HAROLD. But sure am I that of your gentleness You will forgive him. She, you mourn for, seem'd A miracle of gentleness--would not blur A moth's wing by the touching; would not crush The fly that drew her blood; and, were she living, Would not--if penitent--have denied him _her_ Forgiveness. And perhaps the man himself, When hearing of that piteous death, has suffer'd More than we know. But wherefore waste your heart In looking on a chill and changeless Past? Iron will fuse, and marble melt; the Past Remains the Past. But you are young, and--pardon me-- As lovely as your sister. Who can tell What golden hours, with what full hands, may be Waiting you in the distance? Might I call Upon your father--I have seen the world-- And cheer his blindness with a traveller's tales? DORA. Call if you will, and when you will. I cannot Well answer for my father; but if you Can tell me anything of our sweet Eva When in her brighter girlhood, I at least Will bid you welcome, and will listen to you. Now I must go. HAROLD. But give me first your hand: I do not dare, like an old friend, to shake it. I kiss it as a prelude to that privilege When you shall know me better. DORA. (_Aside_.) How beautiful His manners are, and how unlike the farmer's! You are staying here? HAROLD. Yes, at the wayside inn Close by that alder-island in your brook, 'The Angler's Home.' DORA. Are _you_ one? HAROLD. No, but I Take some delight in sketching, and the country Has many charms, altho' the inhabitants Seem semi-barbarous. DORA. I am glad it pleases you; Yet I, born here, not only love the country, But its inhabitants too; and you, I doubt not, Would take to them as kindly, if you cared To live some time among them. HAROLD. If I did, Then one at least of its inhabitants Might have more charm for me than all the country. DORA. That one, then, should be grateful for your preference. HAROLD. I cannot tell, tho' standing in her presence. (_Aside_.) She colours! DORA. Sir! HAROLD. Be not afraid of me, For these are no conventional flourishes. I do most earnestly assure you that Your likeness-- [_Shouts and cries without_. DORA. What was that? my poor blind father-- _Enter_ FARMING MAN. FARMING MAN. Miss Dora, Dan Smith's cart hes runned ower a laädy i' the holler laäne, and they ha' ta'en the body up inter your chaumber, and they be all a-callin' for ye. DORA. The body!--Heavens! I come! HAROLD. But you are trembling. Allow me to go with you to the farm. [_Exeunt_. _Enter_ DOBSON.