Shelby’s sense was certainly very sound horse-sense and was rigidly abided by.  Consequently, the colts which left Severndale were in the pride and glory of their young horsehood, and this year they were a most promising lot.  There were eleven to be disposed of, and, thanks to Peggy’s care and training, as fine a bunch of horseflesh as could be found in the land.  She had trained—­not broken, she could not tolerate that word—­every one and each knew his or her name and came at Peggy’s call as a child, loving and obeying her implicitly.  Among them were two exceptionally beautiful creatures—­a splendid chestnut with a white star in the middle of his forehead, and a young filly, half-sister to the chestnut and little Boy.  The chestnut was called Silver Star, the filly Columbine, for the singular gentleness of her disposition.  She was a golden bay, slender and lithe as a fawn, with great fawn-like brown eyes full of gentleness and love for all, and for Peggy in particular.  She had been sold, under the usual conditions during the previous year and was soon to be sent to her new home.

One morning, the second week in October, Peggy opened a letter which held unusual interest for her.  It was from a lady whose home was in Wilmot Hall in Annapolis.  Wilmot Hall was the hotel near the Naval Academy and mostly patronized by the officers and their families.  The letter was from the wife of a naval officer who wished either to hire or purchase a riding horse for her niece who would spend the winter with her.  She stated very explicitly that the horse must be well broken ("Yes, broken!” fairly snorted Peggy.  “Broken!  I wonder if she would want a literally ‘broken’ horse?  Why will they never say trained!”) and gentle, as her niece had ridden very little.  The letter then went on to ask if Mrs. Harold might call some day and hour agreed upon.  But what amused Peggy most, and caused her to laugh aloud as she took a spoonful of luscious sliced peaches, was the manner in which the letter was addressed.

Old Jerome who was serving her in the pretty delft breakfast-room took an old retainer’s privilege to ask: 

“What ‘musin’ you, honey-chile?”

“Didn’t know I was an esquire, did you, Jerome?  Well I am, because this letter says so.  It is addressed to M. C. Stewart, Esq.  As I am the only M. C. Stewart I must be the esquire to boot.  Wonder what the lady will think when I sign myself Margaret C. Stewart,” and Peggy’s silvery laugh filled the room.

“Don’ yo’ mind what dey calls yo’, baby.  How dey gwine know yo’s our young mist’ess?  Don’ yo’ let dat triflin’ trebble yo’ pretty haid,” said the faithful old soul, fearful lest his mistress’ pride might be touched, and hastening to serve the second course of her breakfast in his best “quality style.”

“It doesn’t trouble me even a little bit, Jerome.  It’s just funny.  I’m going to answer that letter right after breakfast, and I wish I could see my correspondent’s face when she finds that her ‘esquire’ is one of her own sex.  But I’ll never dare let her guess I’m just a girl.”