“He has lived abroad when not at college. He took his degree last spring. His mother died there a little more than a year ago, I understand. She never recovered from the blow of his father’s death when Hadyn was about fifteen years of age. She went abroad soon after for her health and never came back. He came over for his college course at Princeton, but always rejoined her during his holidays.”
“How old a man is he, mother? He seems both young and old,” said Constance.
“I am not sure, but think he must be about Lyman’s age—nearly twenty-four. But the Society seems to have made a wise choice in electing him its president; he has certainly taken energetic measures in this case and I am glad that he has, for it is disgraceful to have such a thing occur in Riveredge. Poor old horse! It would have been more merciful to shoot him. How could Jabe Raulsbury have been so utterly heartless?”
“But, mother, suppose no one will take old Baltie and give him a home?” persisted Jean, “will he have to be shot then?”
“Would it not be kinder to end such a hapless existence than to leave it to an uncertain fate, dear?” asked Mrs. Carruth gently.
“Well, maybe, but I don’t want him killed. He loves me,” was Jean’s answer and the little upraising of the head at the conclusion of the remark conveyed more to Constance than to the others. Constance understood Jean better than any other member of the family, and during the summer just passed Jean had many times gone to the field in which Baltie was pastured to carry some dainty to the poor old horse and her love for him and compassion for his wretchedness were deep.
No more was said just then, but Constance knew that the subject had not passed from Jean’s thoughts and one afternoon, exactly two weeks from that evening, this was verified.
Mrs. Carruth had gone to sit with a sick friend. Eleanor was in her room lost to everything but a knotty problem for Monday’s recitation, and Mammy was busily occupied with some dainty dish against her Miss Jinny’s home-coming. Constance was laying the tea-table when the crunch-crunch, crunch-crunch, upon the gravel of the driveway caused her to look up, there to behold Jean with old Baltie in tow.
“Merciful powers, what has the child done now?” she exclaimed as she let fall with a clatter the knife and fork she was about to place upon the table and flew to the front door, crying as she hastily opened it: “Jean Carruth what in this world have you been doing?”
“I’ve brought him home. I had to. I went down to ask Mr. Pringle if anybody had come to take him, but he wasn’t there. There wasn’t _any_body there but old deaf Mike who cleans the stable and I couldn’t make him understand a single thing I said. He just mumbled and wagged his head for all the world like that China mandarin in the library, and didn’t do a thing though I yelled at him as hard as I could.”