The Senator's Favorite

"Was that all?" exclaimed a wondering voice.

"That was all," Aura answered indignantly, and every one turned away and left Aura alone with the bitter consciousness that they despised her, while as for Jack Tennant, he felt decidedly blue at the prospect of a duel with the fiery Earle Winans for the sake of a girl he didn't care two straws for, as he, like all the others, adored the bewitching Miss Conway.

But Aura had carried out her threat to Ladybird. The beautiful ring was in the river, and would never shine on the little white hand of her lovely rival. Her jealous malice was gratified, at least, and she cared very little if Earle fought a duel and lost his life. She would rather see him dead than married to that little coquette Ladybird.

Meanwhile Miss Conway, all unconscious of what had happened at the lower end of the orchard, was sitting on a mossy throne under a wide-spreading apple tree, holding mimic court. Her adoring subjects had woven a wreath of apple blossoms, and crowned her Queen of May.

"Somebody give us a song, please. It's a day for love, and poetry, and song!" she cried gayly.

"Don't you think the birds sing sweetest, dear?" asked a fair girl by her side, one that she called her maid of honor.

But the girl under the next nearest tree—the girl with the guitar—thought differently. She touched her instrument with soft, loving fingers, and her tender voice was so low and sweet that it seemed to blend with the bird songs, the soft rustle of the leaves, and the ripple of the river.

"Oh, darling, when you love me,
The sky is soft and bright;
Life asks no troubled questions,
The world is safe and right.
I whisper happy secrets
With every flower and tree,
And lark and thrush and linnet
Sing all their songs for me!

"Oh, darling, when you chide me,
The world is dumb and cold;
The mists creep up the valley,
And all the year is old;
The fields are black and sodden,
The shivering woods are sere!
I see no face in heaven,
And death is very near!

"Oh, darling, always love me,
The song-birds look to you;
The skies await your bidding,
To dome the world with blue.
Then keep the rose in glory,
And make the swallow stay,
And hold the year forever
At summer's crowning day!"

While the pretty girl was singing, Earle Winans came up silently and stood by the tree, looking down at Ladybird with the apple-blossom wreath on her shining hair.

Ladybird's arch, pretty face had grown pensive while she listened to the song, and her tiny white hand, with its babyish dimples, played absently with a branch of pink crab-apple blooms that lay in her lap. She was more lovely than any picture ever painted, and Earle's heart swelled with a passionate longing to catch the exquisite young creature in his arms and press all that budding beauty against his ardent breast.

Ladybird knew that he was there, but she would not turn her head; and when the song came to an end she sighed and murmured softly:

"I wonder what this love is like of which poets sing, and lovers rave, and spring-birds warble. It must be very sweet."

"My darling, let me teach you all its sweetness," murmured Earle's voice in her ear, but though a swift blush burned her face, she shrugged her willful shoulders, and continued in a louder voice, that all around might hear:

"If I ever do fall in love, it will be with a hero, with some man who has done something great, or perhaps risked his life to save mine. I don't believe I could ever love a common, everyday sort of man, like the ones I know, unless he turned out to be a hero. Then I could worship him!"

And just a few hours later those words, spoken in such artless innocence, came back to the heart of every man there—came back with a thrill of love and hope.

She had stolen away from them all a short time before, and just as they were wondering what had become of the little sprite, they heard some one singing blithely on the river.

It was Ladybird in a little blue boat, rowing herself with consummate skill, the water falling in silvery sparkles from the light oars. Her pretty face glowed rosily, and her eyes danced with fun as she trilled a gay little boating song. It was the bonniest sight ever seen on the broad, beautiful river flowing between its banks of spring-time green.

Every one ran down to the bank—every one but Aura Stanley, who sulked beneath a tree.

"Take me in, Ladybird—take me!" called one after another eagerly; but she cried out saucily:

"I will take one of the gentlemen to row me, because my arms are getting tired."

All in a minute followed the terrible accident.

In the middle of the river where she was rowing it was deep and dangerous, but she seemed to forget that in her joyous excitement; and, turning the boat too quickly toward the shore, it careened over, and Ladybird fell into the water. One long shriek of fear and terror, and the rippling waves of the beautiful river closed sullenly over the little head!

A cry of grief arose from fifty throats, but it was speedily turned to a cheer, for—Splash! splash! splash! came the sounds, too fast to count, and twelve out of Ladybird's thirteen lovers had leaped boldly into the river to save her precious life.

CHAPTER XIV.

"LIKE DIAN'S KISS."

"Oh, think when a hero is sighing,
What danger in such an adorer!
What woman would dream of denying
The hand that lays laurels before her?
No heart is so guarded around
But the smile of a victor would take it;
No bosom can slumber so sound
But the trumpet of glory will wake it."

Rosemont was one of the most ideally beautiful summer houses in Fauquier County.

It was a large white mansion, in villa style, surrounded by flower-gardens and pleasure-grounds, with a charming mountain view, and, nearer home, the silvery windings of the Rappahannock River forming the southern boundary of the large estate.

On the afternoon of the picnic Precious Winans swung lazily in a hammock on the long front piazza, while her favorite, Kay, the immense mastiff, lay within touch of the tiny white hand that every little while reached down to caress the tawny head.

At some distance away Mistress Norah, the good-natured nurse, sat cozily in an armchair, knitting lace.

Along the lattice-work that shaded the end of the piazza clambered a great honeysuckle vine loaded with odorous, creamy-white blooms. Here the busy little bees hummed ceaselessly, bright-winged butterflies hovered, and two robins flew in and out of the branches with straws for a nest. The golden sunshine sifting through the leaves in light and shade on the girl's white gown and sunny head seemed like the spirit of peace spreading its brooding wings over the lovely, quiet scene.

Precious had been reading a book of poems. It lay open now under one white hand, and with half-shut, dreamy eyes, she was recalling the last lines she had read:

"Like Dian's kiss, unasked, unsought,
Love gives itself, but is not bought;
Nor voice, nor sound betrays
Its deep impassioned gaze.