Jean Carruth. I live on Linden Avenue. I’m—I’m terribly ashamed to be here, and to have struck him,” and she nodded toward the humbled figure in the wagon.

“You need not be. You did not give him one-half he deserves,” was the somewhat comforting assurance.

“O, but what will mother say? She’ll be so mortified when I tell her about it all. It seems as if I just couldn’t,” was the distressed reply.

“Must you tell her?” asked Mr. Stuyvesant, an odd expression overspreading his kind, strong face as he looked into the little girl’s eyes.

Jean regarded him with undisguised amazement as she answered simply:

“Why of course! That would be deceit if I didn’t. I’ll have to be punished, but I guess I ought to be,” was the naïve conclusion.

The fine face before her was transfigured as Hadyn Stuyvesant answered:

“Good! Your principles are all right. Stick to them and I’ll want to know you when you are a woman. Now I must get you home for I’ve a word to say to your mother, to whom I mean to introduce myself under the circumstances,” and carrying her to his two-seated depot wagon, he placed her upon the front seat. Jabe glowered at him from the rear one. His horse turned his head with an inquiring nicker.

“Yes, Comet, I’ll be ready pretty soon,” he replied, pausing a second to give a stroke to the satiny neck. Then turning to the men he said:

“Now, my men, let’s on with this job which has been delayed too long already.”

He did not spare himself, and presently old Baltie was out of the ditch and upon his feet—a sufficiently pathetic object to touch any heart.

“Shall I have the men lead him up to your barn?” asked Hadyn Stuyvesant, giving the surly object in his wagon a last chance to redeem himself.

“No! I’m done with him; do your worst,” was the gruff answer.

“Very well,” the words were ominously quiet, “then I shall take him in charge.”

“Oh, where are you going to take him, please?” asked Jean, her concern for the horse overcoming her embarrassment at her novel situation.

“I’m afraid he will have to be sent to the pound, little one, for no one will claim him.”

“Is that the place where they kill them? Must Baltie be killed?” Her voice was full of tears.

“Unless someone can be found who will care for him for the rest of his numbered days. I’m afraid it is the best and most merciful fate for him,” was the gentle answer.

“How long may he stay there without being killed? Until maybe somebody can be found to take him.”

“He may stay there one week. But now we must move along. Fasten the horse’s halter to the back of my wagon, men, and I’ll see to it that he is comfortable to-night anyway.”

The halter rope was tied, and the strange procession started slowly back toward Riveredge.