Dora Thorne | Page 9

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 the
musical words, her fancy and imagination were stirred; she saw the
wheat field, the golden corn, the little child and its anxious mother.
When Ronald ceased speaking, he saw her hands were clasped and her
lips quivering.
"Did you like that?" he asked, with unconscious patronage.
"So much!" she replied. "Ah, he must be a great man who wrote those
words; and you remember them all."
Her simple admiration flattered and charmed him. He recited other
verses for her, and the girl listened in a trance of delight. The sunshine
and western wind brought no warning to the heir of Earlescourt that he
was forging the first link of a dreadful tragedy; he thought only of the
shy, blushing beauty and coy grace of the young girl!
Suddenly from over the trees there came the sound of the great bell at
the Hall. Then Dora started.
"It is one o'clock!" she cried. "What shall I do? Mrs. Morton will be
angry with me."
"Angry!" said Ronald, annoyed at this sudden breakup of his Arcadian
dream. "Angry with you! For what?"

"She is waiting for the strawberries," replied conscious Dora, "and my
basket is not half full."
It was a new idea to him that any one should dare to be angry with this
pretty, gentle Dora.
"I will help you," he said.
In less than a minute the heir of Earlescourt was kneeling by Dora
Thorne, gathering quickly the ripe strawberries, and the basket was
soon filled.
"There," said Ronald, "you need not fear Mrs. Morton now, Dora. You
must go, I suppose; it seems hard to leave this bright sunshine to go
indoors!"
"I--I would rather stay," said Dora, frankly; "but I have much to do."
"Shall you be here tomorrow?" he asked.
"Yes," she replied; "it will take me all the week to gather strawberries
for the housekeeper."
"Goodbye, Dora," he said, "I shall see you again."
He held out his hand, and her little fingers trembled and fluttered in his
grasp. She looked so happy, yet so frightened, so charming, yet so shy.
He could have clasped her in his arms at that moment, and have said he
loved her; but Ronald was a gentleman. He bowed over the little hand,
and then relinquished it. He watched the pretty, fairy figure, as the
young girl tripped away.
"Shame on all artificial training!" said Ronald to himself. "What would
our fine ladies give for such a face? Imagine beauty without coquetry
or affectation. The girl's heart is as pure as a stainless lily; she never
heard of 'a grand match' or a 'good parli.' If Tennyson's Dora was like
her, I do not wonder at anything that happened."
Instead of thinking to himself that he had done a foolish thing that

bright morning, and that his plain duty was to forget all about the girl,
Ronald lighted his cigar, and began to dream of the face that had
charmed him.
Dora took the fruit to Mrs. Morton, and received no reprimand; then
she was sent home to the cottage, her work for the day ended. She had
to pass through the park. Was it the same road she had trodden this
morning? What caused the new and shining glory that had fallen on
every leaf and tree? The blue heavens seemed to smile upon her; every
flower, every song of the bright birds had a new meaning. What was it?
Her own heart was beating as it had never beaten before; her face was
flushed, and the sweet, limpid eyes shone with a new light. What was it?
Then she came to the brook-side and sat down on the violet bank.
The rippling water was singing a new song, something of love and
youth, of beauty and happiness--something of a new and fairy- like life;
and with the faint ripple and fall of the water came back to her the
voice