("Yes, broken!" fairly snorted Peggy. "Broken! I wonder if she would
want a literally 'broken' horse? Why will they never say trained!") and
gentle, as her niece had ridden very little. The letter then went on to
ask if Mrs. Harold might call some day and hour agreed upon. But what
amused Peggy most, and caused her to laugh aloud as she took a spoonful
of luscious sliced peaches, was the manner in which the letter was
addressed.

Old Jerome who was serving her in the pretty delft breakfast-room took
an old retainer's privilege to ask:

"What 'musin' you, honey-chile?"

"Didn't know I was an esquire, did you, Jerome? Well I am, because this
letter says so. It is addressed to M. C. Stewart, Esq. As I am the only
M. C. Stewart I must be the esquire to boot. Wonder what the lady will
think when I sign myself Margaret C. Stewart," and Peggy's silvery laugh
filled the room.

"Don' yo' mind what dey calls yo', baby. How dey gwine know yo's our
young mist'ess? Don' yo' let dat triflin' trebble yo' pretty haid," said
the faithful old soul, fearful lest his mistress' pride might be
touched, and hastening to serve the second course of her breakfast in
his best "quality style."

"It doesn't trouble me even a little bit, Jerome. It's just funny. I'm
going to answer that letter right after breakfast, and I wish I could
see my correspondent's face when she finds that her 'esquire' is one of
her own sex. But I'll never dare let her guess I'm just a girl."