Dora Thorne | Page 8

on Liberalism," four of a sensational novel, and fell asleep satisfied with that day, but rather at a loss to know what he should do on the next.
It was a beautiful June day; no cloud was in the smiling heavens, the sun shone bright, and Nature looked so fair and tempting that it was impossible to remain indoors. Out in the gardens the summer air seemed to thrill with the song of the birds. Butterflies spread their bright wings and coquetted with the fragrant blossoms; busy humming bees buried themselves in the white cups of the lily and the crimson heart of the rose.
Ronald wandered through the gardens; the delicate golden laburnum blossoms fell at his feet, and he sat down beneath a large acacia. The sun was warm, and Ronald thought a dish of strawberries would be very acceptable. He debated within himself for some time whether he should return to the house and order them, or walk down to the fruit garden and gather them for himself.
What impulse was it that sent him on that fair June morning, when all Nature sung of love and happiness, to the spot where he met his fate?
Chapter III
The strawberry gardens at Earlescourt were very extensive. Far down among the green beds Ronald Earle saw a young girl kneeling, gathering the ripe fruit, which she placed in a large basket lined with leaves, and he went down to her.
"I should like a few of those strawberries," he said, gently, and she raised to his a face he never forgot. Involuntarily he raised his hat, in homage to her youth and her shy, sweet beauty. "For whom are you gathering these?" he asked, wondering who she was, and whence she came.
In a moment the young girl stood up, and made the prettiest and most graceful of courtesies.
"They are for the housekeeper, sir," she replied; and her voice was musical and clear as a silver bell.
"Then may I ask who you are?" continued Ronald.
"I am Dora Thorne," she replied, "the lodge keeper's daughter."
"How is it I have never seen you before?" he asked.
"Because I have lived always with my aunt, at Dale," she replied. "I only came home last year."
"I see," said Ronald. "Will you give me some of those strawberries?" he asked. "They look so ripe and tempting."
He sat down on one of the garden chairs and watched her. The pretty white fingers looked so fair, contrasted with the crimson fruit and green leaves. Deftly and quickly she contrived a small basket of leaves, and filled it with fruit. She brought it to him, and then for the first time Ronald saw her clearly, and that one glance was fatal to him.
She was no calm, grand beauty. She had a shy, sweet, blushing face, resembling nothing so much as a rosebud, with fresh, ripe lips; pretty little teeth, which gleamed like white jewels, large dark eyes, bright as stars, and veiled by long lashes; dark hair, soft and shining. She was indeed so fair, so modest and graceful, that Ronald Earle was charmed.
"It must be because you gathered them that they are so nice," he said, taking the little basket from her hands. "Rest awhile, Dora--you must be tired with this hot sun shining full upon you. Sit here under the shade of this apple tree."
He watched the crimson blushes that dyed her fair young face. She never once raised her dark eyes to his. He had seen beautiful and stately ladies, but none so coy or bewitching as this pretty maiden. The more he looked at her the more he admired her. She had no delicate patrician loveliness, no refined grace; but for glowing, shy, fresh beauty, who could equal her?
So the young heir of Earlescourt sat, pretending to enjoy the strawberries, but in reality engrossed by the charming figure before him. She neither stirred nor spoke. Under the boughs of the apple tree, with the sunbeams falling upon her, she made a fair picture, and his eyes were riveted upon it.
It was all very delightful, and very wrong. Ronald should not have talked to the lodge keeper's daughter, and sweet, rustic Dora Thorne should have known better. But they were young, and such days come but seldom, and pass all too quickly.
"Dora Thorne," said Ronald, musingly--"what a pretty name! How well it suits you! It is quite a little song in itself."
She smiled with delight at his words; then her shy, dark eyes were raised for a moment, and quickly dropped again.
"Have you read Tennyson's 'Dora?'" he asked.
"No," she replied--"I have little time for reading."
"I will tell you the story," he said, patronizingly. "Ever since I read it I have had an ideal 'Dora,' and you realize my dream."
She had not the least idea what he meant; but when he recited