"Much better, sweet lady. Who could be long ill with such a nurse?" he replied, while his fine eyes lit up with admiration and gratitude.
Gipsy, be it known, had installed herself as the nurse of the young sailor; and, by her sleepless care and tender nursing, had almost restored him from death to life. And when he became convalescent, she would sit by his bedside for hours, reading, talking, and singing for him, until gratitude on his part ripened into fervent love; while she only looked upon him as she would on any other stranger—taking an interest in him only on account of his youth and friendliness, and because she had saved his life.
"Well, I'm glad to hear it, I'm sure! I want you to hurry and get well, so you can ride out with me. Are you a good horseman?"
"Yes, I think so," he said, smiling.
"Because, if you're not, you mustn't attempt to try our hills. It takes an expert rider, I can tell you, to gallop over them without breaking his neck."
"Yet you venture, fairest lady."
"Me? Ha, ha! Why, I've been on horseback ever since I was two years old. My horse is my other self. I could as soon think of living without laughing as without Mignonne."
"Then, sweet lady, you will kindly be my teacher in the art of riding."
"Oh, I wouldn't want better fun; but look here, Mr. Danvers, don't be 'sweet lady'-ing me! I ain't used to it, you know. People generally call me 'Monkey,' 'Imp,' 'Torment,' 'Wretch,' and other pet names of a like nature. But if you don't like any of them, call me Gipsy, or Gipsy Gower, but don't call me 'sweet lady' again. You see, I never could stand nicknames."
"And may I ask you why you have received those names?" inquired the young midshipman (for such he was), laughing.