She was turning to fly, not knowing me, and frightened, perhaps, at my stature, when I fell on the grass (as I fell before her seven years agone that day), and I just said, “Lorna Doone!” She knew me at once, from my manner and ways, and a smile broke through her trembling, as sunshine comes through aspen-leaves; and being so clever, she saw, of course, that she needed not to fear me. “Oh, indeed,” she cried, with a feint of anger (because she had shown her cowardice, and yet in her heart she was laughing); “oh, if you please, who are you, sir, and how do you know my name?” “I am John Ridd,” I answered; “the boy who gave you those beautiful fish, when you were only a little thing, seven years ago to-day.” “Yes, the poor boy who was frightened so, and obliged to hide here in the water.” “And do you remember how kind you were, and saved my life by your quickness, and went away riding upon a great man's shoulder, as if you had never seen me, and yet looked back through the willow-trees?” “Oh, yes, I remember everything; because it was so rare to see any except--I mean because I happen to remember. But you seem not to remember, sir, how perilous this place is.” For she had kept her eyes upon me; large eyes of a softness, a brightness, and a dignity which made me feel as if I must for ever love and yet for ever know myself unworthy. Unless themselves should fill with love, which is the spring of all things. And so I could not answer her, but was overcome with thinking and feeling and confusion. Neither could I look again; only waited for the melody which made every word like a poem to me, the melody of her voice. But she had not the least idea of what was going on with me, any more than I myself had. “I think, Master Ridd, you cannot know,” she said, with her eyes taken from me, “what the dangers of this place are, and the nature of the people.” “Yes, I know enough of that; and I am frightened greatly, all the time, when I do not look at you.” She was too young to answer me in the style some maidens would have used; the manner, I mean, which now we call from a foreign word “coquettish.” And more than that, she was trembling from real fear of violence, lest strong hands might be laid on me, and a miserable end of it. And to tell the truth, I grew afraid; perhaps from a kind of sympathy, and because I knew that evil comes more readily than good to us.