He fixed his eyes on Ralph.  If he discovered anything further he said nothing, but bade the good fellow good-bye, jumped into his boat, and pulled down the tide.  The moment Ralph was hidden by an abutment of the banks, Richard perused the address.  For the first time it struck him that his cousin Clare was a very charming creature:  he remembered the look of her eyes, and especially the last reproachful glance she gave him at parting.  What business had Ralph to write to her?  Did she not belong to Richard Feverel?  He read the words again and again:  Clare Doria Forey.  Why, Clare was the name he liked best—­nay, he loved it.  Doria, too—­she shared his own name with him.  Away went his heart, not at a canter now, at a gallop, as one who sights the quarry.  He felt too weak to pull.  Clare Doria Forey—­oh, perfect melody!  Sliding with the tide, he heard it fluting in the bosom of the hills.

When nature has made us ripe for love, it seldom occurs that the Fates are behindhand in furnishing a temple for the flame.

Above green-flashing plunges of a weir, and shaken by the thunder below, lilies, golden and white, were swaying at anchor among the reeds.  Meadow-sweet hung from the banks thick with weed and trailing bramble, and there also hung a daughter of earth.  Her face was shaded by a broad straw hat with a flexible brim that left her lips and chin in the sun, and, sometimes nodding, sent forth a light of promising eyes.  Across her shoulders, and behind, flowed large loose curls, brown in shadow, almost golden where the ray touched them.  She was simply dressed, befitting decency and the season.  On a closer inspection you might see that her lips were stained.  This blooming young person was regaling on dewberries.  They grew between the bank and the water.  Apparently she found the fruit abundant, for her hand was making pretty progress to her mouth.  Fastidious youth, which revolts at woman plumping her exquisite proportions on bread-and-butter, and would (we must suppose) joyfully have her scraggy to have her poetical, can hardly object to dewberries.  Indeed the act of eating them is dainty and induces musing.  The dewberry is a sister to the lotus, and an innocent sister.  You eat:  mouth, eye, and hand are occupied, and the undrugged mind free to roam.  And so it was with the damsel who knelt there.  The little skylark went up above her, all song, to the smooth southern cloud lying along the blue:  from a dewy copse dark over her nodding hat the blackbird fluted, calling to her with thrice mellow note:  the kingfisher flashed emerald out of green osiers:  a bow-winged heron travelled aloft, seeking solitude a boat slipped toward her, containing a dreamy youth; and still she plucked the fruit, and ate, and mused, as if no fairy prince were invading her territories, and as if she wished not for one, or knew not her wishes.  Surrounded by the green shaven meadows, the pastoral summer buzz,