her sanguine disposition from her mother who never looked upon the dull side of the clouds, although it was often a hard matter to win around to their shiny side.

Eleanor was quite unlike her; indeed, Eleanor did not resemble either her father or mother, for Mr. Carruth had been a most genial, warm-hearted man, and unselfish to the last degree. Eleanor was very reserved, inclined to keep her affairs to herself, and extremely matured for her years, finding her relaxation and recreation in a manner which the average girl of her age would have considered tasks.

Jean was a bunch of nervous impulses, and no one ever knew where the madcap would bounce up next. She was a beautiful child with a mop of wavy reddish-brown hair falling in the softest curls about face and shoulders; eyes that shone lustrous and lambent as twin stars beneath their delicately arched brows, and regarded you with a steadfast interest as though they meant to look straight through you, and separate truth from falsehood. A mouth that was a whimsical combination of fun and resolution. A nose that could pucker disdainfully on provocation, and it never needed a greater than its owner’s doubt of the sincerity of the person addressing her.

This is the small person skipping along the pretty Riveredge street toward the more sparsely settled northern end of the town, hopping not from dry spot to dry spot between the puddles, but into and into the deepest to be found. Amy Fletcher’s home was one of the largest in the outskirts of Riveredge and its grounds the most beautiful. Between it and Riveredge stood an old stone house owned and occupied by a family named Raulsbury; a family noted for its parsimony and narrow outlook upon life in general. Broad open fields lay between this house and the Fletcher place which was some distance beyond. In many places the fences were broken; at one point the field was a good deal higher than the road it bordered and a deep gully lay between it and the sidewalk.

When Jean reached that point of her moist, breezy walk she stopped short. In the mud of the gully, drenched, cold and shivering lay an old, blind bay horse. He had stumbled into it, and was too feeble to get out.

CHAPTER II—“Baltie”

    “When he’s forsaken
    Withered and shaken
    What can an old horse
    Do but die?”

    (With apologies to Tom Hood.)

For one moment Jean stood petrified, too overcome by the sight to stir or speak, then with a low, pitying cry of:

“Oh, Baltie, Baltie! How came you there?” the child tossed her umbrella aside and scrambled down into the ditch, the water which stood in it splashing and flying all over her, as she hastened toward the prone horse.

At the sound of her voice the poor creature raised his head which had been drooping forward upon his bent-up knees, turned his sightless eyes toward her and tried to nicker, but succeeded only in making a quavering, shivering sound.

“Oh, Baltie, dear, dear Baltie, how did you get out of your stable and come way off here?” cried the girl taking the pathetic old head into her arms, and drawing it to her breast regardless of the mud with which it was thickly plastered. “You got out of the field through that broken place in the fence up there didn’t you dear? And you must have tumbled right straight down the bank into this ditch, ’cause you’re all splashed over with mud, poor, poor Baltie. And your legs are all cut and bleeding too. Oh, how long have you been here? You couldn’t see where you were going, could you? You poor, dear thing. Oh, what shall I do for you? What shall I? If I could only help you up,” and the dauntless little body tugged with all her might and main to raise the fallen animal. She might as well have striven to raise Gibraltar, for, even though the horse strove to get upon his feet, he was far too weak and exhausted to do so, and again dropped heavily to the ground, nearly over-setting his intrepid little friend as he sank down.

Jean was in despair. What should she do? To go on to her friend Amy’s and leave the old horse to the chance of someone else’s tender mercies never entered her head, and had any one been near at hand to suggest that solution of the problem he would have promptly found himself in the midst of a small tornado of righteous wrath. No, here lay misery incarnate right before her eyes and, of course, she must instantly set about relieving it. But how?

“Baltie,” or Old Baltimore, as the horse was called, belonged to the Raulsbury’s. Everybody within a radius of twenty miles knew him; knew also that the family had brought him to the place when they came there from the suburbs of Baltimore more than twenty years ago. Brought him a high-stepping, fiery, thoroughbred colt which was the admiration and envy of all Riveredge. John Raulsbury, the grandfather, was his owner then, and drove him until his death, when “Baltimore” was seventeen years old; even that was an advanced age for a horse. From the moment of Grandfather Raulsbury’s death Baltimore began to fail and lose his high spirits. Some people insisted that he was grieving for the friend of his colt-hood and the heyday of life, but Jabe Raulsbury, the son, said “the horse was gettin’ played out. What could ye expect when he was more’n seventeen years old?”

So Baltimore became “Old Baltie,” and his fate the plow, the dirt cart, the farm wagon. His box-stall, fine grooming, and fine harness were things of the past. “The barn shed’s good ’nough fer such an old skate’s he’s gettin’ ter be,” said Jabe, and Jabe’s son, a shiftless nonentity, agreed with him.

So that was blue-blooded Baltie’s fate, but even such misfortune failed to break his spirit, and now and again, while plodding hopelessly along the road, dragging the heavy farm wagon, he would raise his head, prick up his ears, and plunge ahead, forgetful of his twenty years, when he heard a speedy step behind him. But, alas! his sudden sprint always came to a most humiliating end, for his strength had failed rapidly during the past few years, and the eyes, once so alert and full of fire, were sadly clouded, making steps very uncertain. An ugly stumble usually ended in a cruel jerk upon the still sensitive mouth and poor old Baltie was reduced to the humiliating plod once more.

Yet, through it all he retained his sweet, high-bred disposition, accepting his altered circumstances like the gentleman he was, and never retaliating upon those who so misused him. During his twenty-third year he became totally blind, and when rheumatism, the outcome of the lack of proper stabling and care, added to his miseries, poor Baltie was almost turned adrift; the shed was there, to be sure, and when he had time to think about it, Jabe dumped some feed into the manger and threw a bundle of straw upon the floor. But for the greater part of the time Baltie had to shift for himself as best he could.

During the past summer he had been the talk of an indignant town, and more than one threatening word had been spoken regarding the man’s treatment of the poor old horse.

For a moment the little girl stood in deep, perplexing thought, then suddenly her face lighted up and her expressive eyes sparkled with the thoughts which lay behind them.

“I know what I’ll do, Baltie: I’ll go straight up to Jabe Raulsbury’s and make him come down and take care of you. Good-bye, dear; I won’t be any time at all ’cause I’ll go right across the fields,” and giving the horse a final encouraging stroke, she caught up her umbrella which had meantime been resting handle uppermost up in a mud-puddle, and scrambling up the bank which had been poor Baltie’s undoing, disappeared beneath the tumble-down fence and was off across the pasture