“Here’s a name,” he said, bringing his prize to Jewel and showing her an oblong bit of white cloth, much as tailors use inside dresses.  “What do you make of it?”

The child, disturbed by such daring, and dreading to see the owner of these splendid possessions scramble up the bank, looked reluctantly.

The name was a long one, but so familiar that she recognized it at once.  “Evringham.”

She lifted her eyes to her grandfather.  “It’s the same as ours.”

“There isn’t another Evringham in Bel-Air,” returned the broker.  “The fairies dropped this for you, I guess, Jewel.  It certainly won’t fit me.  Let’s try it on.”

He slipped it over the head of the dazed child and hooked it around her waist.

“‘It fitted her exactly,’” murmured Jewel.  “They always say so in fairy stories.

“Look here,” said her grandfather.  He put his hand into the stirrup and drew out a folded bit of paper.  He handed it to the child, who began to wonder if she was dreaming.

DEAR JEWEL (she read),—­I believe you expected Divine Love to send you a horse.  I have come to belong to you, and my name is STAR.

It was astonishing what a large, round penmanship the pony possessed.  There was no possibility of mistaking a word.

Jewel read the note over twice as she stood there, the long, scant skirt, making her look tall.  Mr. Evringham stood watching her.  His part in the comedy was played.  He waited.

She looked up at him with eyes that seemed trying to comprehend a fact too large.

“Grandpa, have you given me this horse?” she asked solemnly, and he could see her hands beginning to tremble.

“Oh, am I to get some credit for this?” returned the broker, smiling and twisting his mustache.  “I didn’t expect that.”

He knew her lack of motion would not last long, and was bracing himself for the attack when, to his surprise, she pulled up the impeding skirt and made a rush, not for him, but for the pony.  Hiding her face on the creature’s satin shoulder, she flung her arm around his throat, and seizing his rippling mane, sobbed as if her heart would break.

Mr. Evringham had not spent weeks in selecting and testing a horse for his granddaughter without choosing one whose nervous system would be proof against sudden assaults of affection; but this onslaught was so energetic that the pony tossed his head and backed to the end of his tether.

His new mistress stumbled after him, her face still hidden.  She was trying heroically to stifle the sobs that were shaking her from head to foot.

“Jewel, Jewel, child!” ejaculated her grandfather, much dismayed.  “Come, come, what’s this?”

He drew her with a strong hand, and she deserted the pony, much to the latter’s relief, and clasping Mr. Evringham as high up as she could reach, began bedewing his vest buttons with her tears.

“Oh, gra—­grandpa, I c—­can’t have him!” she sobbed.  “There isn’t any roo—­room for him in our—­our fla—­fla—­flat!”