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 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.
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