I saw there--ah! Now I want words, Miss
Charteris--the fairest girl the sun ever shone upon."
He saw the flowers fall from Valentine's grasp; she put her hand
to her brow, as though to shield her face.
"Does the light annoy you?" he asked.
"No," she replied, steadily; "go on with your story."
"A clever man," said Ronald, "might paint for you the pretty
face, all smiles and dimples, the dark shining rings of hair that
fell upon a white brow, the sweet, shy eyes fringed by long
lashes, seldom raised, but full of wonderful light when once you
could look into their depths. I can only tell you how in a few
days I grew to love the fair young face, and how Dora Thorne
that was her name, Miss Charteris--loved me."
Valentine never moved nor spoke; Ronald could see the bright
flush die away, and the proud lips quiver.
"I must tell you all quickly," said Ronald. "She is not what
people call a lady, this beautiful wild flower of mine. Her
father lives at the lodge; he is Lord Earle's lodge keeper, and
she knows nothing of the world or its ways. She has never been
taught or trained, though her voice is like sweet music, and her
laugh like the chime of silver bells.
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