There was not the least hesitation or self-consciousness and the frank smile which accompanied the words revealed all her pretty, even teeth.  “I got your message and I am right glad to welcome you to Severndale.”

The lady looked a trifle bewildered.  She had expected to meet the owner of Severndale, or, certainly, a mature woman.  Her correspondence had, it is true, been with a Margaret C. Stewart, whom she assumed to be Mr. Stewart’s wife or some relative.  Intuitively Peggy grasped the situation, but kept a perfectly sober face.

“I am very glad to come,” said her guest, and added:  “This is my niece, Polly Howland.”

“It’s nice to see and know you.  I don’t see many girls of my own age.  Will you come to the surrey?” and she indicated with a graceful motion of her hand the carriage in waiting just beyond.  Mrs. Harold and her niece followed their guide.

Old Jess made a sweeping bow.  He must do the honors properly.  Peggy helped her guests into the rear seat, then sprang lightly into the front one, drew on a pair of chamois gloves, and taking the reins from Jess, gave a low, clear whistle.  Instantly Tzaritza bounded up from beneath some shrubbery where she had lain hidden, and cavorting to the horses’ heads made playful snaps at their muzzles.  The next second they had reared upon their hind legs.  Mrs. Harold gave a little cry of terror and Polly laid hold of the side of the surrey.  Peggy flashed an amused, dazzling smile over her shoulder at them as she said reassuringly: 

“Don’t be frightened.  Down, Tzaritza.  Steady, my beauties.”

At her words the beautiful span settled down as quiet as lambs and swung into a gait which whirled the surrey along the picturesque, woodland road at a rate not to be despised, while Peggy drove with the master-hand of experience.  Indeed she seemed to guide more by words than reins, or some perfectly understood signal to the splendid creatures which arched their necks, or laid back an ear to catch each low spoken word.

For a time Peggy’s guests were too absorbed in watching her marvelous skill and almost uncanny power over her horses to make any comment.  Then the young girl broke into a perfect ecstasy of delight as she cried: 

“Oh, how do you do it?  How beautiful they are and what a superb dog.  It is a Russian wolfhound, isn’t it?”

“Yes, she is a wolfhound.  But I don’t quite understand.  Do what?” and Peggy glanced back questioningly.

“Why drive like that.  Make them obey you so perfectly.”

“Oh!  Why I reckon it is because I have driven all my life.  I can’t remember when I haven’t, and I love and understand them so well.  That is all there is to it, I think.  They will do almost anything for me.  You see I was here when they were born and they have known me from the very first.  That makes a lot of difference.  And I have a great deal to do about the paddock.  I superintend it.  The horses are never afraid of me and if they don’t know the meaning of fear one can do almost anything with them,”