curling roads to one of those white
castles, only to lose myself in the thicket of Romance beyond. Perhaps
it does not matter. Anyway, it was on the slope of a green meadow all
among the mountains of Krain that the girl was sitting, herself
unminded, minding her cows. And out of the woods above her a round,
white tower proclaimed a chateau set on the shoulder of a hill.

Her dress was that of the country, and yet, perhaps, rather such as
Croatian peasants wear. All white linen, embroidered ever so richly,
cut low and round at the neck, and with the skirt falling some four
inches below her knee: short sleeves, a small, white apron, and over
her thick, fair hair a bright red kerchief. But her stockings were of
white silk, and small, black buckled slippers kept the little feet.
Clear, blue eyes hers, and a small merry mouth, and a skin after the
sun's own heart. It was so brown--such an even, delicate brown. Brown
cheeks and temples, brown arms and hands, brown throat. Oh, very
picturesque.

I rounded up the cow errant, returned to my lady, and took my seat by
her side.

"Thank you," she said. "And now, who are you and what do you want?"

"My name," said I, "is Norval. And I want to know the way to the
pageant-ground, and when does your scene come on?"

"It is a nice dress, isn't it?"

She rose and stood smoothing her frock and apron.

"Sweet. Only you ought to have bare brown legs."

"My dear man, this isn't the Garden of Eden."

"No? Some other Paradise, I suppose. Old Omar's, perhaps. Besides, I
forgot. Dolls never go barefoot, do they?"

"Dolls?"

"Yes. Aren't you the 'great big beautiful doll' they sing of?"

She threw back her head, and laughed at that, pleasedly. Then she
began to sing softly:

"Oh, you beautiful doll, You great big beautiful doll..."

We finished the verse together, the cows watching us with big eyes.

"I think we're rather good," said I, when it was over.

"I know we're both mad," said she. "And I don't feel a bit like
singing really, either."

"Oh, great and beautiful one," said I, "what is the matter? Indicate
to me the fly that dares to lurk in this fair bowl of ointment."

She looked away over the river. Then:

"After all, it's nothing to do with you."

"Nothing whatever." said I.

"Then why do you ask?"

"Something to say, I suppose. Is not the clemency of the weather
delightful?"

"Yes, but those cows belong to me."

I laughed scornfull