r putting on the soft
Lady-Angelica wrapper, as Josie had called it, she sat for a long time
in a low easy-chair, with her little red-slippered feet in a rug before
the fire, thinking of all that the eventful day had brought her.

"There is more than hope," she mused, while her eyes were full of
tears: "those were Uncle's very words--more than hope, that I am Dorothy
Reed. But what if it really is not so; what if I am no relation to
my--to the Reed family at all--no relation to Uncle George nor to
Donald?" From weeping afresh at this thought, and feeling utterly lonely
and wretched, she began to wonder how it would feel to be Delia. In that
case, Aunt Kate would have been her mother. For an instant this was some
consolation, but she soon realized that, while Aunt Kate was very dear
to her fancy, she could not think of her as her mother; and then there
was Uncle Robertson--no, she never could think of him as her father; and
that dreadful, cruel Eben Slade, her _uncle_? Horrible! At this thought
her soul turned with a great longing toward the unknown mother and
father, who, to her childish mind, had appeared merely as stately
personages, full of good qualities--Mr. and Mrs. Wolcott Reed, honored
by all who knew them, but very unreal and shadowy to her. Now, as she
sat half-dreaming, half-thinking, their images grew distinct and loving;
they seemed to reach out their arms tenderly to her, and the many good
words about them that from time to time had fallen tamely upon her ears
now gained life and force. She felt braver and better, clinging in
imagination to them, and begging them to forgive her, their own girl
Dorothy, for not truly knowing them before.

Meantime, the night outside had been growing colder and there were signs
of a storm. A shutter in some other part of the building blew open
violently, and the wind moaned through the pine-trees at the corner of
the house. Then the sweet, warm visions that had comforted her faded
from her mind and a dreadful loneliness came over her. A great longing
for Donald filled her heart. She tried to pray,--

"No thought confessed, no wish expressed,
Only a sense of supplication."

Then her thoughts took shape, and she prayed for him, her brother, alone
in a foreign land, and for Uncle, troubled and waiting, at home, and for
herself, that she might be patient and good, and have strength to do
what was right--even to go with Eben Slade to his distant home, _if