"Against her ankles as she trod, The lucky buttercups did nod; I leaned upon the gate to see-- The sweet thing looked, but did not speak-- A dimple came in either cheek, And all my heart was gone from me!" Mark Brace looked after his Fairy Changeling in dire perplexity. To him work, honest labor--winning bread from the soil, was noble and happy; in all the words of Doris rang some delicate undertone of irony and scorn, of what he most esteemed. Fair, fair, indeed, but was it not selfish of her to let those whom she deemed her blood, work, and she stay idle? Yes, there was the hundred pounds, and she was not really their blood, but of some idle never-toiling strain. More and more his hands were bound concerning the beauty, as she grew up in his care. He wished he could explain her to Moray, but he could not. Honor held him to silence. He could warn. He spoke suddenly, laying a hand on the lad's arm. "Earle, I like you vastly. You are honest, good, a gentleman. I should be sorry indeed to see you giving your time, and mind, and setting your heart on that pretty, idle lass of mine." "Sorry, Mark? Why sorry? She is sweet and lovely!" "If it were Mattie, now," said honest Mark, speaking, not as a father or match-maker, but as a man. "Well and good. I'd not say a word. A man's heart may rest in Mattie--Heaven bless her! But Doris is of quite a different strain. In her there is no rest. One could never find rest in her. Never--never." Earle tried to smile, but the words struck home, and were fixed in his heart beside the thought of Doris. Meanwhile Doris danced off home, and framed her lovely countenance in the vines about the kitchen window. "And what have _you_ been doing?" asked Patty, reprovingly. "Turning Earle Moray's head," responded Doris, promptly. Mattie started and paled a little. "He thinks I'm lovely!" cried Doris, with a laugh. "So you may be, but no thanks to you," said Patty, "and if you set yourself to head-turning, mark my words, child, there will some terrible evil overtake you both." CHAPTER XI. THE FOSTER-SISTERS. Summer day glided silently after summer day, and at Brackenside Farm Earle Moray was re-telling for himself the story of Eden--the love of one man for one woman, to him the only woman in the world. Alas, that his had not been a more guileless Eve! The love-making was patent to every one, and the family at the farm wondered where it would end. Mark Brace was truly sorry that Earle had set his heart on the lovely, fantastic Doris; and yet, honest man, he did not wonder that any young fellow should be beguiled by so fair a face, and he could not but be heartily amused at the queenly airs with which the farm foundling, believing herself a tenant-farmer's child, received the homage of Earle Moray, poet and gentleman, owner of the little estate of Lindenholm.