She saw that it
was very fair; the coloring was delicate and vivid, like that of
the heart of a rose; the fresh, red lips were arched and smiling;
the dark, shy 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.
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