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.
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