'Yes; thanks—very—that is, no, not at all,' says Cissy nervously. 'I am afraid you will be horribly angry. But the fact is, as Major Blake and I were coming quietly home—cantering through the Park fields, at the last gap some sharp stone caught the Baby's leg, and has hurt her, as you see. I—I am so very sorry about it,' concludes Miss Mordaunt, genuinely vexed for the mishap.
'Don't say that,' entreats Halkett gently; 'and don't vex yourself. I would rather the mare was dead, than that you tormented yourself about her. Besides'—stooping to examine the injury—'from what I can see it is only skin-deep, and won't matter in a day or two; eh, Connor?'
'Yessir; only a scratch, sir. Right as ever in a week, sir.'
These words carry balm to Miss Mordaunt's breast; and presently the bandages being finally adjusted, and the Baby consoled by an additional feed, they leave the stables; and Blake considerately diverging to the right, Miss Mordaunt and Halkett go leisurely towards the house.
As they reach the stone steps leading to the Hall door, Cissy pauses. 'You are sure you forgive me?' she asks sweetly.
'How can you speak to me like that!' says Halkett, almost angry. 'Did you think I should cut up rough with you? What an ill-tempered brute you must consider me; you ought to know me better by this time.'
'I have not known you for so very long,' says Cissy smiling; then impulsively, while her colour once more deepens: 'Why is that horse such a favourite with you?—beyond all others, I mean. Was it a present?'
'Yes,' says Halkett in a low voice.
'From a very dear friend?'
'Very dear; more than a friend.'