“Turner, if you will let the pony move on, I will dismount and lead my hunter while we have a little talk.”
It was Irving’s voice, and I listened breathlessly for the reply. Some seconds passed before it came; Turner’s throat seemed husky.
“To-morrow, Mr. George, I’ll be at the Hurst,” he said, “and then as much talk as pleases you; but now I must take this child home.”
“But she seems terrified; you will not—surely you will not be harsh with her?”
“Harsh with her! with Zana—was I ever harsh to you in my life, little one?” urged the old man, and the husky voice was broken up with tenderness.
I uncovered my face, and holding out both hands to the old man, turned toward young Irving.
“You know how wrong I have been—see how forgiving, how kind, how good he is!”
The old man’s face began to work. The fine wrinkles quivered over his cheek and around his mouth, a sure sign of emotion in him. He lifted my two gloved hands and kissed them fondly. All at once he dropped my hands and went up to Irving.
“Mr. Irving—my dear Master George, forget that you have seen her—forget all about it—promise me that you will.”
“That would be difficult,” answered the youth, glancing at me with a smile.