Her fate was determined, and, as she heroically told
Maude in their last interview, she was determined to make the best of
it. She would endure the unjust aunt, and jealous, silly cousins, and
be so clever, and wise, and superior, that she would force them to
admire and respect her, and by-and-by follow her example, and be good
and sensible, so that when father came home, he would find them
acknowledging that they owed everything to her; she had saved two or
three of their lives, nursed half of them when the other half were
helpless, fainting, and hysterical, and, in short, been the Providence
of the household. Then father would look at her, and say, 'My Mary
again!' and he would take her home, and talk to her with the free
confidence he had shown her mother, and would be comforted.
This was the hope that had carried her through the last parting, when
she went on board with her uncle and saw her father's cabin, and looked
with a dull kind of entertainment at all the curious arrangements of
the big ship. It seemed more like sight-seeing than good-bye, when at
last they were sent on shore, and hurried up to the station just in
time for the train.
Uncle William was a very unapproachable person. He did not profess to
understand little girls. He looked at Dolores rather anxiously, afraid,
perhaps, that she was crying, and put her into the carriage, then
rushed out and brought back a handful of newspapers, giving her the
Graphic, and hiding himself in the Times.
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