"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's Dora was like her, I do not wonder at
anything that happened.
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