“That is just what I think,” muttered Rex Lyon from his place of concealment, savagely biting his lip.
In another moment he was by her side.
“Pardon me,” he said, deferentially raising his cap from his glossy curls, “that basket is too heavy for your slender arms. Allow me to assist you.”
In a moment the young girl stood up, and made the prettiest and most graceful of courtesies as she raised to his a face he never forgot. Involuntarily he raised his cap again in homage to her youth, and her shy sweet beauty.
“No; I thank you, sir, I have not far to carry the basket,” she replied, in a voice sweet as the chiming of silver bells––a voice that thrilled him, he could not tell why.
A sudden desire possessed Rex to know who she was and from whence she came.
“Do you live at the Hall?” he asked.
“No,” she replied, “I am Daisy Brooks, the overseer’s niece.”
“Daisy Brooks,” said Rex, musingly. “What a pretty name! how well it suits you!”