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 the
musical words, her fancy and im