“I hope she will love me,” mused she of the strange mother; “but she cannot as Aunt Mary does, and nobody, nobody can ever love me as my own dear mother did!” she sobbed, with a gush of tears. But presently they staid in their fountain, for she thought of her mother, still loving her, and of her Saviour, ever near, loving her more than mortal could. “I will try to be good and gentle,” thought she, “and she _will_ love me. Nine o’clock! Aunt Debby thought they would be here by seven, I must go and ask her what the matter can be.” The individual yclept “Aunt Debby” was no less a personage than Mrs. Deborah Dalrymple, whose pride it was, that for twenty years the light of her wisdom, and the strength of her hands, had been the dependence of Dr. Arthur Gregory’s household. On this occasion, Alice found her in the dining-room, seated in state, her bronzed visage graced by the veritable cap with which she had honored the reception of the first Mrs. Gregory. Its full double ruffle, and bountiful corn-colored bows, made her resemble the pictures, in the primers, of the sun with puffed cheeks, surrounded by his beams. _She_ would show no partiality, not she. What Dr. Gregory thought was right, was right. He had been a good master to her as ever a woman need have, and she was sure of a comfortable home the rest of her days whoever came there. Dr. Gregory was in all things her oracle, her admiration, her sovereign authority. The world did not often see such a man as he, that it didn’t. But, barring the doctor, she sensibly realized the world had no more reliable authority than Mrs. Deborah Dalrymple. There she sat, anxiously speculating on the approaching regime, and plying the needles on her best knitting-work with uncommon zeal. “Aunt Debby, do you know it is nine o’clock?” “I heard the clock strike nine.” “Father should have been here two hours ago.” “I don’t know that.” “Why! you said he would be here at seven.” “I don’t know that.” “What then?” “I _expected_ him.” “Well, what can be the reason that he does not come?” “Great many things.” “But what _is_ the reason?” “He knows better than I.” “What do you _suppose_?” “Nothing.” Alice came to a pause with a decidedly unsatisfied expression. “Was it winter when he brought my mother home?” “No.” “Summer?” “Yes.” “Was it a pleasant day?” “Yes.” Despairing of Aunt Debby’s communicativeness, Alice returned to her solitude, roused a vigorous flame in the grate, and sitting down on an ottoman beside Carlo, commenced an attack on his taciturnity. “But hark! those are father’s bells! No--yes! yes, they are come!” Girl and dog sprang to their feet together, and ran to the door. In her haste Alice brushed something from the work-table. It was nothing but her mother’s needle-book, but she pressed it to her lips as she tenderly replaced it, and passed more slowly into the hall.