I believe she had a special affection for poor Sprite, the pony which threw her,--special, I mean, since the accident,--regarding him as in some sense the angel which had driven her out of paradise into a better world. If ever he got loose, and Connie was anywhere about, he was sure to find her: he was an omnivorous animal, and she had always something he would eat when his favorite apples were unattainable. More than once she had been roused from her sleep on the lawn by the lips and the breath of Sprite upon her face; but, although one painful sign of her weakness was, that she started at the least noise or sudden discovery of a presence, she never started at the most unexpected intrusion of Sprite, any more than at the voice of my father or mother. Need I say there was one more whose voice or presence never startled her? The relation between them was lovely to see. Turner was a fine, healthy, broad-shouldered fellow, of bold carriage and frank manners, above the middle height, with rather large features, keen black eyes, and great personal strength. Yet to such a man, poor little wan-faced, big-eyed Connie assumed imperious airs, mostly, but perhaps not entirely, for the fun of it; while he looked only enchanted every time she honored him with a little tyranny. "There! I'm tired," she would say, holding out her arms like a baby. "Carry me in." And the great strong man would stoop with a worshipping look in his eyes, and, taking her carefully, would carry her in as lightly and gently and steadily as if she had been but the baby whose manners she had for the moment assumed. This began, of course, when she was unable to walk; but it did not stop then, for she would occasionally tell him to carry her after she was quite capable of crawling at least. They had now been engaged for some months; and before me, as a newly-married woman, they did not mind talking a little. One day she was lying on a rug on the lawn, with him on the grass beside her, leaning on his elbow, and looking down into her sky-like eyes. She lifted her hand, and stroked his mustache with a forefinger, while he kept as still as a statue, or one who fears to scare the bird that is picking up the crumbs at his feet. "Poor, poor man!" she said; and from the tone I knew the tears had begun to gather in those eyes. "Why do you pity me, Connie?" he asked. "Because you will have such a wretched little creature for a wife some day,--or perhaps never,--which would be best after all." He answered cheerily. "If you will kindly allow me my choice, I prefer just _such_ a wretched little creature to any one else in the world." "And why, pray? Give a good reason, and I will forgive your bad taste." "Because she won't be able to hurt me much when she beats me." "A better reason, or she will." "Because I can punish her if she isn't good by taking her up in my arms, and carrying her about until she gives in." "A better reason, or I shall be naughty directly."