"I am of still a third class--I am a dreamer. Here let me sit and dream of heaven." Mattie turned away, fearful and sick of heart; the mischief was done. "Dreaming is even better than idling," said Doris. "And here is a real land of dreams. See how the poppies bend, sleepy with sunshine; the sunshine is a flood of refined gold; the bees fly slowly, drunk with perfume; the butterflies drift up and down like beautiful, happy, aimless thoughts. Let us dream, and live to be happy." "One could not do better," cried Earle. "Here shall be our lotus-land, and you are a fit genius for the place, Miss Brace." "Now, at the very beginning, I must make a treaty with you. Are you coming here often?" "I hope so." "Then, unless I am to hate you on the spot, you must not call me Miss Brace. I detest the name! If there is one name above another that I hate, it is that name Brace! It is so common, so mean--a wretched monosyllable!" "But you would grace any name!" cried Earle. "I don't mean to grace that very long!" exclaimed Doris. Earle opened his eyes in uncontrollable amazement. "You don't know what it is to suffer from a wretched, short, commonplace name. Look at me, and consider that I am called, above all things, Doris Brace! Horrors! Now, your name is fairly good. Earle Moray. There is a savor of gentility, of blood, of breeding, about that. You can venture to rise with such a name. I can only rise by dropping mine, and that I mean to do." Earle laughed. This was, after all, the pretty, captious nonsense of a little child. "But Doris is a sweet name. It fits this sweet, home-like landscape. Doris, the lovely shepherdess, has been sung and painted for centuries." "But I have no genius for woods or fields, and I am afraid of sheep. However, Miss Doris is better than--Miss Brace." She reached for a poppy growing in the grass, and the book fell from her knee. Earle picked it up, and saw what it was. "_This!_" he exclaimed, in genuine consternation. Now, Doris absolutely lacked the moral sense that would make her ashamed of the book, or revolt at anything she found therein. But she had native wit, and she saw that she was on the point of instantly losing caste with Earle Moray on account of this literature. "Eh? What kind is it?" she said, with enchanting simplicity. "I bought it on the train late yesterday, and since I came out here I have been too happy to read it. Isn't it a nice book?" "I should say not," said Earle. "How do you know, unless you have read it?" "I know the author's reputation; and then, the title!" "Dear me! And so I must not read it?--and my one-and-six-pence gone! Whenever I try to do particularly right, I do wrong. Unlucky, isn't it? Now the last word my French teacher said to me was, 'By all means keep up your French; you have such a beautiful accent.'" Earle looked relieved. Here was an explanation of exquisite simplicity. There was no spot on this sweet, stainless lily. Mattie came back.