Beadle's Dime Novels No. 35: East and West — page 22: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

22 THE BEAUTY OF WILLARD’S MILL. By the tall grass of its margin, her apron full of small purple flowers, which she had wandered thus far away to gather, stood the Fawn of the Prairie. Thinking the ap- proaching rider to be one of the rough neighbors who fre- quented her father’s mill, she had given him no attention, until his abrupt pause in the road led her to glance up to see what was the matter. He had not, as yet, perceived her ; and, lifting his hat from his head, as we have said, he remained lost for a few minutes in admiration of the day. Fletcher Harris never looked better than at that unconscious and unconstrained moment. The ease with which he sat in the saddle gave additional grace to his form ; his cheeks were ruddy with exercise, and the wind made free with his wavy hair, blowing it about most audaciously. Witty and worldly- wise, and provoking and egotistical as he was in reality, he could not have seemed more perfect to this unsophisticated child, if he had dropped down out of paradise. Her great brown eyes were fastened upon his face so earnestly, that when his glance met hers, for her life she could not withdraw them, and thus, for an instant of time, he looked straight into her soul, and saw there all her innocent surprise and admira- tion. If he had met one of his Fifth-avenue friends with any- thing at all startling in her fashionable attire, he would not have spared his criticism ; but he did not feel at all like ridi- culing the homely, old-fashioned dress of the pretty stranger —indeed, he thought its quaintness added to the interest of her fresh beauty. “JT have not had my ride in vain, after all,” he thought. “JT would ride twenty miles every morning to meet such a look from such a pair of eyes. Really, I didn’t think there were any more such to be found.” The smile with which he watched the rapid blush rise to her cheeks, only deepened their color. “Are you a daughter of Mr. Willard?” he asked, seeing that she was turning to the flowery grass again to escape his eyes. “T am, sir,” she answered, with sufficient dignity. “T beg your pardon; but has there been a strange lady at your house this morning? I started from Kanesyille to commiclooks.corn