"You do not hate me now, then?"
Fay put her head on one side with her old wilfulness.
"Yes, I do—when you go away without any notice, and hardly bid me good-bye. You would not have left one of your men pupils so unceremoniously."
Keane smiled involuntarily, and drew her closer.
"If you do not hate me, will you go a step farther—and love me? Little Fay, my own darling, will you come and brighten my life? It has been a saddened and a stern one, but it shall never throw a shade on yours."
The wild little filly was conquered—at last, she came to hand docile and subdued, and acknowledged her master. She loved him, and told him so with that frankness and fondness which would have covered faults far more glaring and weighty than Little Fay's.
"But you must never be afraid of me," whispered Keane, some time after.
"Oh, no!"
"And you do not wish Sydie had never brought me here to make you all uncomfortable?"
"Oh, please don't!" cried Fay, plaintively. "I was a child then, and I did not know what I said."