“Dat man’s a no’ ‘count dead beat, Miss Peggy.  Yas’m, he is fer a fac’, an’ he gwine treat dat hawse scan’lous.”

Peggy’s eyes grew dark.  “We’ll see,” was all she said, but Jess chuckled.  Most of the help at Severndale knew that look.  “Jess, unharness that horse and tie him behind the surrey,” was her next astonishing order.

“Fo’ de Lawd’s sake, Miss Peggy, what yo’ bown’ fer ter do?  Yo’ gwine start hawsestealin’?” Jess didn’t know whether to laugh or take it seriously.  When Jim Bolivar returned Pepper was trying to reason out the wherefor of being hitched behind such a handsome vehicle as Peggy’s surrey, and Jess was protesting: 

“But—­but—­butter,” stammered Jess, “Miss Peggy, yo’ am’ never in de roun’ worl’ gwine ter drive from de town an’ clar out ter Severndale wid dat disrep’u’ble ol’ hawse towin’ ’long behime we all?”

“I certainly am, and what is more, Jim Bolivar is going to sit on the back seat and hold the leader.  He has got to get home and he can’t without help.  Mr. Bolivar, please do as I say,” Peggy’s voice held a merry note but her little nod of authority meant “business.”

“But look at me, miss,” protested Bolivar.  “I ain’t fit ter ride with yo’, no how.”

“I am not afraid of criticism,” replied Peggy, with the little up-tilting of the head which told of her Stewart ancestry.  “When I know a thing is right I do it.  Steady, Comet.  Quiet, Meteor,” for the horses had been standing some time and seemed inclined to proceed upon two legs instead of four.  “We’ll stop at Brooks’ for the shoes, then we’ll go around to Dove’s; I’ve a little commission for him.”

“Yas’m, yas’m,” nodded Jess.

The shoes were bought, Peggy selecting them and giving them to Bolivar with the words:  “It will soon be Easter and this is my Easter gift to Nellie, with my love,” she added with a smile which made the shoes a hundred-fold more valuable.

Then off to the livery stable.

“Mr. Dove, do you know a man named Steinberger?”

“I know an old skinflint by that name,” corrected Dove.

“Well, you are to buy a horse from him.  Seventy-five dollars ought to be the price, but a hundred is available if necessary.  But do your best.  The horse’s name is Salt—­yes—­that is right,” as Dove looked incredulous, “and he is a flea-bitten gray—­mate to this one behind us.  Steinberger bought him today, and I want you to beat him at his own game if you can, for he has certainly beaten a better man.”

“You count on me, Miss Stewart, you count on me.  Whatever you say goes with me.”

“Thank you, I’ll wait and see what happens.”