University of Virginia Library

2. CHAPTER II.
THE FIRST AND LAST NEW YEAR'S CALL.

It was New Year's morning, and over the great city lay
the deep, untrodden snow, so soon to be trampled down by
thousands of busy feet. Cheerful fires were kindled in
many a luxurious home of the rich, and “Happy New Year”
was echoed from lip to lip, as if on that day there were no
aching hearts—no garrets where the biting cold looked in
on pinching poverty and suffering old age—no low, dark
room where Dora and her pale, dead mother lay, while over
them the angels kept their tireless watch till human aid
should come. But one there was who did not forget—one
about whose house was gathered every elegance which
fashion could dictate or money procure; and now, as she
sat at her bountifully-furnished breakfast table sipping her
fragrant chocolate, she thought of the poor widow, Dora's
mother, for whom her charity had been solicited the day
before, by a woman who lived in the same block of buildings
with Mrs. Deane.

“Brother,” she said, glancing towards a young man who,
before the glowing grate, was reading the morning paper,
“suppose you make your first call with me?”

“Certainly,” he answered; “and it will probably be in
some dreary attic or dark, damp basement; but it is well,
I suppose, to begin the New Year by remembering the poor.”

Half an hour later, and the crazy stairs which led to the
chamber of death were creaking to the tread of the lady
and her brother, the latter of whom knocked loudly for
admission. Receiving no answer from within, they at last
raised the latch and entered. The fire had long since gone
out, and the night wind, as it poured down the chimney,
had scattered the cold ashes over the hearth and out upon
the floor. Piles of snow lay on the window sill, and a
tumbler in which some water had been left standing, was
broken in pieces. All this the young man saw at a glance,
but when his eye fell upon the bed, he started back, for
there was no mistaking the rigid, stony expression of the
upturned face, which lay there so white and motionless.

“But the child—the child,” he exclaimed, advancing
forward—“can she, too, be dead?” and he laid his warm
hand gently on Dora's brow.

The touch aroused her, and starting up, she looked
around for a moment bewildered; but when at last she
turned towards her mother, the dread reality was forced
upon her, and in bitter tones she cried, “Mother's dead,
mother's dead, and I am all alone! Oh! mother, mother,
come back again to me!”

The young man's heart was touched, and taking the
child's little red hands in his, he rubbed them gently, trying
to soothe her grief; while his sister, summoning the
inmates from the adjoining room, gave orders that the
body should receive the necessary attention; then, learning
as much as was possible of Dora's history, and assuring her
that she should be provided for until her aunt came, she
went away, promising to return next morning and be
present at the humble funeral.

That evening, as Dora sat weeping by the coffin in which
her mother lay, a beautiful young girl, with eyes of deepest

blue, and locks of golden hair, smiled a joyous welcome to
him whose first New Year's call had been in the chamber of
death, and whose last was to her, the petted child of fashion.

“I had almost given you up, and was just going to cry,”
she said, laying her little snow-flake of a hand upon the one
which that morning had chafed the small, stiff fingers of
Dora Deane, and which now tenderly pressed those of Ella
Grey as the young man answered, “I have not felt like going
out to-day, for my first call saddened me;” and then, with
his arm around the fairy form of Ella, his affianced bride,
he told her of the cold, dreary room, of the mother colder
still, and of the noble little girl, who had divested herself
of her own clothing, that her mother might be warm.

Ella Grey had heard of such scenes before—had cried
over them in books; but the idea that she could do anything
to relieve the poor, had never entered her mind. It
is true, she had once given a party dress to a starving woman,
and a pound of candy to a ragged boy who had asked
for aid, but here her charity ended; so, though she seemed
to listen with interest to the sad story, her mind was wandering
elsewhere, and when her companion ceased, she
merely said, “Romantic, wasn't it.”

There was a look of disappointment on the young man's
face, which was quickly observed by Ella, who attributed it
to its right source, and hastened to ask numberless questions
about Dora—“How old was she? Did he think her
pretty, and hadn't she better go to the funeral the next
day and bring her home for a waiting-maid?—she wanted
one sadly, and from the description, the orphan girl would
just suit.”

“No, Ella,” answered her lover; “the child is going to
live in the country with some relatives, and will be much
better off there.”

“The country,” repeated Ella. “I would rather freeze
in New York than to live in the dismal country.”

Again the shadow came over the gentleman's brow, as he
said, “Do you indeed object so much to a home in the
country?”

Ella knew just what he wanted her to say; so she
answered, “Oh, no, I can be happy anywhere with you,
but do please let me spend just one winter in the city
after”—

Here she paused, while the bright blushes broke over her
childish face. She could not say, even to him, “after we
are married,” so he said it for her, drawing her closer to
his side, and forgetting Dora Deane, as he painted the
joyous future when Ella would be all his own. Eleven
o'clock sounded from more than one high tower, and at
each stroke poor Dora Deane moaned in anguish, thinking
to herself, “Last night at this time she was here.” Eleven
o'clock, said Ella Grey's diamond set watch, and pushing
back her wavy hair, the young man kissed her rosy cheek,
and bade her a fond good-night. As he reached the door,
she called him back, while she asked him the name of the
little girl who had so excited his sympathy.

“I do not know,” he answered. “Strange that I forgot
to inquire. But no matter. We shall never meet again;”
and feeling sure that what he said was true, he walked
away.