mother had formerly known and loved.

And the silent partner of the firm, old Baltie, how had the three years dealt with him? A horse which has attained twenty-five years and is sightless is supposed to be out of the running, but Baltie lived apparently to prove the fallacy of such a supposition. At twenty-eight he was younger and more active than at twenty-four, his age when rescued by Jean. Nothing could restore his sight, but with each year his hearing seemed to have grown keener, and the ears were as sensitive as a wild animal’s. But Baltie needs a chapter to himself.

CHAPTER II—The Silent Partner and Others.

“Mother, have you seen Jean?” asked Constance, popping her head into her mother’s room shortly after breakfast one glorious October morning.

“She was here but a few moments ago, dear,” answered Mrs. Carruth, looking up from her desk at which she sat writing out the marketing list for Mammy.

“I want her to leave this parcel at Mrs. Morgan’s on her way to school, and, by the same token, she ought to be on her way there this very minute. I wonder where she has gone?”

“Not very far, I think. She knows she must start at once.”

Constance laughed as she replied: “I wonder if she ever will know? Time doesn’t exist for her, or perhaps I would better say that it exists only for her; she so calmly takes all she wishes. But she really must start now. I’ll go hunt her up and get her headed in the right direction.”

“Yes, do, Honey,” urged Mrs. Carruth, as Constance hurried away in quest of the youngest member of the household.

Mrs. Carruth resumed her writing. The past three years had dealt kindly with her: Mammy and the daughters of the home had seen to that. Nothing could ever alter the gentle expression of her eyes, or change the tender curves of her lips. Each told its story of love for those nearest and dearest to her, as well as her sympathy and interest in her fellow-beings. Mrs. Carruth had passed her forty-seventh birthday, but did not look more than thirty-eight. The hardest years of her life were those following upon her husband’s death, and the serious financial losses she was then forced to meet. Since Constance’s venture and the success which had almost immediately attended it, the outlook for all had been more hopeful, and if now living less pretentiously than she had lived during her husband’s lifetime, she was none the less comfortable. Upon Hadyn Stuyvesant’s advice Mrs. Carruth had not rebuilt the old home, although by careful economy she could have done so. But Hadyn was looking farther into the future than Mrs. Carruth looked. Perhaps his wish had some bearing upon the thought, for from the moment Hadyn Stuyvesant had met Constance Carruth his future was settled so far as he was concerned. But he was too wise to let the sixteen-year-old girl guess his feelings. The gulf between sixteen and twenty-three is a wide one. As the years advance it mysteriously narrows. At nineteen Constance often wondered why Hadyn seemed younger to her in his twenty-sixth year than he had at twenty-three. Never by look or word had he betrayed any warmer feeling for her than the good-comradeship established at the beginning of their acquaintance. He was like a brother in that dear home. Mrs. Carruth consulted him freely upon all occasions. Eleanor accepted him as a matter-of-course; that was Eleanor’s way. Constance found in him the jolliest companion. Jean adored him openly, and he was her valiant champion whenever she needed one. From the day he had taken his first meal in her home she had been to him the “Little Sister,” and he never called her by any other name. Not long after that event she had coined a name for him—a funny enough one, too. Rushing into Constance’s room in her impetuous way one day, she demanded: “Connie, when knights used to fight for their ladies, ever ever so long ago, what did they call them?—the knights I mean.”

“Do you mean Knight Errant?” asked Constance, looking up to smile at the eager little girl.

“Knight Errant? Knight Errant?” repeated Jean, doubtfully. “No, somehow that doesn’t fit him. I couldn’t call him that, it’s too long.”

“Call whom, Jean?” Constance began to wonder what was simmering in this little sister’s head.

“Mr. Stuyvesant. He calls me ‘Little Sister,’ and I want a name for him.”

“Do you think mother would approve of your calling him by a nickname?”

“’Tisn’t going to be a nickname; it’s going to be a love name for him, just like his for me is,” was Jean’s curious distinction.

“Oh!” The tone did not imply deep conviction.

“Now, Connie, you don’t understand at all. You think I’m going to be—be—, well, you don’t think I’m respectful, but I am. I don’t know anyone that I feel more respectfuller to than Mr. Stuyvesant. He’s just lovely. Only just plain Mr. Stuyvesant keeps him such a long way off, and he mustn’t be. Mother has adopted him, you know, ’cause we all agreed to lend part of her to him. So I must have a homey name for him. What were the other names they gave those old knights?”

“They were often called ‘champions of their fair ladies,’” answered Constance, slipping her arm about Jean and drawing her close to her side.

“That’s it! That just suits him, doesn’t it? He was my champion the day Jabe Raulsbury turned old Baltie out to die in the road, and he has been a heap of times since when I’ve got into scrapes. So that’s what I’m going to call him. He is down on the piazza talking with mother about the new fence, and I’m going right straight down to ask him if I may call him Champion,” ended Jean, delighted with her new acquisition and bounding away.

“Don’t interrupt Mother,” warned Constance, always a little doubtful of the outbreaks of the fly-away.

Hadyn Stuyvesant had not only approved the name, but was delighted with the idea, and vowed from thenceforth to guard his “lady fair.” So “Champion” he was from that moment on, and, long as the name was, it had clung. The three years had not lessened Jean’s love for him or his devotion to her.

As Constance descended the stairs in quest of Jean she met Mammy at the foot.

“Is yo’ Ma up in her room, Baby?” she asked.

“Yes, Mammy, and just finishing the marketing list. Have you seen Jean? It is high time she started for school.”

“Dat’s de livin’ truf, an’ it’s what I done tol’ her a’reddy, but she boun’ ter go out yonder to see dat hawse.”

“Then I’m bound to go out yonder after her,” laughed Constance, as she ran briskly down the hall, passed through the door which led to the piazza and opened upon the lawn. There was no sign of Jean, but Constance crossed the velvety turf to the stable at the further side of the grounds, passing on her way the candy kitchen, and calling cheerily to Mary Willing, who was already busy within: “Polly’s got her kettle on for our candee,” to be promptly answered by: “Yes, and it’s a-boiling, if you will come and see.”

“Good! I will be there in just a minute. I’m hunting for Jean.” A moment later she turned the corner of the stable and came upon Jean and Old Baltie.

To say that Old Baltie had become almost human during the four years spent in this home conveys very little idea of the mutual understanding existing between him and his friends, Jean and Mammy were, of course, his joint owners; but since his marriage to Mammy, Charles also claimed ownership. No one would have recognized the old horse for the one rescued by Jean. His coat was now as sleek as satin, his old body round and plump, his manners those of a thoroughly spoiled thoroughbred horse. It had not required all the four years