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,