agination 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'