University of Virginia Library

18. CHAPTER XVIII.
DORA DARLING.

The sun was setting upon the day succeeding that of the
great railroad accident, that, for weeks, filled the whole land
with horror and indignation, when a young girl, driving
rapidly along a country-road at a point about five miles distant
from the scene of the disaster, met a child walking
slowly toward her, whose disordered dress, bare head, and
wild, sweet face, attracted her attention and curiosity.

Checking her spirited horse with some difficulty, the
young girl looked back, and found that the child had
stopped, and stood watching her.

“See here, little girl!” called she. “Are you lost? Is
any thing the matter with you?”

The child fixed her solemn eyes upon the face of the
questioner, but made no answer.

“Come here, sissy! I want to talk to you; and I can't
turn round to come to you. Come here!”

The little girl slowly obeyed the kind command, and

stood presently beside the wagon, her pale face upraised,
her startled eyes intently fixed upon the clear and honest
ones bent to meet them.

“What is your name, little girl?”

“Sunshine,” said the child vaguely; and her eyes dropped
from the face of her questioner to fix themselves upon the
far horizon, where hung already the evening-star, pale and
trembling, as it had hung upon the evening of 'Toinette
Legrange's birthday ten months before. Was it a sudden
association with the star and the hour that had suggested to
the heart of the desolate child this name, so long forgotten,
once so appropriate, now so strange and sad?

“Sunshine?” replied the young girl wonderingly. “You
don't look like it a bit. Where do you belong? and where
are you going?”

The child's eyes travelled back from Dreamland, and
rested wistfully upon the kind face above her.

“I don't know,” said she sadly. “I want to go to
heaven; but I've forgot the way.”

“To heaven! You poor little thing, have you no home
short of that?”

“I don't know. I wish I had some water.”

“You had better jump into the wagon, and come home

with me, Sunshine, if that is your name. Something has
got to be done for you right away.”

The child, still looking at her in that strange and solemn
manner, asked suddenly, —

“Who are you?”

“I? Oh! I'm Dora Darling; and I live about five
miles from here. Jump in quick; for it is growing dark,
and we must be at home for supper.”

As she spoke, she leaned down, and gave a hand to
the little girl, who mechanically took it, and clambered
into the carriage. Dora lifted her to the seat, and held
her there, with one arm about her waist, saying kindly, —

“Hug right up to me, you poor little thing! and hold
on tight. We'll be at home in half an hour, or less. —
Now, Pope!”

The impatient horse, feeling the loosened rein, and
hearing his own name, darted away at speed; whirling
the light wagon along so rapidly, that the child clung
convulsively to her new protector, murmuring, —

“I guess I shall spill out of this, and get kilt.”

“Oh, no, you won't, Sunshine! I shall hold you in.
You're not Irish, are you?”

“What's that?”

“Why, Irish, you know. You said `kilt' just now,
instead of `killed,' as we do.”

The child made no reply; but her head drooped upon
Dora's shoulder yet more heavily, and her eyes closed.

“Are you sick, little girl? or only tired?” asked Dora,
looking anxiously down into the colorless face, over which
the evening breeze was gently strewing the tangled curls,
as if to hide it from mortal view, while the poor, worn
spirit fled away to peace and rest.

“Sunshine!” exclaimed Dora, gently moving the heavy
head that still drooped lower and lower, until now the
face was hidden from view.

“She has fainted!” said Dora, looking anxiously about
her. No house and no person were in sight, nor any
stream or pond of water; and the young girl decided
that the wisest course would be to drive home as rapidly
as possible, postponing all attempt to revive her little
patient until her arrival there.

Without checking the horse, she dragged from under
the seat a quilted carriage-robe, and spread it in the bottom
of the wagon, arranging a paper parcel as a pillow.
Then, laying poor Sunshine upon this extemporized couch,
she took off her own light shawl, and covered her; leaving

exposed only the face, white and lovely as the marble
statue recumbent upon a little maiden's tomb.

“Now, Pope!” cried Dora, with one touch of the whip
upon the glossy haunch of the powerful beast, who, at
sound of that clear voice, neighed reply, and darted forward
at the rate of twelve good miles an hour; so that,
in considerably less than the promised time, Dora skilfully
turned the corner from the road into a green country
lane, and, a few moments after, stopped before the door
of an old-fashioned one-story farm-house, painted red,
with a long roof sloping to the ground at the back, an
open well with a sweep and bucket, and a diamond-paned
dairy-window swinging to and fro in the faint breeze.
Around the irregular door-stone, the grass grew close and
green; while nodding in at the window, and waving from
the low eaves, and clambering upon the roof, a tangle of
white and sweet-brier roses, of woodbine and maiden's-bower,
lent a rare grace to the simple home, and loaded
the air with a cloud of delicate perfume.

A young man, lounging upon the doorstep, started to
his feet as the wagon came dashing up the lane, and was
going to open the gate of the barn-yard; but Dora
stopped before the open door, and called to him, —

“Karl! Come here, please.”

“Certainly. I was running out of the way for fear of
being ground to powder beneath your chariot-wheels; for
I said to myself, `Surely the driving is as the driving
of Jehu, the son of Nimshi.”'

“I shouldn't have driven so fast; but — see here!”

She pulled away the shawl as she spoke, and showed
to the young man, who now stood beside the carriage,
the still inanimate form of the little waif at her feet.

“Phew! What's that? and where did you get it?”

“A little girl that I met; lost, I think. I took her into
the buggy, and then she fainted, and I laid her down,”
rapidly explained Dora; adding, as she raised the little
figure in her arms, —

“Take her in, and lay her on the bed in the rosy-room.”

“Poor little thing! She's not dead, is she, Dora?”
asked the young man softly, as he took the child in his
arms and entered the house, followed by Dora.

“Oh, no! I think not; only fainted. I suppose there's
hot water, for a bath, in the kitchen.”

As she spoke, they entered the sitting-room, — a cool,
shady apartment, with a great beam crossing the ceiling,
and deep recesses to the windows, with seats in them.

At the farther side, Dora threw open the door of a little
bedroom, whose gay-papered walls and flowered chintz
furniture, not to speak of a great sweet-brier bush tapping
and scratching at the window, with all its thousand sharp
little fingers, gave it a good right to be called the rosy-room.
Dora hastily drew away the bright counterpane,
and nodded to Karl, who laid the little form he carried
tenderly upon the bed.

At this moment, another door into the sitting-room
opened; and a girl, somewhat older than Dora, put in her
head, looked about for a moment, and then came curiously
toward the door of the rosy-room.

“I thought I heard you, Dora,” said she. “What are
you doing in here? Why! — who's that?”

“O Kitty! can you warm a little of that broth we
had for dinner, to give her? She's just starved, I really
believe. And is there any ammonia in the house? — smelling-salts,
you know. Didn't aunt have some?” asked
Dora rapidly.

“I believe so. But where did you get this child?
Who is she?”

“Run, Kitty, and get the salts first. We'll tell you
afterward.”

“What shall I do, Dora?” interposed the young man;
and Kitty ran upon her errand, while Dora promptly
replied, —

“Open the window, and bring some cold water; and
then a little wine or brandy, if we have any.”

“Enough for this time, at any rate,” said Karl, hurrying
away, and returning with both water and wine
just as Kitty appeared with the salts; but it was Dora
who applied the remedies, and with a skill and steadiness
that would have seemed absolutely marvellous to one
unacquainted with the young girl's previous history and
training.

“She's coming to herself. You'd better both go out
of sight, and let her see only me. Kitty, will you look
to the broth?” whispered Dora; and Karl, taking his
sister by the sleeve, led her out, softly closing the door
after them.

“Dora does like to manage, I must say. Now, do
tell me at last who this child is, and where she came
from, and what's going to be done with her,” said Kitty
as they reached the kitchen.

“Why shouldn't she like to manage, when she can do
it so well? I can tell you, Miss Kitty, if she hadn't managed

to some purpose on one occasion, you wouldn't have
had a brother to-day to plague you.”

The girl's dark eyes grew moist as she turned them
upon him, saying warmly, —

“I know it, Charley; and I would love her for that, if
nothing else: but I can't forget she's almost a year
younger than I am, and ought not to expect to take the
lead in every thing.”

“Pooh, Kit-cat, don't be ridiculous! Get the soup,
and put it over the fire; and I'll tell you all I know
about our little guest.”

“I let the fire go down when tea was ready, it is so
warm to-night,” said Kitty, raking away the ashes in
the open fireplace, and drawing together a few coals.

“That will do. You only want a cupful or so at
once, and you can warm it in a saucepan over those
coals.”

“Dear me! I guess I know how to do as much as that
without telling. Sit down now, and let me hear about
the child.”

So Karl dropped into the wooden arm-chair beside the
hearth, and told his story; while Kitty, bustling about,
warmed the broth, moved the tea-pot and covered dish of

toast nearer to the remnant of fire, waved a few flies off
the neat tea-table, and drove out an intrusive chicken,
who, before going to roost, was evidently determined to
secure a dainty bit for supper from the saucer of bread
and milk set in the corner for pussy.

“If the broth is ready, I'll take it in,” said Karl, as
his sister removed it from the fire.

“Well, here it is; and do tell Dora to come to supper,
or at least come yourself. I want to get cleared
away some time.”

“I'll tell her,” said Karl briefly, as he took the little
bowl of broth, set it in a plate, and laid a silver spoon
beside it.

“How handy he is! just like a woman,” said Kitty
to herself as her brother left the room; and then, going
out into the sink-room, she finished washing and putting
away the “milk-things,” — a process interrupted by the
arrival of Dora with her little charge.