mr. tubbs sat with his spectacles in place, his bible on his knee; and steenie, peering in at the kitchen-door and seeing it otherwise deserted, would speedily have retreated, had she been allowed. but an outrageous groan from resolved arrested her flight, and awoke her ready sympathy.

“is it so bad, poor dear? is it worser ’n usual?”

“oh! ah-h-h!” that sigh appeared to have arisen in the sigher’s very feet, it was so long drawn out and so unutterably doleful. “to think i’d a lived ter see this day! man an’ boy, forty odd years, have i been uset ter settin’ beside this very fire an’ a peroosin’ o’ scripters by this very winder; an’ now—my-soul-i-declare,—life ain’t wuth livin’!”

“oh, pooh! you only feel hypoey, mary jane says. try an’ not think ’bout troubles so much, please. an’ i do think, like she does, ’at it’s the queerest thing your hypoey comes whenever they’s such a lot to do, isn’t it? i know you can’t help it, an’ it must make you feel dreadful bad not to be able to help more; but do try an’ not mind it, there’s a dear!”

“i’ll try; but i ain’t the man i uset ter was. i’ve got the neuraligy in my head, an’ the dyspepsy in my stummick, an’ the lumbago in my back, an’ i ain’t a good deal well. you know it, don’t ye, steenie? ye’re sorry fer the old man, ain’t ye?”

“why, ye-es. but i’m lots sorrier for all the rest of the folks. my father says it’s a’most more than grandmother can bear, this leaving her old home; but she doesn’t go ‘oh!’ and ‘ah-h!’ over it. she just shuts her lips tight, an’ goes hard to work; an’ i guess that’s what you’d better do, dear mr. tubbs. it seems to help her, an’ maybe it will you. why, she’s packed every one o’ her ‘precious books,’ all her own self, without nobody touching to help her; an’ mary jane says it’s the best thing she could have done.”

“some folks hain’t no fine feelin’s, steenie. mary jane hain’t,—i grieve ter say it.”

“what makes you, then?”

“because—be-cause, i tell ye! here they ain’t nobody payin’ no ’tention ter me; ner thinkin’ o’ my—’motions, a tearin’ myself up by the ruts, this ’ere way; an’ jest a goin’ on as if this break-up wasn’t nothin’.”

“well. ’xcuse me, but i don’t see as it is to—you. ’cause it wasn’t your house, see? an’ the little new one is cuter than cute! it’s as cunning as a doll-house. an’ mary jane says, ‘make the best on ’t, honey, an’ thank the lord it’s in a decent neighborhood!’ an’ i’m going to do it. mary jane tubbs is a real christian, my father says.”

“yer ‘father says’—‘father says’—tacked onter the end o’ every verse! yer father don’t know ever’thing!”

“he does, too, resolved tubbs!—mister, i mean. everybody says ’at he’s the best man in the world! he can’t see a single thing, yet he’s going to work an’ try an’ write down, all in the dark, all ’at he knows ’bout managing a great rancho; an’ judge courtenay says ’at he’ll get it copied out ‘fair an’ square,’ an’ then printed; an’ the world’ll have to see that it takes ‘more ’n blindness to kill a brave man,’—so there! and he doesn’t groan, either. since he’s thought ’bout this book business he’s just as jolly as he used to be, an’ never lets grandmother nor me nor anybody see if he feels bad—not once! s’posin’ he got the hypo, too! wouldn’t grandmother an’ mary jane an’ me have a terr’ble time, then?”

“hm-m. i don’t see where mary jane’s sech a great christian! my-soul-i-declare! i hain’t seen her tetch her bible once sence we begun ter tear up.”

“that’s it! that’s just it! my father says ’at she has its teachings so deep down inside her ’at she can’t forget them, an’ doesn’t need to read ’em so much. he says her keeping the meals regular an’ well-cooked, an’ the house sun-shiny an’ clean, an’ herself good-tempered through all her hard work, has taught him a beautiful lesson. think of it! just mary jane teaching my papa! anyhow, i love her, an’ i came to bid her good-by. ’cause i’m off to rookwood an’ lessons an’ fun, now! where is she? do you know?”

“no, ner keer; an’ you’re a ungrateful little girl. thar i sot, all yisterday arternoon, a crackin’ butternuts an’ pickin’ the meats fer ye— an’ ye never! well, well; it’s a hard kind o’ world.”

“puss-ley! do shet up, an’ git up an’ take a holt o’ some kind o’ job, brother resolved! you’re enough ter make a critter backslide, a lookin’ at yer limpsey-lumpsey laziness!”

“thar! thar steenie calthorp! ye hear her? that’s yer fine ch—”

“please don’t quarrel, dear folks! don’t! an’ it isn’t so bad, is it? we’ll all be so cosey an’ cunning in the little new house. good-by, mary jane. dear, dear mary jane! i love you! you’re so lively an’ kind, an’ fly-about-y! you make everybody feel so good, dear mary jane! good-by.”

at the door the child paused; her conscience upbraided her for manifesting the partiality she could not help feeling, and with a sudden dash across the room, she caught mr. tubbs’s neck in her arms and gave him a hearty kiss. then she darted out again, and in a moment was speeding down the street toward rookwood, where she still went every day, but now quite by herself. tito had for some weeks been domiciled in judge courtenay’s roomy stables, and his little mistress saw him daily. almost daily, also, she had a long ride on his back, so that she scarcely missed him from the high-street home; and thus one trouble which had seemed unendurable in prospect became quite the contrary in reality.

“because, you see, mary jane, they isn’t any nice cunning little barn to keep him in at the new cottage, so i’m glad after all.”

“yis, dearie; an’ so you’ll find out, long’s you live. trouble is a great hand ter stan’ a ways off an’ make up faces at ye: an’ ye feel’s if ye couldn’t endure it, no way. but jest you pluck up spunk ever’ time, an’ march straight up ter the old thing, and there,—lo! an’ behold!—she’s a grinnin’ an’ a smilin’ as if she’s the best friend you’ve got. an’ most the times she is. folks ’at don’t have no real trouble ter git along with, don’t gen’ally amount ter shucks. life ain’t all catnip; an’ it hain’t meant ter be. an’ ye better, by far, bear the yoke in yer youth ’an in yer old age.”

“like mr. resolved? he’s bearing it now, isn’t he, in his old age? is that what you mean?”

“not by a jug-full! he ain’t a bearin’—nothin’; he’s squat right down under it, an’ a lettin’ it squash all the marrer o’ religion out o’ his poor old bones. foolish brother resolved! i’ve be’n a bolsterin’ an’ a highsterin’ him up all my life, an’ i ’spect i’ll have ter continner on ter the end. no matter; i didn’t have the choosin’ o’ my own trials er i wouldn’t a chose that kind o’ relations. an’ the good lord is a lookin’ out fer poor mary jane; so why should she bother ter look out fer herself?”

even the sorrow of losing sutro had taken on a softer aspect when, after his first night’s absence, steenie learned from judge courtenay that the old caballero had been at rookwood just at nightfall, had remained long enough to “transact some business” with himself, and then had started on a late train across the continent to santa felisa. the judge had also given her sutro’s last loving message:—

“tell, mi niña, that her love has made old sutro vives a better man. that he could not stay to be a burden to anybody; that he’ll be well and happy in the spot where he was born; and that he goes to make his last home on his own property of santa trinidad. caramba! he will rest well, with old californian soil for his bed, and californian sunshine for his blanket. thou wilt say to her these words, señor juez?”

when the gentleman answered warmly: “i will do everything i can for your ‘little lady of the horse,’ señor vives; i will carry out your instructions to the letter,” sutro murmured: “ten thousand thanks, most generous. gracias a dios! i shall see san’ felis once more!” and departed.

but all this was sometime past; and as steenie went now to rookwood, the brilliant autumn leaves were beginning to fade on the paths, and the michaelmas daisies bloomed thickly by the roadside. she passed along, a gay, cheerful, loving little maiden, feeling that the world held but one trouble for her now, and that one so far beyond her power to remove, that she was trying to “march straight up to it,” and see if it would smile at her, as mary jane had said.

the trouble has probably been foreseen; and judge courtenay put it into words for her as she danced up to the porch where he was pacing, and swept him a grave, graceful spanish “courtesy,” that she had learned “at home” from dark-eyed suzan´.

“good-morning, good-morning, miss sunbeam! you look as bright as if we elder people were not worrying our heads off this minute! so when does the ‘flitting’ occur? the removal from high street to that miserable cottage?”

“to-morrow, sir, thank you! an’, please ’xcuse me, but it isn’t mis’able. it’s as pretty as it can be, i think.”

“and ‘i think’ settles it, eh? well, well; you ought to thank heaven for your temperament! now if i only had it, i shouldn’t be feeling this minute angry enough to ‘bite a ten-penny nail in two.’”

down sat the funny gentleman in the big plymouth rocker, and opened his arms to “his other little girl,” who nestled in them quite as confidently and almost as lovingly as beatrice would have done. “why, sir, whatever can be the matter to make you—look cross?”

“i look it, too, do i?—as well as feel it. hm-m. thank you. children, et cetera,—truth, you know. first reason, please: i’m deserted. my wife and daughter are busy with all these guests, and i’ve had to retreat to the schoolroom for a bit of quiet.”

“never mind. they have to be p’lite, i s’pose. my grandmother says ’at folks who live in high stations, like you do, owes great ’sponsibilities to s’ciety an’ its demandings.”

“your grandmother is an oracle! she’s making you one. but draw up that other chair and hear me grumble; it does me good to express myself to somebody. my wife says that i cannot keep anything, save clients’ business, to myself. hm-m. what do you think of that?”

“i s’pose she knows, prob’ly. but am i to have no lessons?”

“no. not unless you are suffering to rattle off: ‘i have been, thou hast been or you have been, he has been,’—and all the rest of it. seems to me i heard you say, yesterday, that you thought grammar was not very ‘exciting,’ eh?”

“oh! no, sir, it isn’t! and if i could have a holiday, maybe diablo could have another waltzing lesson, couldn’t he? he’s such a graceful, teachable horse, i love him!”

“so do i, thanks to your wise interpretation of his character. but diablo isn’t in today’s programme. and i’m greatly disturbed, absurdly disturbed, for such a foolish cause. however, i cannot help it, cannot throw it off.”

“can i help it? i wish i could! what is the thing ’at disturbs you?”

“the afternoon’s race.”

“why—what? i thought everything was all fixed. i hope it isn’t given up, is it?”

“not yet. nor do i like to postpone it; but—there comes john with a telegram. i hope a favorable one.”

the race referred to was a proposed contest for supremacy to be held at the “private track” of rookwood, between the courtenay horses and those of neighboring county magnates. as has been said before, that part of the state was famous for its fine stock; and these millionnaire owners of world-renowned animals spared no expense in the indulgence of their equine “hobby,” or the furtherance of their ambition to lead in the matter of speed and purity of breed.

steenie had been deeply interested in the preparations, and her heart beat in sympathy with a distress she had now learned was connected with the day’s event.

“pshaw! it’s too bad! too contemptibly pitiful and mean! i can’t get the other jockey, either!” exclaimed the judge, thrusting the yellow missive behind him, and striding up and down the school-room porch.

steenie waited but a moment, then she stole to his side, slipped her warm little hand into his great palm, and made an absurd attempt with her own shorter limbs to equal the pace of her perplexed friend.

“hm-m. you good little thing! but even your encouragement can’t help me now.”

“would you just as lief tell me what it is? maybe i could help, maybe. i’m awful anxious to, ’cause, ’cause—you’re so good to me an’ every single body. maybe i can.”

“i wish you could! if you were a boy! hm-m. no use. yet it is so trying to be balked by a little thing like that!”

“like what, sir?”

“oh, you persistent little monkey! there—you know i mean that for a compliment! come then, sit you down and hear an old simpleton’s trouble, then laugh at him as you laugh at all annoyance.”

“but not folks. dear judge courtenay, i don’t mean to laugh at folks.”

“you don’t! listen. you know lady trix?”

“course.”

“you know she’s fast, don’t you?”

“faster ’n lightning!”

“pretty near, i declare. well, you know, also, that boy tretter who was going to ride her against doctor gerould’s mordaunt?”

“yes. well?”

“anything but well! that imp has gone and tumbled off a wood-shed roof, playing circus, and broke his leg.”

“oh, my! poor tretter!”

“poor tretter? poor courtenay! lady trix was never ridden by anybody else, at any such time as this. he was just right weight, and had a good head,—or i thought that he had till this performance.”

“but i s’pose he couldn’t help it.”

“couldn’t help it? what did he get up there for, any way? i’d have given him a thousand dollars to stay off that roof,—or at least to postpone the leg-break for another twenty-four hours.”

steenie gazed at her old friend’s face in astonishment; then her own countenance flushed. “oh, i said maybe i could help you, and i can—i can!”

“what? do you know any jockey round here, worth a cent? one that trix will bear?” asked the other, eagerly.

“no, sir. i ain’t ’quainted with any jockeys in old knollsboro; but i—can ride her.”

there was utter silence for an instant, and the horse-fancier’s face brightened. “you?” then it sobered again. “thank you, dearie, but that wouldn’t answer.”

“why wouldn’t it? i’m sure i could! and i want you to win; i do, i do! i’d be so glad! do let me try?”

“steenie calthorp, don’t tempt me; in a case like this my will is water!”

“but why not? don’t you know that i could? haven’t you seen me ride diablo bareback,—standing—sitting—every way? and once, before i knew how ’ticular you were ’bout her, i came dreadful near riding trixie myself,—i did, indeed, only beatrice told me better. but i could. mayn’t i?”

“i want to win!”

“i will.”

“how do you know?”

“try me; please try me! you’ve done things an’ things an’ things—for me; an’ now—please let me do this wee, wee little thing for you.”

“wee? it’s a tremendous undertaking.”

“pouf!” steenie shrugged her shoulders in one of her little spanish fashions, and made a motion of blowing thistle-down from her fingertips. “wait till i tell you. do sit down a minute, please. i can ride anything. i can ride standing, an’ jumping through rings, an’ over hurdles, an’ any way a horse can go i can ride. if you’ll let me show you now,—once this morning,—before everybody much is on the track, i’ll make you see. then you’ll say yes, won’t you?”

“steenie—i’m—i’m wax. but your grandmother—do with me as you will!” cried the judge, comically, but looking very much relieved. “and there certainly is no harm in your riding trixie once, now—as you say.”

within the next half-hour steenie demonstrated fully her ability to ride lady trix, “anyhow, any shape,” and to that sensitive animal’s perfect satisfaction, which, in such a case, was far more important than the satisfaction of her master.

“but, my little girl, what shall we say to the people at home? what will they think of me as a guardian for their jealously-loved child?”

steenie sat thoughtful for a moment; then her face cleared. “they’ll say i ought to do it if i can,—that is, if he was here to know ’bout it my father would say so. he tells me all the time to show my ’preciation of your kindness; an’ how am i going to if you don’t let me have any chance? the only one way i can do things for you is through your horses, ’cause i know ’bout ’em. isn’t it? i’m puffectly sure my father would say yes.”

the judge was reasonably certain of that also; but he was not so positive concerning madam’s opinion. however, his inclination urged him so strongly that he at last replied: “then, my brave, helpful little girl, hear me. if i let you ride you must take the thousand dollars i offered. wait—listen—understand. it is the want of just that paltry sum which necessitates your grandmother’s leaving her old home; she was ‘short’ just that amount in her indebtedness, or ‘liability,’ after the farm was sold. to raise this money she is to sell her home. she would not accept the loan of it, because she saw no way of ever repaying it; and if your dear father’s writing ever comes to anything, it will be in the future,—some distance.”

“if you ride and win the race you must consider that you earn the money fairly; and must take it. else—no—decidedly—to the whole proposition.”

again steenie considered seriously. her hesitation was not for herself, of course, but for that proud old lady whom she so loved and, also, feared. “if i earned it that way it couldn’t be wrong, could it? to keep a dear grandmother in ‘the home of her youth.’ my father says what we do things for, makes the things hono’ble, or dishono’ble. that was ’bout the riding-school. he would have let me, only he didn’t like—you know. ’count o’ grandmother. this won’t be wrong, will it?”

“from my point of view it seems very right, in every way; unless you are afraid of the horse, or the publicity.”

“what’s that?”

“the people,—the being stared at. will it make any difference with your nerves?”

“no! oh, no! grandmother says i haven’t any nerves, she guesses. and i’m not afraid of folks—no more than horses. why should i be? they’re awful nice to me. everybody is.”

“how can they help being? is it a compact, then?”

“yes, yes, yes! oh, what fun! it makes me think of san’ felis’ an’ my dear ‘boys,’ an’ most of all of darling bob. he’d be proud of the little un, wouldn’t he? oh, if he only knew!” she turned from trixie’s stall toward the stable door, and looked up at somebody who stood there, the attendant groom, she had supposed.

“he does, little un! here he is! all the way from californy to see you win!”

“bob! my bob!”