would willingly take charge of any
letter and forward it.

Ralph dived his hand into his pocket. "Here it is. But don't let anybody
see it."

"My aunt's name is not Clare," said Richard, perusing what was composed
of the exterior formula. "You've addressed it to Clare herself."

That was plain to see.

"Emmeline Clementina Matilda Laura, Countess Blandish," Richard
continued in a low tone, transferring the names, and playing on the
musical strings they were to him. Then he said: "Names of ladies! How
they sweeten their names!"

He fixed his eyes on Ralph. If he discovered anything further he said
nothing, but bade the good fellow good-bye, jumped into his boat, and
pulled down the tide. The moment Ralph was hidden by an abutment of the
banks, Richard perused the address. For the first time it struck him
that his cousin Clare was a very charming creature: he remembered the
look of her eyes, and especially the last reproachful glance she gave
him at parting. What business had Ralph to write to her? Did she not
belong to Richard Feverel? He read the words again and again: Clare
Doria Forey. Why, Clare was the name he liked best--nay, he loved it.
Doria, too--she shared his own name with him. Away went his heart, not
at a canter now, at a gallop, as one who sights the quarry. He felt too
weak to pull. Clare Doria Forey--oh, perfect melody! Sliding with the
tide, he heard it fluting in the bosom of the hills.

When nature has made us ripe for love, it seldom occurs that the Fates
are behindhand in furnishing a temple for the flame.

Above green-flashing plunges of a weir, and shaken by the thunder
below, lilies, golden and white, were swaying at anchor among the reeds.
Meadow-sweet hung from the banks thick with weed and trailing bramble,
and there also hung a daughter of earth. Her face was shaded by a broad
straw hat with a flexible brim that left her lips and chin in the sun,
and, sometimes nodding, sent forth a light of promising eyes. Across her
shoulders, and behind, flowed large loose curls, brown in shadow, almost
golden where the ray touched them. She was simply dressed, befitting
decency and the season. On a closer inspection you might see that
her lips were stained. This blooming young person was regaling on
dewberries. They grew between the bank and the water. Apparently she
found the fruit abundant, for her hand was making pretty progress to her
mouth. Fastidious youth, which revolts at woman plumping he