n't only the light of the house, she was the heart of the house,
too, the very heart. It was dreary enough after she went off to England,
poor darling."

"Yes, yes, go on," urged Dorry, earnestly, at the same time wondering at
her brother's hasty departure. "Go on, Liddy, that's a dear. I can
repeat it all to Donald, you know."

"There isn't any more, Miss Dorry. That's the end of the first part of
the story. You know the second well enough, poor child, and sad enough
it is."

"Yes," said Dorry, in a low tone, "but tell me the rest of the
beginning."

"Why, what _do_ you mean, Miss Dorry? There's nothing else to
tell,--that is, nothing that I got ear of. I suppose there were letters
and so on; in fact, I _know_ there were, for many a time I brought Mr.
George's mail in to him. _That_ day, I took the letters and papers to
Mr. G. in the library,--poor, lonely gentleman he looked!--and then I
went down to my kitchen fire (I was in the housework then), and some
minutes after, when I'd been putting on coal and poking it up bright, it
kind o' struck me that the master's bell had been ringing. Up I hurried,
but when I reached the library, he was gone out, and no one was there
but Nero (yes, _you_, old doggie!), lying before the fire, as if he
owned the house. And that's the end of the first part, so far as I
know."

"Yes," persisted Dorothy; "but I want to hear more about what happened
before that. I know about our poor papa dying abroad, and about the
wreck, and how our mamma and--"

She could not go on. Often she could speak of all this without crying;
but the poor girl had been strained and excited all the afternoon, and
now, added to the sorrow that surged through her heart at the sudden
thought of the parents whom she could not even remember, came the
certainty that again she was to be disappointed. It was evident, from
Lydia's resolute though kindly face, that she did not mean to tell any
more of the first half of the story.

The good woman smoothed Dorothy's soft hair gently, and spoke soothingly
to her, begging her to be a good girl and not cry, and to remember what
a bright, happy little miss she was, and what a beautiful home she had,
and how young folk ought always to be laughing and skipping about, and--

"Liddy!" said Donald, suddenly appearing at the door. "Uncle wishes to
see you."

Lydia, flushing, set down the pan, and, hurriedly smoothing her apron,
walked out of the room.

"Uncle called me from