"You are the crowning joy of my
life."
It was pleasant to sit amid the oleanders and myrtles, reading
the great poems of the world to Dora. Even if she did not
understand them, her face lighted with pleasure as the grand
words came from Ronald's lips. It was pleasant, too, to sit on
the banks of the Arno, watching the blue waters gleaming in the
sun. Dora was at home there. She would say little of books, of
pictures, or music; but she could talk of beautiful Nature, and
never tire. She knew the changing colors of the sky, the varied
hues of the waves, the different voices of the wind, the songs of
the birds. All these had a separate and distinct meaning for
her.
Ronald could not teach her much more. She liked the beautiful
poems he read, but never could remember who had written them.
She forgot the names of great authors, or mixed them up so
terribly that Ronald, in despair, told her it would be better not
to talk of books just yet--not until she was more familiar with
them.
But he soon found out that Dora could not read for many minutes
together. She would open her book, and make a desperate attempt;
then her dark eyes would wander away to the distant mountains, or
to the glistening river.
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