BY R. D. BLACKMORE.
[The Doones were a band of aristocratic, but lawless, people living in the Doone Valley, from which they sallied forth to raid the neighboring farmers and travelers. John Ridd, who tells the story, while fishing one spring had followed a stream into the Doone estate. When the following scene opens he had just had a desperate struggle to save himself from the swift current of the stream, and had nearly lost his life.]
hen I came to myself again, my hands were full of young grass and mold, and a little girl, kneeling at my side, was rubbing my forehead tenderly with a dock-leaf and a handkerchief.
"Oh, I am so glad!" she whispered, softly, as I opened my eyes and looked at her; "now you will try to be better, won't you?"
I had never heard so sweet a sound as came from between her bright red lips, while there she knelt and gazed at me; neither had I ever seen anything so beautiful as the large, dark eyes intent upon me, full of pity and wonder. And then, my nature being slow, and perhaps, for that matter, heavy, I wandered with my hazy eyes down the black shower of her hair, as to my jaded gaze it seemed. Perhaps she liked my countenance, and indeed I know she did, because she said so afterward; although at that time she was too young to know what made her take to me.
Thereupon I sat upright, with my little trident still in one hand, and was much afraid to speak to her, being conscious of my country brogue, lest she should cease to like me. But she clapped her hands, and made a trifling dance around my back, and came to me on the other side, as if I were a great play thing.
"What is your name?" she said, as if she had every right to
ask me; "and how did you come here, and what are these wet things in this great bag?"
"You had better let them alone," I said; "they are loaches for my mother. But I will give you some, if you like."