'Well' (sulkily), 'you are so afraid of vexing him, for one thing.' 'Not a bit more afraid of him than I would be of you or any other man, under the circumstances,' declares Cissy with exemplary candour. 'But it is not a pleasant thing at any time to injure a favourite hunter; and the mare, for some reason or other, is a special darling with Captain Halkett. Indeed, it was only yesterday I heard him saying he valued her more than any animal he had ever had.' 'Given him by one of the fair sex, most likely,' says the major with vicious intent. 'Very probably,' returns Cissy quietly, who carries a very game little heart beneath her pretty Irish skin, and would have died rather than betray any undue emotion. Nevertheless, it must be confessed her colour faintly wavers and fades away a little, only to return with tenfold brilliance as she sees Captain Halkett pass the stable window. 'Here he is!' she cries hurriedly. 'Now, what _shall_ I do?' 'Nothing, if my advice is worth anything,' says the major sententiously. Captain Halkett coming slowly up the yard, cigar in mouth as usual, and hands thrust deep in the pockets of his shooting-coat, sees Cissy, Major Blake--and the groom on his knees beside the mare. He takes in the whole situation at a glance. Throwing away his cigar, he turns to Cissy, and says pleasantly: 'Good-morning, Miss Mordaunt. Had a good day, I hope?' '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.