So the hours flew quickly, for she was too busy to dwell much on
the loss of her dear father, and to think that he was gone forever. But
the afternoons were truly dreadful. She must sit through the long hot
hours, close by the seamstress, almost smothered by the big piece of
cotton cloth, which her little fingers could hardly manage, and she grew
restless and irritable, for her hands were moist, and the needle refused
to be driven through the thick cloth. How often she glanced up at the
clock on the wall during those long hours, when the minute hand was surely
stuck at half-past three, and the regular tic-tac seemed to fill the
quiet room with its sleepy droning. So hot, so still, so long were the
hours of those summer afternoons!
The silence was broken now and then by the sounds of a distant piano.
"What a happy child that must be!" thought little Dora, "who can sit at
the piano and practise exercises, and all sorts of pretty tunes!" She
could think of nothing more delightful; she listened with hungry ears, and
drank in every note that reached her.
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