Snow-White-and-Rose-Red--and frozen snow and frozen red. She was that in his new discovery of her: and was that better than he knew; caparisoned and trained for that. III She raised to her face the pansies he had seen her gather, caressed them a moment against her lips, then turned and went a few steps back. And then he spoke--stepped from the pillar's shadow and into mystery's doors and called her--"Dora!" The little breezes ran among the flowers: "Bend! Bend! you sleepy things and blow her your caresses where she moves again!"--ran among the tree-tops high above the borders: "Salute! Salute! you sentinels, and show your joy, she comes!"--chased from her path a daring leaf or two--sprung to her person and bade her veil attend her--caught his low whisper and tossed it from her ears. Tiny the stir; yet stiller all the voice he made. He waited; breathed her name again--"Dora!" and then she heard. She gave the faintest start; turned, and said, "Why--Percival?" and then a little laugh, and then spoke "Percival!" again. He went to her. "Did I frighten you? I'm sorry." He went into the mystery that barred him at the gate. Her surprise caused the shades upon her cheeks to flame to sudden crimson, promoting her beauty to its most high effect. Her lips--also of her surprise--were lightly parted, alert, with the aspect of some nymph of the woods and glades, startled and poised to listen. Not yet, not yet his to know all the truth of what influence had him here. He only had known he wished to see her: he only knew now that he wished to stay and talk with her. He was in the mystery--not yet of it; but already, at this first contact with her presence, a glimmering, a suspicion arose--softened his voice, quickened his senses. "I ought to have been frightened," she said. "I never heard you come. But I scarcely was startled. It is the most curious circumstance, but I happened to be thinking of you." As icicles broken in a cold hand! He did not cry, as love might have directed him--"Thinking of me! You!" Not yet, not yet the knowledge that would give that ardour. He only was boyishly pleased. He only said: "Were you, Dora? I'm awfully glad you were." And she, no more aware of deeper things than he: "Well, they were not particularly nice thoughts I had of you," she said, and gave a little laugh that toned with the clear pitch of her voice. "Indeed, I was vexed with you." He laughed back an easy laugh: "I wonder what I've done?" "It is what you have not done, Percival--or did not do. I was at the Manor all the afternoon and had the dullest time that anybody could imagine. Your fault. Rollo was expecting you to tea, and was looking out for you all the time, and was the most ungracious person. To me, you know, it is ridiculous how he seems to dote upon you."