence — remember him, and let there be 
 peace between us." 
 
 For once Mrs. Logan was affected ; for once 
 Dora had found the way to her heart. Paul 
 Courtenay's name brought the tears to her 
 eyes. She had not loved him very much ; but 
 such as it was, this love of her youth had been 
 the only disinterested affection of her life. It 
 had not stood the test of poverty, but money 
 
 had not helped its birth. And Paul Courtenay 
 had loved very faithfully. No second love had 
 effaced her image there, and she knew it. 
 
 " Poor Paul ! " she said, taking out her 
 handkerchief — " poor Paul ! I was very sorry 
 for him, and it made Mr. Logan in such a way 
 with me. But then you know, Dora, it is me" 
 — Mrs. Logan did not care much for grammar 
 — "and not you, whom Mr. Templemore 
 should have married. You will acknowledge 
 that, I am sure." 
 
 "She never liked him — never," thought 
 Dora, looking at her in wonder, "or she could 
 not stand there talking so to me, his wife." 
 
 But she did not think it needful to answer 
 Mrs. Logan's strange remark. She had sat 
 down by Eva's cot, and she was looking at 
 the child. Eva's dark eyes glittered with 
 fever, but she did not recognize her former gov- 
 erness. 
 
 " And how you can take the frightful re- 
 sponsibility you are now taking with Eva is 
 \nore than I can imagine," pettishly resumed 
 Florence ; " besides, you really have behaved 
 abominably to Doctor Petit. I am quite cer- 
 tain Mr. Templemore will be so angry," she 
 added, raising her eyebrows, to give her words 
 more emphasis. 
 
 Still Dora was silent. She was thinking 
 what a difference Nature had placed between 
 her and this woman. How one was made to 
 float down the stream of grief, which nearly 
 submerged the other. S7ie would never have 
 let her husband go, if it broke her heart that 
 he should leave her ; she could never have left 
 his house, however much his indifference bad 
 stung her. If her folly led her into trouble, 
 it would at least have saved her from such 
 calamity as had fallen to Dora's lot. 
 
 " On one thing, however, lam determined," 
 resumed Mrs. Logan, getting angry at Dora's 
 silence, " that Miss Moore shall have the medi- 
 cal attendant she prefers, and that Mr. Tem- 
 plemore shall know the truth."
 
 EVA'S RECOVERY DOUBTFUL. 
 
 287 
 
 "You are very welcome," replied Dora, 
 with such evident weariness of this conversa- 
 tion that Mrs. Logan became scarlet, and giving 
 her an indignant glance, darted out of the 
 room. 
 
 CHAPTER LIV. 
 
 The door had scarcely closed on Mrs. Logan, 
 when Doctor Leroux was announced, and shown 
 in by Jacques. Dora's face lit on seeing him. 
 It was a relief to escape from the bitter thoughts 
 Florence had left after her. She went up to 
 him and said eagerly : 
 
 " Eva is ill again ; but Doctor Petit, who 
 was attending upon her — " 
 
 " Then why did you send for me ? " sharply 
 interrupted Doctor Leroux. 
 
 " Because I know Mr. Templemore has no 
 faith in him, and every faith in you ; he has 
 left me affronted, but I cannot help that ; and 
 where the child's life may be the cost, I can- 
 not mind courtesy — nor will you, I trust, mind 
 professional etiquette." 
 
 She spoke with some uneasiness, but it was 
 causeless. Doctor Leroux was a rich man, and 
 for etiquette of any kind he cared naught. His 
 wealth placed him above the suspicion of wish- 
 ing to secure a patient by unworthy means ; 
 and as he entertained a profound contempt for 
 Doctor Fetit's skill, and a high respect for his 
 own, he made no scruple of taking a patient 
 from him in the hour of peril. So without 
 further parley he approached Eva's bed, and 
 looked at the child. Dora \ea.i his face anx- 
 iously, and its gravity filled her with concern. 
 
 " Well ? " she said at length. 
 
 " Well, it will be a miracle if we save her," 
 replied Doctor Leroux, with some bitterness ; 
 and internally he added, " Fetit's mark is upon 
 her." 
 
 Fearful, indeed, is this power over life which 
 the ignorant and unskilful possess, as well as 
 the learned and the gifted, all the more fearful 
 
 that the guilty man is generally unconscious 
 of his guilt. 
 
 Doctor Fetit, whatever may be his name or 
 his country — whether he command a ship, a 
 forlorn hope, a company, or rule by a sick-bed, 
 is our greatest enemy, if we but knew it. Ask 
 the soldiers whose bones bleach on the battle- 
 field, the sailors who have gone down with a 
 despairing cry, the men and women whose 
 homes are ruined, the mourners whose hearts 
 are broken by the death of a loved one — ask 
 them how they have fared through their trust 
 in him, and be warned. The thief, the mur- 
 derer, even, are less dangerous than the man 
 whose claims to knowledge you cannot control, 
 and whose ignorance you can only learn at 
 your bitter cost. 
 
 At first Dora felt stunned ; but rallying at 
 length, she said : 
 
 " It is impossible ! You cannot mean to say 
 that the child must die, Doctor Leroux ? " 
 
 " Not that she must, but that she may," he 
 replied, somewhat shortly. 
 
 Dora looked at Eva. It was not and it could 
 not be mother's love she felt for that poor 
 little sufferer, and therefore hers was not a 
 mother's bitter agony. But the knowledge 
 that this little creature, motherless, and for the 
 time, too, fatherless, was dying, pierced her 
 heart. She had loved the child, and the child, 
 too, had loved her. Eva had been a tie be- 
 tween her and her husband. She had brought 
 Dora back to his home when nothing else, it 
 seemed to her, could have done it — and now 
 that gentle and tender bond must soon be 
 broken. They would stand apart without that 
 loving link, and they could not even meet by 
 Eva's grave. 
 
 " He would not believe in my grief," thought 
 Dora ; " and he shall not see it to doubt it. 
 When Eva is dead — if she must die, indeed — I 
 shall leave this house again, and this time all 
 will be surely over forever ! " 
 
 But must the child die ? It seemed so hard.
 
 288 
 
 DORA. 
 
 Doctor Leroux was gone, and Dora sat by Eva's 
 cot, holding Eva's little wasted hand in her 
 own, and she could not believe it. Oh ! if 
 there were but power in love to keep those 
 loved beings who go away from us so surely, 
 whether their leave-taking be swift or slow ! 
 " Stay with me," Dora longed to say — " stay 
 with me, my darMng ! I never can tell you my 
 trouble, but still you will comfort it. There is 
 more consolation in a child's loving kiss than 
 in all men and women can say to prove that 
 one ought not to mourn. Oh ! if I could but 
 keep you ! — if I but could ! " And then to 
 think that this tender little being must really 
 die and be put in the cold damp earth, there 
 to moulder away, with all its beauty prema- 
 turely destroyed, and the sweet promises of 
 youth forever unfulfilled ! The thought filled 
 Dora's heart with pity as well as with sorrow. 
 Every caress she had received from the child — 
 every fond, endearing word which had been ex- 
 changed between them in those hours when 
 Dora was no longer the governess and Eva the 
 pupil, came back and inflicted its pang upon 
 her. " I never could have left this house if 
 she had been in it ! " she thought — "never ! " 
 Then came the thought of what it would be 
 when the child was gone — how empty, how 
 silent, how cold ! And so vivid were these 
 images — so painfully real did imagination make 
 them — that Dora grasped Eva's hand till the 
 child opened her heavy eyes and looked won- 
 deringly at her step-mother. She had no 
 knowledge of death, and no fear of the de- 
 stroyer. He might come and steal her away, 
 and she would yield to him with the meek un- 
 consciousness of her years. She would never 
 suspect or know that there was a power 
 stronger by far than that of the kind hand 
 which now held hers. 
 
 " Cousin Dora," she said, with a suddenness 
 that startled Dora, "when is Dr. Petit coming 
 back ? " 
 
 " What do you want him for, Eva? " 
 
 " I don't like Doctor Leroux." 
 
 But the words were spoken faintly, and she 
 fell back into her old languor. 
 
 " The very child is against me," thought 
 Dora. Her heart sickened within her as, re- 
 membering the strife she had already gone 
 through, she foresaw another trial, more cruel 
 still. What if, seeing matters through the 
 bitterness of his altered feelings, Mr. Temple- 
 more should lay the death of his child to her 
 door ? He might not say it, indeed, but she 
 would read it in his eyes, and would not that 
 be hard indeed ? " Since Doctor Leroux can- 
 not promise to save the child," she thought, 
 " would it not be better for me that I had 
 never come here, or had left her to the other 
 man's care? He said he could save her ; and 
 who knows — oh ! who knows, perhaps he 
 could ! — perhaps it is true I am killing her ! " 
 
 The thought was so exquisitely painful, that 
 Dora dropped Eva's hand and left the side of 
 the little cot. She went to the window, leaned 
 against the glass-pane, and cried as if her 
 heart would break. Two thoughts were with 
 her, and either was very hard to bear. One, 
 that there was little or no hope of saving Eva ; 
 the other, that, believing her to be dead, Mrs. 
 Logan and her husband had indulged in hopes, 
 felt or spoken — it mattered not — which her 
 return must needs dispel. 
 
 " He believes me to be dead, and be will 
 find me to be living," thought Dora. " He 
 hopes to marry Florence, and he will learn 
 that he is still bound to me. I am the bitter- 
 ness and the clog of his life. The dark cloud, 
 which ever comes between the sun of happi- 
 ness and him!" As this secret voice spoke 
 to her in such bitter language, Dora asked 
 herself, with something like passion, why she 
 was tried so cruelly. Why was her life a 
 double burden — to herself first, then to him ? 
 And she felt so strong, so free from disease, 
 so full of vitality ! It seemed to her as if she 
 could live, forever. " I dare say I shall sur-
 
 A TELEGRAM FOR MR. TEMPLEMORE. 
 
 289 
 
 vive them both," she thought ; " they will die, 
 and I shall live on into dreary old age, forgot- 
 ten by death, as I have been forgotten by 
 love." 
 
 Bitter, indeed, was the thought, and nothing 
 came to soften its bitterness. Eva was worse 
 the next morning, and Doctor Petit pronounced 
 Miss Moore out of danger. His verdict, in- 
 deed, might have beeu doubtful, but she asked 
 to see Dora, and her appearance fully con- 
 firmed her medical attendant's assertion. 
 
 " Mrs. Templemore," said Miss Moore, with 
 some energy, " what do you mean by tam- 
 pering so with my niece ? — what do you 
 mean ?" 
 
 Dora did not answer at once. She looked 
 from the sick lady in her bed to Florence, who 
 had taken out her handkerchief, and was 
 weeping* behind it, and she tried to say 
 calmly: 
 
 "I did all for the best, Miss Moore — I 
 followed, as I believed, Mr. Templemore's 
 wishes." 
 
 " But it was to me Mr. Templemore left my 
 niece," argued Miss Moore ; " and you take ad- 
 vantage of me and my illness to get hold of 
 her, Miss Courtenay." 
 
 " Mrs. Templemore," corrected Dora. 
 
 " Yes, I know you arc his wife," impatiently 
 retorted Miss Moore; "you need not taunt 
 me with it." 
 
 " I mean no taunt, Miss Moore ; but it is 
 because I am his wife that I have a right over 
 his child." 
 
 Miss Moore looked helplessly at Mrs. Logan, 
 who had withdrawn her handkerchief, and 
 was tapping her foot impatiently. Dora read 
 that look very easily — it meant, " I have done 
 my best, you see, but I cannot help myself." 
 Indeed, Miss Moore's next remark was to that 
 purpose. 
 
 " Well, Mrs. Templemore," she said, " I am 
 
 not able to save poor Eva from you and that 
 
 Doctor Leroux ; but, remember," she added, 
 19 
 
 weeping, "remember, that if I lose my sis- 
 ter's child, I shall hold yon guilty." 
 
 " I cannot accept that guilt, Miss Moore ; 
 life and death are not in my power, and I have 
 still hope that Eva may be saved." 
 
 Miss Moore tossed restlessly in her bed ; 
 Mrs. Logan looked indignant, and, after a 
 brief pause, Dora withdrew and went back to 
 Eva. She had left Josephine with the child, 
 and she found the girl inclined to remain and 
 be communicative, especially on the subject 
 of Fanny. 
 
 " Madame may believe me," she said, confi- 
 dently, " but I never believed in that demoi- 
 selle with her blue eyes. I always told Jacques 
 she was deceitful ; and when she came back 
 and said Madame Courtenay was dead, and 
 took away all madame's letters and things, I 
 said to Jacques, ' I do not like that ; and I do 
 not believe madame sent that Mademoiselle 
 Fanny back.' Jacques will not grant it now, 
 but I said it ; and I never believed madame 
 was really dead, for, you see, monsieur never 
 went into mourning, nor never said a word. 
 Only Madame Logan's maid said it to Jacques, 
 who told me ; but no one told monsieur, who 
 went about looking so grave and so stern ; 
 but servants must be careful, as madame 
 knows, and not repeat every word they hear. 
 And I have always been discreet," continued 
 Josephine, adding, with an abrupt transition, 
 " I can make dresses too, and trim caps quite 
 prettily. Mademoiselle Fanny took many a 
 hint from me. For being English, you know, 
 1 not the right. knack which we French 
 have." 
 
 " Josephine wants to be my maid," thought 
 Dora, with a sigh ; " poor girl, she does not 
 know my reign is over. I am still queen, of 
 course, but where is my kingdom ? And who 
 and what shall I be in this house if poor little 
 Eva dies ? " 
 
 "She is thinking over it," conjectured Jose- 
 phine, watching Dora's pensive face; "I did
 
 290 
 
 DOHA. 
 
 well to tell her about trimming caps. Madame 
 Courtenay always was particular about her 
 caps." 
 
 And Dora, whose thoughts were far away, 
 saw a sad image of herself going back alone 
 to the poor house where Mrs. Courtenay was 
 waiting; whilst Eva slept in her little grave, 
 and Mr. Templemore brooded over his grief in 
 Les Roches. 
 
 CHAPTEE LV. 
 
 The concierge in the Hotel Rue de Rivoli 
 was leaning back in his chair, and looking pen- 
 sively at a telegram which lay on the table be- 
 fore him. It had been lying there seven days, 
 and had not been claimed as yet by Mr. Tem- 
 plemore. Was this a second edition of that 
 gentleman's mysterious disappearance ? The 
 concierge thought so, and was rounding off a 
 period, when again Mr. Templemore spoiled 
 his story by suddenly coming forward. A 
 clew to the truth which he had not ceased to 
 seek had taken him suddenly from Les Roches 
 to a place beyond Paris, but it had proved 
 vain, and he was coming to the Hotel to spend 
 the night there on his way home, when the 
 concierge, recognizing him, rose, and said with 
 much alacrity : 
 
 " We were afraid something had happened 
 to monsieur. This dispatch has been lying 
 here for monsieur no less than seven days." 
 
 Mr. Templemore's color fled as he heard 
 him. Who could send a dispatch to this 
 place, save Miss Moore, and what could she 
 send it for but to give evil tidings of Eva '? 
 He tore the paper open with a trembling hand ; 
 but his heart sickened as he read it. The 
 telegram was sent by Doctor Petit, and that 
 g< ntleman informed him that Miss Moore and 
 her niece were both ill of scarlatina; that he, 
 Doctor Petit, was attending upon them, and 
 that though there was danger, he hoped to get 
 them through. 
 
 Mr. Templemore stood with the paper in 
 his hand, stunned with a grief so unexpected. 
 That Eva should be ill was ever possible, but 
 that she should fall into the hands he most 
 dreaded had always seemed out of the ques- 
 tion ; and now this dreadful evil had come to 
 pass, and for seven days bis child had been in 
 the power of Doctor Petit. All might be well, 
 or all might be over by this. Mr. Temple- 
 more asked for a railway guide. The last 
 train left for Rouen at seven, and it was half- 
 past six now. There was no time to send a 
 telegram to Les Roches and receive the an- 
 swer before the departure of the train. He 
 must go at once, go with the agony of that 
 doubt upon him, or Avait till the following 
 day to save Eva from Doctor Petit's ruthless 
 hands ! 
 
 Within ten minutes to seven Mr. Temple- 
 more was in the waiting-room of the Havre 
 station, and whilst his eager eyes sought the 
 hand of the railway clock, and his heart sick- 
 ened with impatience, very bitter were Mr. 
 Templemore's thoughts. Yes, all might be 
 over now. Eva might be dead by this. The 
 disease which he had dreaded most of all for 
 her might have robbed him of his last child, 
 as it had of her two little sisters. The enemy 
 had come while he was away seeking for one 
 who had all but replaced his child in his 
 heart. "If I had been with Eve I should at 
 least have saved her from Petit," he thought. 
 " Oh ! Dora ! Dora ! must you cost me so dear 
 as this ? " 
 
 There was a double agony in the feeling. 
 Then swiftly other thoughts rushed through 
 his mind. The mother whom he had given to 
 his little girl had proved faithless. Alas ! 
 they had both been faithless, father and 
 adopted mother too. Love and wrath had 
 been fatal alike to Eva, and the innocent 
 child's life must pay for a passion of which 
 childhood has no conception. 
 
 Only a fnw people were waiting for the ex-
 
 TIIE RAILWAY JOURNEY. 
 
 291 
 
 press-train, but amongst them was a young 
 English matron with children, a nursery-maid, 
 and a whole array of small baskets, and toys, 
 and worrying parcels. Mr. Templemore walked 
 to the other end of the waiting-room, in order 
 not to see this happy group. That woman 
 had four children, and he, who had but one, 
 might soon be childless. There would be joy 
 in her home for many years, while his might 
 be hushed and silent. He was not envious, 
 he wished her no evil, but he could not look 
 on her happiness. The sight was one, how- 
 ever, which he could not escape. One of the 
 children, a little girl, ran past him, to jump 
 into the arms of a gentleman, who kissed her 
 and joined the group. He was evidently the 
 father and husband. " Why did I not meet 
 Dora years ago ? " thought Mr. Templemore, 
 in the bitterness of his heart. " She would 
 have been Eva's mother, and all would have 
 been well. There never could have been uri- 
 kindness between us with such a tie. And 
 Dora would never have left her child's home 
 as she left her husband's — never ! " 
 
 These travellers made themselves at home, 
 English fashion, and spoke loud and freely 
 together. Tiny — such was the little girl's 
 name — made daring attempts on one of the 
 baskets holding biscuits. The nurse scolded, 
 but Tiny, defiant sinner, only laughed, and 
 throwing back her golden curls, got up on her 
 smiling mother's knee and hugged her. The 
 child was young and fair, wholly unlike the 
 dark-eyed Eva ; but many a time Mr. Temple- 
 more had seen his little daughter thus in 
 Dora's arms, caressing and fond, and now, 
 looking at this strange mother and child, he 
 also remembered something that had occurred 
 during his hurried journey from Deenah to 
 Les Roches with Dora. Conquered by fatigue, 
 he had fallen asleep one night in the railway 
 carriage. When he woke in the gray morn- 
 ing Dora was sleeping too, and he found that, 
 unconsciously, he had laid his head upon her 
 
 shoulder. Then, as the carriage still moved 
 on, and he saw the deep purple plains in the 
 faint light of dawn, the thought came to him 
 how often his child's innocent head had rested 
 where his now lay, and how often again, as he 
 hoped, he should see ber clasped to that kind 
 heart. It had been one of his troubles to 
 know that Eva would never love Florence, and 
 now it was a joy to feel that he could hold 
 these two, Dora and the child, in one love, 
 undivided. He gently moved away, and Dora 
 awakening, asked what was the next station. 
 He told her, but he did not say how this little 
 incident seemed to have given his brief mar- 
 ried life some of the sweetness which only 
 comes with years ; and how this girl, who had 
 been his wife but a fortnight, was already to 
 him as the mother of his child. 
 
 Again Mr. Ternplemore felt he could not 
 look on, and he turned his head away. He 
 could not help Joving Dora, whatever hap- 
 pened ; but if Eva died, grief, remorse, and a 
 child's grave would be between him and Dora, 
 ay, even though she never left his side again. 
 Could he forget that if he had not been within 
 call in the hour of danger, she was the cause ; 
 could he forget that some strange woman, and 
 not his wife, was now with his sick and dying 
 child? 
 
 At last the wooden barrier was opened, and 
 the travellers hastened to the row of carriages 
 with the loud impatient hissing engine at the 
 head. Five minutes more and they were in 
 motion, first panting, then flying through the 
 country. The suburbs melted away into a 
 green landscape. The Seine gleamed, then 
 disappeared, then came again to sight, villages 
 were seen, then towns, then fields and or- 
 chards. Then towns once more in the autumn 
 sunset, and still they went on, and Mr. Tem- 
 plemore thought they would never reach their 
 goal. At length the hills which surrounded 
 Rouen came in view, then the spires of the old 
 Gothic city rose in the darkness of the night,
 
 292 
 
 DORA. 
 
 and Mr. Templemore felt he must prepare for 
 the worst. 
 
 There were two ways of reaching Les 
 Roches. Mr. Templemore chose the shortest. 
 A carriage took him up a steeper path than 
 the winding road which led to the chateau, 
 and being unable to proceed any farther, left 
 him within fifty yards of the wooden door in 
 the. boundary wall. Mr. Templemore paid and 
 dismissed the cabman without a word. The 
 man looked after him curiously. He saw him 
 take out a key, and heard him open the door 
 and enter, locking the door after him. 
 
 " They have their troubles too," he thought, 
 making his horses turn. " They have trees 
 and gardens, and houses, but they have their 
 troubles too." 
 
 Swiftly, yet with the fear of death at his 
 heart, Mr. Templemore went on through the 
 dark paths. At length the house stood before 
 him. It looked strangely quiet and solemn. 
 Not a light burned in the windows, not one 
 human being was visible. He stood for a 
 moment waiting for some token of life, but 
 none came from that silent dwelling. Sud- 
 denly, and as Mr. Templemore was walking 
 quickly through the flower-garden, Jacques 
 appeared with a lantern in his hand. In a 
 moment Mr. Templemore stood by the man. 
 
 " Well ! " he said. 
 • He could utter no more. His lips were 
 parched and dry, and fever sickened his very 
 heart. 
 
 Jacques was slightly startled at his master's 
 Unexpected appearance, and there was just a 
 moment's pause, an eternity of torment and 
 doubt, ere he answered, 
 
 " Mademoiselle Eva is very low." 
 
 Mr. Templemore had tried to prepare him- 
 self for a worse reply than this, but by the 
 agony it gave him he could test the vanity of 
 all such preparation. 
 
 " Doctor Petit thought she was getting bet- 
 ter," resumed Jacques, " and he cured Ma- 
 
 demoiselle Moore ; but that was in the begin- 
 ning, and Mademoiselle Eva is not so well 
 now." 
 
 Mr. Templemore was standing perfectly 
 still, like one incapable of sense or motion ; 
 but his eyes flashed when he heard Doctor 
 Petit's fatal name, he started, as if that name 
 had stung him back from torpor into life. 
 
 " My God ! " he cried, "who brought that 
 man — who brought him ? " 
 
 There was something so desperate in his 
 look and tone, thai Jacques stepped back, and 
 forgot his partisanship for Doctor Petit, which 
 he shared with the whole household, in per- 
 sonal uneasiness. So hastily evading Mr. 
 Templemore's question, he answered : 
 
 "Doctor Petit cured Mademoiselle Moore, 
 and attended Mademoiselle Eva at first; but 
 Doctor Leroux has the care of her now." 
 
 "When has he been?" 
 
 " He left five minutes ago." 
 
 Mr. Templemore put no further questions, 
 but walked on. The fatal thought, " Petit 
 has murdered her, and Leroux himself cannot 
 save her — I have come too late!" rang 
 through him again and again like a knell. He 
 entered the house, turned into the school- 
 room, thence into Dora's sitting-room, and 
 went up the private staircase which led to the 
 apartment Eva , had once shared with her 
 governess. 
 
 He pushed the door of the child's room 
 open very softly. He did not wish her to be 
 startled by his sudden appearance. The night 
 lamp shed a dull faint light in the sick-room, 
 a low wood fire smouldered on the hearth, but 
 Mr. Templemore could see Eva's little white 
 cot at the other end of the apartment. He 
 approached it gently. A calm, regular breath- 
 ing told him the child was sleeping, lie 
 bent over her very cautiously. Long, keen, 
 and attentive was the look. Suddenly Eva's 
 eyes opened. Mr. Templemore remained per- 
 fectly still. She looked at him with a half
 
 RECONCILIATION. 
 
 293 
 
 wondering gaze, in which sleep contended ; 
 then her lids fluttered and fell, her eyes closed, 
 and she was sleeping soundly. With a re- 
 lieved sigh Mr. Templemore turned away. 
 Eva was saved, and he knew it. 
 
 " Thank God ! " he said, half aloud— " thank 
 God ! " 
 
 ITe walked towards the fireplace, then stood 
 still. A flickering ray of the firelight shot up 
 from the hearth ; and pale, worn, and altered 
 though she was, he saw and knew her. This 
 was his wife who stood before him ! For a 
 moment his heart seemed to cease to beat. 
 For a moment he stood, pale as death, and as 
 silent. For a moment she, too, was mute and 
 still, looking at him as he looked at her. But 
 she had been expecting him days, and she re- 
 covered first. She raised a warning hand. 
 
 " Do not waken her," she said in the lowest 
 whisper — but low though it was, her voice 
 shook ; " she is saved — she will live ! " 
 
 Great joys come to us like great sorrows. 
 Mr. Templemore could neither move nor speak 
 — he felt stunned. He had got them both 
 back — the wife and the child, and for a while 
 he could only look at his lost Dora's face. 
 
 " My wife ! — my dear wife ! " he said at 
 length. 
 
 He took her in his arms. The word " wife " 
 was a sesame. No term of endearment had 
 ever sounded half so sweet as this, when he 
 had spoken it, in the past ; and as he uttered 
 it now her whole heart seemed to go forth to 
 meet him. When he opened his arms to re- 
 ceive her, she threw hers around his neck, and 
 all was forgiven and forgotten forever between 
 these two. 
 
 " Then you are glad I am not. dead," she 
 said, smiling through her happy tears ; " you 
 never had that cruel ' Dora Courtenay ' put 
 on poor aunt's grave? — you never wished to 
 marry Mrs. Logan? You need not tell me so. 
 I know it — I know it ! " 
 
 Yes, this was truly Dora — Dora jealous and 
 
 fond, and Dora joyous and light-hearted. 
 Dora who had fled from him in hasty resent- 
 ment, and had come back on the first token , 
 of the child's peril. But great joy is incredu- 
 lous. The cruel fear of Eva's danger was but 
 a few hours old. It had not taken upon him 
 the hard grasp of reality. He could bid it 
 begone like an evil nightmare ; but the doubts, 
 the fears, the anguish he had gone through 
 in seeking the woman whose voice he heard, 
 whose hand he held, all came back to him 
 now, and seemed to say, " Do not be too sure 
 — you may be dreaming, and when you waken 
 she may be gone." 
 
 " I cannot believe it ! " he exclaimed vehe- 
 mently — "I cannot believe I have got you 
 back ! " 
 
 " And yet I am no ghost ! " she answered 
 joyously. 
 
 Ah ! but how pale and worn she looked ! 
 She had been watching many nights, surely ? 
 
 " Four," she answered simply. " I did not 
 dare to leave Eva for fear they should bring 
 back Doctor Petit." 
 
 " You brought Leroux, then ? " 
 
 " I did. I had a hard battle, but I won." 
 
 " And Petit would have killed her. She is 
 now your child, indeed ! " 
 
 There are some sweet drops in this bitter 
 cup of life, as the poets call it. 
 
 " I am sure of him now," thought Dora — 
 " sure forever." 
 
 Eva moved slightly. At once Dora was by 
 her side ; but Eva was only dreaming. Dora 
 raised the curtain and bent over the sleeping 
 child to make sure of her slumber ; and Mr. 
 Templemore looked at them both, and never 
 forgot that picture — the poor little head on 
 its white pillow, and the faithful, tender face 
 
 above it. 
 
 > 
 
 CHAPTER LVI. 
 
 Mr. Templkmore had serii Dora to her room 
 v to rest and sleep, and Dora had obeyed him.
 
 294 
 
 DORA. 
 
 It was sweet to go and rest after fatigue, and 
 to sleep after watching, and sweeter than all 
 to know she was doing both in her husband's 
 house, and under her husband's care. 
 
 She looked around her with a delicious 
 sense of home. How pleasant to sit down in 
 that large arm-chair, and rest a while, and 
 think of her husband, surrounded as she was 
 with tokens of her husband's affection ! How 
 pleasant, after the vexing storms of the past, 
 to rejoice in the sweet peace of the present ! 
 The same sense of repose followed her when 
 she at length laid her head on her pillow, and 
 composed herself to sleep. 
 
 "Adieu to care," she thought. "If our 
 love has survived such bitter trials, surely we 
 need not fear for it. We are mortal, and, 
 therefore, may suffer again, for we cannot 
 conquer sickness and death ; but for all that, 
 adieu to care ! Now I can fall asleep and not 
 dread wakening. And to-morrow I can waken, 
 and not feel in my heart, ' Another bitter day 
 lies before me.' I know that Eva will live — 
 I know that he sits with her thinking of me — 
 I know that the delightful days are all coming 
 back like spring after winter." 
 
 Yes, she knew it, and when she ceased to 
 know it — when Thought folded her wings, and 
 a gentle torpor crept over her — when fatigue 
 and happiness both wrapped her in a delightful 
 heaviness, and made her close her eyes — she 
 felt it still. It was the last consciousness she 
 carried with her into the world of sleep — 
 it was the meaning of all her dreams, and her 
 bright welcome when she woke. 
 
 Whilst Dora slept, Mr. Templemore sat up 
 and watched in Eva's room. He had sat down 
 in Dora's vacant chair by the fire-place, and 
 looking at the red embers, he threw off the 
 weary burden of the past, and indulged in 
 some bright dreams. But suddenly the image 
 of Florence, pale and reproachful — Florence, 
 who had wronged him, but whom he had 
 abetted too willingly, came back like an up- 
 
 braiding. How completely he had given, up 
 the old love, and how eagerly he had turned 
 to the new ! Was not this vehement affection 
 the justification of Mrs. Logan's jealousy ? 
 "Yes," he thought, with something like 
 remorse, " she was right enough. I was 
 always too fond of Dora. I always gave her 
 too much, and now she has all, and she has 
 a right to all. The folly of a silly woman and 
 the guilt of a mad one have made it too late 
 for repentance or regret. Then why perplex 
 myself with what might have been, but never 
 can be ? — why grudge myself the happiness 
 of what it is, when that ' is ' happens to be a 
 girl I love, and a young wife like Dora ? " 
 
 Thus spoke Reason, and Conscience lent 
 her a very willing ear, and Remorse retreated 
 discomfited, and in some disorder. An unex- 
 pected ally, moreover, came to Reason's aid, 
 and made her mistress of the field. 
 
 Dora had not long been gone, for thought 
 travels fast, when the door through which she 
 had left opened gently. Mr. Templemore 
 looked quickly round. He had searcely time 
 to recognize Miss Moore's square figure, when 
 he heard her lock the door, and take out the 
 key ; then, crossing the room swiftly, she 
 went to another door and locked that too. 
 He stared at her in silent amazement, but it 
 was plain Miss Moore did not see him. She 
 went to Eva's bed, peeped cautiously at the 
 child, then walked away on tiptoe, took a 
 large, old-fashioned arm-chair, shook the cush- 
 ion upon it, wheeled it to Eva's cot, then 
 sat down, with a gentle sigh of relief, took off 
 her curls, fumbled in her pocket, brought out 
 a white-frilled night-cap and put it on. She 
 was tying the strings, when, to her mingled 
 terror and confusion, Mr. Templemore ap- 
 peared before her. Miss Moore felt petrified, 
 and so she did not scream ; but when Mr. 
 Templemore, who did not want to waken the 
 child, made a sign that she was to rise, Miss 
 Moore mechanically obeyed, and found strength
 
 MRS. LOGAN'S MARRIAGE. 
 
 295 
 
 to do so. He took a light, and she followed 
 him to the neighboring room. 
 
 " Miss Moore," he inquired, when they were 
 out of Eva's hearing, " may I ask the meaning 
 of this?" 
 
 " I — I want to sit up with Eva," stammered 
 Miss Moore ; " I thought she was alone." 
 
 " What made you think so ? — did you see 
 my wife leave ? " 
 
 " Yes — just so. I saw her leave, and I 
 came to sit up with the child." 
 
 " Miss Moore, why did you lock the door ? " 
 
 Miss Moore was mute. 
 
 " It is not possible," he said, rather bitterly, 
 " that you meant to lock out my wife*? " 
 
 " I — I don't know," was Miss Moore's pite- 
 ous reply. 
 
 It was plain that such had been her inten- 
 tion ; but Mr. Templemore did not think Miss 
 Moore capable of originating so rebellious a 
 scheme, and his eyes flashed with resentment, 
 as he said : 
 
 " Who advised this ? Of course you would 
 never have done it ? " 
 
 Miss Moore turned traitor without remorse. 
 " It was Mis. Logan," she said. 
 
 " Mrs. Logan ! Good Heavens ! what could 
 be her motive ? What could make her wish 
 to insult my wife in her own house? And, 
 Miss Moore, how could you abet her ? " 
 
 " I have a right over Eva," jealously replied 
 Miss Moore ; " she is my sister's child after all, 
 and I have no faith in* Doctor Leroux; and 
 Doctor Petit cured me, Mr. Templemore." 
 
 Mr. Templemore felt too indignant to argue 
 that point ; but he said again : 
 
 " But Mrs. Logan has no right — how dare 
 she meddle? — how dare she advise you so, 
 
 Miss Moore ? " 
 
 « 
 
 " I suppose it vexed her that Mrs. Temple- 
 more should be alive," composedly said Miss 
 Moore ; " you see, she thought that you were 
 a widower, I suppose, when she came to mind 
 Eva and me." 
 
 Mr. Templemore heard her with mingled 
 anger and shame. Not a shadow of remorse 
 or regret could remain in his heart after this. 
 "And I have loved this small, silly, selfish 
 creature," he thought, in mute indignation; 
 " this ruthless little thing, who would have 
 sacrificed my child's life as well as her own 
 pride to indulge a moment's revenge ! " 
 
 He could not speak at once, so bitter were 
 his feelings ; and that bitterness showed itself 
 in the first words he uttered : 
 
 " Miss Moore, Dora must never know this — 
 never, mind you. She must never know that 
 this insult was contemplated." 
 
 Miss Moore was quite willing to vow that 
 she would never tell Mr. Templemore's wife 
 the little plot that had been concocted against 
 her. And though she had been faithless to 
 Mrs. Logan, she was strictly faithful to herself. 
 Dora never did know it. She never knew 
 why, when her husband spoke of Florence, 
 which was but rarely, he spoke of her with 
 such bitter emphasis and such resentful looks. 
 She never knew why, when a year after this, 
 Mr. Templemore heard of Mrs. Logan's mar- 
 riage with a learned Judge, he uttered so seri- 
 ous and earnest a " poor fellow ! " 
 
 " But you might have been that ' poor fel- 
 low,' " gayly said Dora. 
 
 " Never," he rather sharply answered. " I 
 have committed some mistakes, but they have 
 never been fatal ones. Either reason resumed 
 her sway at the critical moment, or," he added, 
 smiling, " some good fairy came to the rescue 
 when all seemed lost. So you see that I never 
 could have been that 'poor fellow !' " 
 
 " I see," thought Dora ; " there is something 
 I have never known ; but I am not Blue Beard's 
 wife — I can bear it." 
 
 But all this was yet to come. When Dora 
 entered Eva's room the next morning, so bright 
 and joyous that Mr. Templemore told her she 
 looked like the sunbeam whom the alchemist 
 caught and imprisoned :
 
 296 
 
 DOHA. 
 
 " Then mind you lock me up, or I shall 
 escape," replied Dora ; " do not tiust me — do 
 not trust me." 
 
 Alas ! Mrs. Courtenay's worst presentiments 
 were being fulfilled. Mr. Templemore wanted 
 to keep her, and Dora wanted to stay. "Yes," 
 thought Mrs. Courtenay, as she sat alone and 
 sad, and looked out at the village street, " I 
 knew how it would be." 
 
 This time Mrs. Courtenay was not frowning. 
 Dora's mother was weeping, gently, indeed, not 
 with a bitter or passionate flow, but still with 
 sorrow and heartache. Dora had been gone, 
 oh ! so long, and she was not returning. She 
 wrote frequently, almost daily ; but she did not 
 come back. Mrs. Courtenay knew how ill 
 Eva had been, and how well she was getting. 
 She knew that Mr. Templemore had come 
 back, and that Dora was, as she said, happier 
 than ever ; but when Dora would come to her, 
 or if ever she would come, Mrs. Courtenay did 
 not know. And thus, though the cards lay 
 before her, though the favorite patience of his, 
 majesty Louis XVIII. had come out beautiful- 
 ly, Mrs. Courtenay was gloomy, and indulged 
 in some reflections more philosophic than 
 cheerful. " I have always read in history," 
 sadly thought the poor lady, " that when two 
 contending powers made peace, it was at the 
 expense of a third, some poor little weak king- 
 dom or dukedom, or republic, which they 
 either divided or sacrificed in some dreadful 
 way or other. And that is how Dora and Mr. 
 Templemore are now acting. Of course I can- 
 not be divided, or made three pieces of, like 
 poor Poland, but theu I can be excluded from 
 the confederation, as it were, and told to mind 
 my own business, and let the mighty people 
 settle their own affairs. Dora is a good daugh- 
 ter, and she loves me very dearly, but then she 
 is crazy about her husband, and, of course, he 
 is desperately fond of her, and they are making 
 anew honeymoon of it. Ami, of course, too, 
 I iint-t be sacrificed. I always thought Doctor 
 
 Richard looked like a jealous man, and I do 
 believe he will lock her up rather than let her 
 be out of his sight. And if he does, how can 
 she help herself, poor dear ! " 
 
 Yet it was a hard case, a very hard case, 
 but it was of a piece with that carrying off of 
 the Sabiues which Mr. Templemore had emu- 
 lated on his wedding-day. "It began then, 
 and it is ending now," thought the poor lady. 
 " I have lost my Dora ! " 
 
 Mrs. Courtenay was sitting in the parlor, 
 looking disconsolately at the sunburnt road 
 through the green screen of vine-leaves which 
 framed her window, as she came to this lam- 
 entable conclusion. The cards lay before 
 her, and a red glow from the west stole in and 
 filled the plain room with warmth and light. 
 Mrs. Courtenay was dazzled as well as miser- 
 able, and leaning back in her chair with a 
 sigh, she closed her wearied eyes with the 
 dismal reflection, "Where is the use of look- 
 
 in; 
 
 9 " 
 
 " Mamma ! mamma ! " said a pleasant voice, 
 which sounded in her car. Mrs. Courtenay 
 started and looked round. She was alone in 
 the room. " I am here," said the voice again ; 
 and this time Mrs. Courtenay, turning in the 
 direction whence the voice came, saw Dora's 
 bright face looking at her laughingly through 
 the vine-leaves. " You have been crying," 
 said Dora, putting on a frown. " I see it. I 
 am very angry ! " 
 
 "Don't !" implored* Mrs. Courtenay, depre- 
 caticgly. 
 
 Dora shook her head, then vanished. The 
 next moment she was in the room, and she 
 stood before her mother with a grave face 
 and a threatening forefinger. 
 
 " I told you I would come back, but you 
 did not believe it, and yet lure I am." 
 
 "Yes," said Mrs. Courtenay, admiringly; 
 " and how well and how pretty you look,*Dora ! 
 How did you get away ? " she asked, as Dora 
 sat down by her, and kissed her heartily.
 
 THE EASTERN SKETCHES. 
 
 297 
 
 " Did I not tell you I would get out through 
 the window ? " gayly replied Dora. 
 
 " Oh ! but I hope you did not," exclaimed 
 Mrs. Courtenay in some alarm. " That would 
 never do, Dora. Mr. Templemore would not 
 like it." 
 
 Dora looked a little defiant. 
 
 " Why did he lock the door ? " she asked. 
 
 Mrs. Courtenay clasped her hands. 
 
 " And did he lock the door ? " she cried. 
 " Dora, that was disgraceful ; but you should 
 have procured another key, and not jumped 
 out of the window ! " 
 
 "My dear Mrs. Courtenay, do not believe 
 her," now said the voice of Mr. •Templemore, 
 who had been standing behiud her chair all the 
 time. " The doors of Les Roches were wide 
 open, but Dora was so unwilling to come that 
 I had to bring her to you." 
 
 " That is pure slander, you know, mamma," 
 composedly said Dora, " aud you know better." 
 
 Mrs. Courtenay was a little flurried by Mr. 
 Teinplernore's sudden appearance, but she 
 promptly recovered, and her first words were 
 an inquiry after Eva. 
 
 " Eva is very well, thank you, but we do 
 not leave her long alone, and you will not take 
 it unkindly, my dear madame, if we ask you 
 to come away with us — almost at once." 
 
 He spoke with his old kindness and cour- 
 tesy. Mrs. Courtenay looked at him and at her 
 daughter, and her lips parted to say — 
 
 " Mr. Templemore you did not want me in 
 your house, and I will not return to it," but 
 for Dora's sake she was mute. " They shall 
 never guess that I know it — " she thought — 
 " never. I, too, shall have my secret and my 
 burden, but my dear Dora shall be happy — 
 quite happy — if I can make her so ! " 
 
 " T shall soon be ready," she replied meekly. 
 
 " Let me pack up for you," gayly said Dora. 
 
 She rose and went up-stairs, and her first 
 act was to look for, and burn Mr. Temple- 
 more's letter. As it shrivelled up before her, 
 
 she smiled triumphantly. Thus all bitter- 
 ness, all unkindne-s would perish and pass 
 away from their two lives She spon came 
 down again. 
 
 " We are ready," she said to her husband. 
 
 The carriage which had brought them from 
 the railway-station was at the door waiting. 
 Mrs. Courtenay allowed her daughter to put 
 on her bonnet and shawl without a word. 
 Still meek and silent she entered the carriage, 
 and she scarcely opened her lips during the 
 journey to Les Roches. Dora noticed this, 
 and she said a little jealously as they went up 
 the stone steps that led to the house : 
 
 " Well, are you not pleased to be home 
 again ? " 
 
 " Yes, my dear, very much pleased," meekly 
 replied Mrs. Courtenay ; but night had set in, 
 and it was well that Dora did not see her 
 mother's face. Mrs. Courtenay said she was 
 tired, and she went up to her room. 
 
 " Mr. Templemore will want Dora all to 
 himself," she thought, with a swelling heart ; 
 " I must not be in the way." 
 
 The room was a pleasant room, and Mrs. 
 Courtenay looked around it drearily. She felt 
 chill, and she had asked for a fire ; but though 
 the logs burned and crackled cheerfully on 
 the hearth, Mrs. Courtenay felt miserable. 
 These two, her daughter and son-in-law, were 
 happy below without her. Yes, remember- 
 ing her own early-married days, she could 
 imagine how it was with them. During the 
 journey home Mr. Templemore had alluded to 
 one of his Eastern wanderings, and to some 
 sketches he had made of the ruined cities 
 which lie beyond the Jordan and the Sea of 
 Galilee. 
 
 '• Why did you never show them to me ? " 
 asked Dora quickly 
 
 And Mr. Templemore had answered — 
 
 " You shall see them this eveni 
 
 So it was not difficult for Mrs. Courtenay to 
 :ie how these two were now engaged.
 
 298 
 
 DOHA. 
 
 She could hear Mr. Templemore's voice arid 
 Dora's soft laugh ; and she could see, too, 
 Dora's wondering bright eyes raised to her 
 husband's face, and his smile half amused, 
 half fond, for he was very fond of her indeed, 
 fonder than ever, it seemed to Mrs. Courtenay, 
 and of course they did not want, they did not 
 miss her. 
 
 " Poor Mrs. Luan," thought Mrs. Courtenay, 
 with a sigh, "if I had her still I should not 
 feel so dull and lonely." A little rap at the 
 door here roused the solitary lady from her 
 reflections. " I wish Mr. Templemore's ser- 
 vants would not come and pester me," crossly 
 thought Mrs. Courtenay. 
 
 The little rap was repeated, the door opened, 
 and a curly head peeped in, and a childish, 
 treble voice said, " Please, it's only me. May 
 I come in, Mrs. Courtenay ? " 
 
 " Come in, my dear," said Mrs. Courtenay, 
 brightening up as she saw Eva. " Well, what 
 is it ? — what do you want ? " she added, as 
 the child came forward. 
 
 "I came to see you," replied Eva, half 
 offended at this welcome. 
 
 " Thank you, my dear,"' soothingly an- 
 swered the elder lady ; " I am very much 
 obliged to you. Sit down." 
 
 Eva climbed up on a chair, looked at the 
 fire, then burst out with the angry ejaculation : 
 
 " Papa doesn't mind me a bit since Cousin 
 Dora came back ! " 
 
 " My dear, you must not say Cousin Dora 
 now — " 
 
 " Yes, yes, I know," impatiently interrupted 
 Eva; "but one can't get used to it all at 
 once, you know." 
 
 She was flushed, and looked anything but 
 satisfied. " Dear, dear," thought Mrs. Cour- 
 tenay uneasily, " I hope the child is not going 
 to be jealous of poor Dora ! " 
 
 "Tapa is showing Cousin Dora all his beau- 
 tiful sketches," continued Eva, warming with 
 the sense of her wrongs. 
 
 " My love, there is no harm in that," said 
 Mrs. Courtenay, trying to excuse the sinner. 
 
 " Oh ! no," replied Eva, " but when Cousin 
 Dora wanted to take me on her knee papa 
 would not let her. So I came up to you, Mrs. 
 Courtenay." 
 
 It was plain Eva was offended, not so much 
 with Dora as with her father ; and it was plain, 
 too, that, fond as he was of bis little daughter, 
 Mr. Templemore did not object to being alone 
 with his young wife. Yes, matters were going 
 on below pretty much as Mrs. Courtenay had 
 conjectured. Mr. Templemore and his wife 
 were sitting side by side in his study, bending 
 over a large portfolio. Dora looked with won- 
 der at a graphic sketch of a deserted city. She 
 saw a street with stone houses, and on a rocky 
 peak a lonely temple rising against the sky. 
 It was very impressive, but it was melancholy. 
 Mr. Templemore told her that a fox scampered 
 out of the house on the right when he entered 
 it, and that two jackals had made their lair in 
 the temple on the left. 
 
 " I do not like it," said Dora ; " I cannot 
 fancy having a fox in this room when we are 
 dead, or rabbits instead of jackals, which the 
 climate does not allow, about the place. Do 
 you, Eva?" But Eva* was gone. 
 
 " You would not let me take her on my 
 knee," remorsefully said Dora, " and Eva is 
 affronted. I did not even see her go. Mamma 
 told me so: 'You will want no one when you 
 are again with Mr. Templemore.' " 
 
 Mr. Templemore was vexed. What ailed 
 his mother-in-law and his child that they would 
 not let him enjoy his newly-found happiness ? 
 Still he wanted to know where Eva was, and 
 Dora suggested that she might be with Mrs. 
 Courtenay. They both went up-stairs to look. 
 Eva had forgotten to shut the door of Mrs. 
 Court enay's room. A broad ray of light shone 
 out on the landing, and guided too by the sound 
 of voices, Mr. Templemore and his wife peeped 
 in unseen.
 
 A HAPPY FAMILY. 
 
 299 
 
 Mrs. Courtcnay had spread out the cards on 
 the table, and was giving Eva a lesson in the 
 favorite patience of his majesty Louis Dix-huit. 
 Eva, perched on a high chair, looked on in- 
 tently, puckering her little brown face into an 
 expression of the utmost gravity. Suddenly 
 she clapped her hands and uttered a joyous 
 cry : " You have done it ! " 
 
 "I have!" said Mrs. Courtenay, in great 
 glee — " I have ! " 
 
 " Well, dear Dora," said Mr. Templemore, 
 making her turn away, " you thought we 
 did not want them — - pray do they want 
 us?" 
 
 " Perhaps they do, and perhaps they do 
 not," saucily replied Dora ; and to herself she 
 thought with a bright, happy smile, " I do be- 
 lieve we are all going to be so happy ! " But 
 happiness is silent, not spoken ; and not one 
 word of this did Dora say. 
 
 THE END.
 
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