Dora Deane; Or, The East India Uncle

m treated her more like a sister than a servant, while even Eugenia, who came often to Rose Hill, and whose fawning manner had partially restored her to the good opinion of the fickl

rested in watching the developme

while her face grew white almost as the wintry snow, save when a bright red spot burned upon her cheeks, making her, as Dora thought, even more beautiful t

eath, or even looked upon it, for mother told us there was no need of harrowing up our feelings-it would come soon enough, she said; and to me, who hop

s manner, whenever he bent over the pillow of his young wife, or bore her in his arms, as he sometimes did, to the window, that she might look out upon

speak. There was a numbness at her heart, a choking sensation in her throat, which prevented her utterance. But Ella understood her, and returning the warm pressure, she continued, "You, too, have seen it the

t came at last, through the word of God and the teachings of the faithful clergyman, who was sent for at her request, and who came daily up to see her. There was no more fear now-no more terror of the narrow tomb, for there w

she continued, as she saw him about to speak, "willing that it should be so. I have loved you, Howard, more than you can know, or I can ever tell; but I am not worthy of you. I do not satisfy the higher feelings of your heart; I am not what your wife should be, and for this I must die. Many a night, whe

. Hastings, laying his head

d chosen from all others to share his home; and though he had failed to find in her the companion he had sought, she was very dear to him-was the mother of his c

ossoms had been laid upon her pillow, ere the midnight hour, when, with anguish at their hearts, Howard Hastings and Dora Deane watched together by her side, and knew that she was dying. There had been long, dreary nights of wakefulness, and the worn-out sufferer had asked at last that she might die-might sleep the dreamless sleep from which she would never waken. And Howard Hastings, as night after night went by, and the laughing blue eyes which had won his early love grew dim with constant waking, ha

am gone, you will live here still and care for my child, whom we have called Fannie. It is a beautiful name, Dora-your mother's name, and for your sake, I would fain let her keep it-but," turning to Mr. Hastings, and laying her hand caressingly upon his head, "when I no longer live, I would rather you should call my baby Ella Grey; and if my husband"-here she paused to gather strength for wh

th, save the sobs of those about to be bereaved, and the faint rustl

ms of the young mother, who, clasping it fondly to her bosom, breathed over it a

p his head from the pillow where it had been resting, and Dora Deane came timi

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