there, she’s found it out! and it’s a deal worse than if her papa had told her first off!” said suzan´, at the kitchen door. “i never saw miss steenie cry about anything before, and i wish now that i’d a broke it to her myself.”

“my, my! the poor lamb!” echoed ellen, the cook, joining the housemaid. “no, she haint never been one fer cryin’,—not even fer bumps er scratches. sunshiny’s what she’s been, an’ so i say. does seem’s if i couldn’t stay to cook fer no new manager’s folks after that sweet angel. good mind ter give notice myself.”

“oh, wait! maybe it won’t be so bad as we think. master don’t look blind.”

“how can ye tell how he looks, ’hind them great goggles o’ his’n? i guess it’s bad as it can be, er he wouldn’t give in to it. he’s clear grit, an’ so i say. that’s where miss steenie gets her’n. see! she’s spied her father comin’ back from the valley! he rid away to call the boys together, ’cause his lordship wants to see ’em, i suppose. well, he’s right peart-lookin’ yet; but man’s born to troubles, an’ he’ll hev to take his share.”

the women watched steenie run with outstretched arms to meet mr. calthorp; saw him check his horse suddenly, when he had almost ridden her down, and bend low to lift her to his saddle. they saw the child’s arms clasp close about his neck, and fancied they could hear her wild outburst of grief. then, with moistened eyes, but in true delicacy, they turned away from witnessing a child’s first sorrow.

“papa, is it true?”

“my darling, why do you cry? what true?” the well-trained horse stood still while the rider folded his little daughter close to his own heavy heart.

“about your eyes. are you—blind?”

mr. calthorp shivered. even to himself he could not yet acknowledge what seemed so plain to almost everybody else. “no, sweetheart, i am not blind—yet; but for a long, long time there has been something wrong with my eyes, and i dare put off no further the treatment which they require. so i wrote to lord plunkett and asked him to relieve me of my duties here, and i meant to tell you as soon as it seemed necessary. he came before i had expected that he could. he wishes to make a thorough examination of all santa felisa affairs, and to be fully informed concerning what has and has not been accomplished. i was glad, yet sorry, to see him; for our going away means leaving what has been my home for many years, and the only one you have ever known.” he continued talking for some time, till he had given a very quiet and clear explanation, which soothed the excited child; besides, the words “not blind—yet” were quite enough to fill her buoyant heart with a hope that seemed certainty.

“oh, how glad i am! and i s’pose the lordship didn’t understand. i’m quite—quite sure he didn’t mean to tell a wrong story, and i’m sorry i snatched my hand away from him. i’ll go and ’xplain it now, if you will put me down, papa, dear!”

smiling, mr. calthorp complied; and chirruping to his horse, continued his course stableward, while steenie sought the “cor’net man” to make her naïve apology.

“i guess i didn’t behave very p’lite, mr. plunkett, but i hope you won’t be angry; i don’t like folks to be angry; but you see i didn’t think of anything ’cept my father,—not then. and i want to ’xplain it,—he isn’t blind—yet; and he’s going to see a treatment; so he’ll prob’ly get them fixed over all right. and if there’s anything i can do to int’rest you i will; for i like you very much.”

“eh?—so?—thank you. i like you, too. bright—bonny—worth a fortune. hm-m! better than coronets. stick to it. sit down? orange-tree, yonder. now, then, talk.”

laughing at his mirthful manner and odd sentences, steenie led her new friend to the seat he designated; and folding her hands in her lap, said politely: “i’ll talk what more i know. ’tisn’t much, i guess; only ’bout horses; i haven’t told you ’bout them yet, have i?”

“no. horses? what? whose? go on.”

“oh, ours!—no, yours, i s’pose they are. maybe they’re the ‘boys.’ we’ve trained them beautifully. tomaso and connecticut jim both say it can’t be beat. it’s great fun!”

“don’t understand.”

“no, i s’pose not. but—this way, like a ‘circus,’ my father says. they’s thirty-three, all counted; and every man of us has tried to teach our horse something better ’n each other; and they’re just too cunning for anything! bob’s kept the ‘cup’ for ever so long now; but i’m going to win it away from him some time,—see if i don’t! oh, i forgot!” the eager little face suddenly drooped at memory of that terrible “going away,” which would be even earlier than the anticipated “some time.”

“why, why!—delightful! never heard anything like it! see it, can i,—eh?” demanded his lordship, whose love for horses was very great.

“i hope—i s’pose so. i don’t know. kentucky bob’s the head of us. we all have to mind him; and sometimes he don’t be very pleasant. but he’s very nice and honest, my father says; and i love him dearly. then we can’t have a ‘circus’ till he gets over it again. my father says, too, it’s ’cause he has a ‘crank’ in him somewhere. i s’pose that’s what hurts him and makes him unpleasant. don’t you?”

“no doubt. bad complaint; quite general; touch myself. no, don’t go! all right to-day. but—where’s kentucky bob? walk him out! won’t refuse,—not me.”

“no, i don’t s’pose he would, on ’count of your being a lordship. if you don’t mind staying alone, i’ll run and ask him. i saw him cross the arroyo just a minute ago.”

“trot; but come back.”

steenie departed; and while she was gone mr. calthorp walked gropingly toward the bench where his employer sat. he could still see sufficiently to guide himself about, and his knowledge of places and voices aided him. his eyes were screened by close-fitting goggles of dark glass; but he had worn these so long that steenie had almost forgotten how he had ever looked without them. few men in his condition would have held to his post as long as he had done, nor was this course wise in him; but he was not a rich man, and he had been anxious to earn and save what he could for his little daughter’s sake.

“hm-m! get around—first-rate. little girl’s smart; like her.”

“thank you. she is, indeed, a brave, sunny child. in some ways her leaving santa felisa will be better for her. she should go to school and mingle with women. here she has no company but myself and the ‘boys.’ old sutro has devoted himself to her since her infancy, and loves her jealously. indeed, they all love her; but that is not strange, for she loves them. has she gone upon an errand for you?”

“yes; kentucky bob. circus; like to see it. says maybe he won’t; ‘crank.’”

“well—he is—very peculiar. however, he has a wonderful gift with horses; it seems almost like magic; and he has imparted much of his skill to steenie. she is perfectly fearless. but i won’t anticipate. are they coming?”

“yes. hm-m! how old—she?”

“ten years. i’ll leave her to negotiate matters.”

steenie approached the orange-tree, leading by one hand a great fellow, whose face at that moment wore its most forbidding expression, and who seemed inclined to break away from his small guide; yet determined, in his own words, “to bluff her out.” catch him, a free-born american, truckling to anybody, even if that body were a genuine “lord,” and, what was more, his own employer! he guessed he wasn’t a going to get up no shows unless he wanted to! and he evidently did not so incline.

however, when he came quite near, and saw the small, dumpy, red-faced old gentleman sitting beside mr. calthorp, his astonishment conquered every other sentiment. he a lord! whe-ew! he might be anybody! and of no great account either. plain suit of clothes, no rings, no watch-chain, no scarf-pin even; bald-headed, good-natured, sensible. as his observations reached this happy climax, bob ceased tugging at his feminine guiding-string, and marched frankly forward. her father could not see the action; but steenie was amazed when the refractory ranchman doffed his hat and made a respectful, if somewhat awkward, bow. she had never witnessed such a concession before on his part.

“good evenin’, sir; hope i see you well.”

“quite, thank you. hear you’re wonderful. horses. like to see, if suits.”

“well, sir, i’d like to ’blige; but, you see, it’s against the rules. once a week, an’ no oftener, is what we agreed. no use o’ rules if you don’t stick to ’em. exercise every sunday; no other times in public. if i ’lowed the ‘boys’ to go it rash, say on odd days, they’d get the upper hand in no time; then where’d i be?”

from the tone of his voice, mr. calthorp judged that bob “wanted coaxing;” but this was not his affair. from the moment of lord plunkett’s arrival he had practically resigned all authority, so he did not interfere.

now, my lord was, as has been said, very good-natured; but, like many other good-natured and unassuming people, opposition, or imposition, made him a little testy. moreover, he was accustomed to command, not to sue; and he considered that he had already conceded as much as was necessary to this rough specimen of american manhood. his choler and color rose together; and he opened his lips with a very decided and undignified snort: “woo-oo! eh? hey?”

but, fortunately for all parties, steenie’s bright eyes had telegraphed alarm to her loving heart; and with a quick little “’xcuse me!” she pulled bob’s surly face to the level of her lips, and whispered something in his ear.

then, as if there had been a spring in his back, his head rebounded to the upright, his cheek actually paled beneath its tan, and he ejaculated fiercely, “great—huckleberries!”

it was the nearest approach to an oath which this strange man ever allowed himself; for, though he thought nothing of breaking the sabbath by racing or gaming, he neither gave way to profanity nor indulged himself with a drop of spirituous liquor. he used to describe himself as “half marm, half pop;” and to attribute his sobriety and general uprightness to the “marm” side, all to the contrary, “pop.” years before, when, a hot-tempered lad, he had run away from “pop’s” wrath, he had solemnly promised his weeping “marm” that he would “never drink nor swear;” and, to the honor of kentucky bob, be it said that he had loyally kept his word.

“huckleberries! little un, you don’t mean it! you wouldn’t, would you?”

“i—i’ve got to, dear old bob! but—there—there—there—i won’t cry! i will not. and you’ll do it, won’t you?”

“well—i reckon! but—little missy—the boys won’t believe it. an’—say, boss, is it true? are you a goin’ to light out?”

“yes, bob,” answered mr. calthorp, sadly; “but from necessity, not choice.”

“an’ the little un—why must she go? ain’t nothin’ the matter of her eyes, is they?”

“no, no; thank god!”

“well, then; leave her here. we’ll take care of her. square. why—what—in huckleberries—’ll san’ felis’ be ’ithout our little missy? ain’t she lived here ever sence she was borned? ain’t we be’n good to her? we’re rough, we be. we ain’t no lords, ner nothin’ but jest cow-boys er sech. but we’re men. an’ americans. an’ i ’low there ain’t one of us but would fight till he died fer the little un, afore harm should tetch her. no! it mustn’t be. an’ that’s square.”

even mr. calthorp, who had had abundant proof, heretofore, of the “boys’” devotion to steenie, was surprised at the depth of feeling betrayed by bob’s words; for he could not fully know all that the child had been to these men, separated, as most of them were, from home and its associations. since the hour when they had been permitted to carry or amuse her, a tiny baby in long clothes, they had adopted her in their hearts, each in his own way finding in the frank, merry, friendly little creature an embodiment of his own better nature. they had even, with the superstition of their class, accepted her as their “mascot,” sincerely believing that every enterprise to which she lent her presence or approval was sure to prosper.

to what other human being would kentucky bob have imparted the secret of his wonderful power over the equine race? indeed, to none other; and to her only because he loved her so, and was so proud of her cleverness. and now his big, honest heart ached with a new and bitter pain, as he faced the danger of her loss.

“why, robert! why! eh, what? tut, tut. good child. understand. but—father. first claim. see?”

angry bob cast one scorching, contemptuous glance upon the nervous little lord; and if looks could annihilate, the british peerage would then and there have been short one member. stooping, he swung steenie to his shoulder, and strode away toward the great group of out-buildings which made the home-piece of santa felisa rancho seem like a village in itself. in the thickest crowd of the employees who had been summoned to meet their newly-arrived employer he came to a sudden halt.

“hello, bob! what’s up?”

“i—the—i wish to sizzle! sho, i can’t talk. tell ’em, little un.”

“yes, bob,” answered steenie, gently, patting the great head around which she clung for support. “but s’pose you put me down. i’m heavy. i’m such a big girl, now.”

“no, you ain’t. hold you forever, if you’ll stay.”

“stay? stay where?” asked somebody.

“tell ’em,” again commanded the kentuckian; and waving her hand, she hushed them by this gesture to hear her words.

yet, somehow, the words wouldn’t come. for the second time that day the self-control of the child failed to respond to her needs. her eyes roamed from face to face of those gathered about her, and there was not one on which she did not read an answering love for the great love she bore to it. rough faces, most of them. sun blackened,—sin blackened too, perhaps; but gentle, every one, toward her. odd comrades for a little girl, and she a descendant of “one of the first families in old knollsboro;” still the only comrades she had ever known, and therefore she craved no other.

twice she tried to speak, and felt a queer lump in her throat that choked her; and at last she dropped her face upon bob’s rough mane, her sunny curls mingling with it to hide the tears which hurt her pride to show.

an ominous growl ran round the assembly, and the sound was the tonic she needed. “hmm! who’s a makin’ ther little un cry?”

“nobody, boys! dear, dear boys! not anybody at all! i’m not crying now; see?” proudly her head was tossed back, and a determined smile came to the still quivering lips, even while the tears glistened on the long lashes. “you see, it’s this way. i didn’t know it till this very day that ever was, or i’d have told you. ’cause i’ve always been square, haven’t i?”

“you bet! square’s a brick!”

“but all the time my father’s been getting blinder an’ blinder, an’ i didn’t even s’pect anything ’bout it. i thought he wore goggley things ’cause he liked ’em; but he didn’t: it was ’cause he had to. and now, if he don’t go away quick, he can’t get his poor eyes fixed up at all. so he is. he’s going ’way, ’way off,—three thousand miles, my father says, to a big city called new york, where a lot of doctors live who don’t do anything but mend eyes. my grandmother lives in a little town close to new york, and we’re going to her house to stay; and—and—that’s all. i have to do it, you see. i’m sorry, ’cause i love you all; but he’s my father, and i have to love him the biggest, the best. and i hope you don’t mind.”

“no, no, no! three cheers for the ‘boss’!”

given with a will; and by the time the noise had subsided, steenie’s smile had become as bright as ever, and that without any effort of her will.

“good enough! thank you, dears! and now we’ll have an extra circus, won’t we? i’d like to ’blige mr. plunkett; and besides, you know, i—i sha’n’t have you, nor the horses, nor any more fun—in that old new york!”

“hold on, little un! where’s your grit?” asked kentucky bob, passing steenie from his shoulder to a convenient wagon-box.

his sudden change of tone astonished her.

“hain’t i allays fetched ye up to do the square thing? if your dooty calls you to n’ york,—to n’ york you’ll have to go; but, fer the honor o’ san’ felis’, an’ the credit o’ your boys, do it colors flyin’—head up—shoulders back—right face—march!”

“i will, bob! i will! i will!” cried steenie, impulsively. “you sha’n’t ever have to be ashamed of your little un, and so i tell you!”

in the midst of the rousing cheers which followed, lord plunkett appeared. he could restrain his curiosity no longer.