eyes, with their long
silken lashes, were bright and clear; a pretty, dimpled, smiling face
told of a sweet, simple, loving nature--that was all; there was no
intellect, no soul, no high-bred refinement; nothing but the charm of
bright, half-startled beauty.

Dora was half puzzled. She had never thought much of her own
appearance. Having lived always with sensible, simple people, the
pernicious language of flattery was unknown to her. It was with a
half-guilty thrill of delight that she for the first time realized the
charm of her own sweet face.

The sunny hours flew by. Dora never noted them; she thought only of
the morning past and the morning to come, while Ronald dreamed of her
almost unconsciously. She had been a bright feature in a bright day;
his artistic taste had been gratified, his eyes had been charmed. The
pretty picture haunted him, and he remembered with pleasure that on the
morrow he should see the shy, sweet face again. No thought of harm or
wrong even entered his mind. He did not think that he had been
imprudent. He had recited a beautiful poem to a pretty, coy girl, and
in a grand, lordly way he believed himself to have performed a kind
action.

The morning came, and they brought bright, blushing Dora to her work;
again the little white fingers glistened amid the crimson berries.
Then Dora heard him coming. She heard his footsteps, and her face grew
"ruby red." He made no pretense of finding her accidentally.

"Good morning, Dora," he said; "you look as bright as the sunshine and
as fair as the flowers. Put away the basket; I have brought a book of
poems, and mean to read some to you. I will help you with your work
afterward."

Dora, nothing loath, sat down, and straightway they were both in
fairyland. He read industriously, stealing every now and then a glance
at his pretty companion. She knew nothing of what he was reading, but
his voice made sweeter music than she had ever heard before.

At length the book was closed, and Ronald wondered what thoughts were
running through his companion's simple, artless mind. So he talked to
her of her daily life, her work, her pleasures, her friends. As he
talked he grew more and more charmed; she had no great amount of
intellect, no wit or keen powers of repartee, but the girl's love of
nature made her a poetess. She seemed to know all the secrets of the
trees and the flowers; no beauty escaped her; the rustle of green
leaves, the sighs