.

FAY.
At the home of Jane Withersteen Little Fay was climbing Lassiter's knee.
"Does oo love me ?" she asked.
Lassiter, who was as serious with Fay as he was gentle and loving, assured her in earnest and elaborate speech that he was her devoted subject.

Fay looked thoughtful and appeared to be debating the duplicity of men or searching for a supreme test to prove this cavalier.
"Does oo love my new mower ?" she asked, with bewildering suddenness.
Jane Withersteen laughed, and for the first time in many a day she felt a stir of her pulse and warmth in her cheek.
It was a still drowsy summer of afternoon, and the three were sitting in the shade of the wooded knoll that faced the sage-slope Little Fay's brief spell of unhappy longing for her mother--the childish, mystic gloom--had passed, and now where Fay was there were prattle and laughter and glee.

She had emerged from sorrow to be the incarnation of joy and loveliness.

She had grown supernaturally sweet and beautiful.