Ronald should not have talked to the lodge keeper's daughter, and sweet, rustic Dora Thorne should have known better.

But they were young, and such days come but seldom, and pass all too quickly.
"Dora Thorne," said Ronald, musingly--"what a pretty name! How well it suits you! It is quite a little song in itself." She smiled with delight at his words; then her shy, dark eyes were raised for a moment, and quickly dropped again.
"Have you read Tennyson's 'Dora ?'" he asked.
"No," she replied--"I have little time for reading." "I will tell you the story," he said, patronizingly.

"Ever since I read it I have had an ideal 'Dora,' and you realize my dream." She had not the least idea what he meant; but when he recited the musical words, her fancy and imagination were stirred; she saw the wheat field, the golden corn, the little child and its anxious mother.
When Ronald ceased speaking, he saw her hands were clasped and her lips quivering.
"Did you like that ?" he asked, with unconscious patronage.
"So much!" she replied.

"Ah, he must be a great man who wrote those words; and you remember them all." Her simple admiration flattered and charmed him.

He recited other verses for her, and the girl listened in a trance of delight.