Mr. Pat's Little Girl: A Story of the Arden Foresters

"I didn't know whether you'd like it."

"Why, of course I should have liked it. I was beginning to think that day I should never get acquainted with any one, and I was feeling dreadfully lonesome when the magician came in."

"The magician?" Maurice exclaimed. Certainly this was a singular girl who talked about magicians in an everyday tone.

Rosalind laughed. "I mean Morgan, who does cabinet work. Do you know him?"

"Everybody in Friendship knows Morgan. He is a good fellow, too. Why do you call him the magician?"

"Because that is what father called him when he was a little boy. Once when Morgan had made an old desk look like new, grandfather said he was a magician, and father, who heard him, thought he meant it really. Father and Uncle Allan used to play in his shop and talk on their fingers to him. Can you do that?"

"Why, yes; I'll teach you if you like."

"I should like it very much. It is so tiresome to write things."

"I went to his shop the other day with Miss Herbert, but she wouldn't let me stay long. I made friends with his funny dog."

"Do you know what we call him? Curly Q. And the cat—did you see him? He is Crisscross."

"How funny," said Rosalind. "I think they are very good names. Crisscross wouldn't have anything to do with me."

"Are you going to live here?" Maurice asked.

"No; but I shall be here a long time. I think Friendship is a nice place, and funny too, because it has a bank with a garden around it. At home our banks are all on the street and have offices over them."

"Yes; Friendship isn't a city," Maurice acknowledged apologetically. "I should like to live in a big city."

"I like Friendship. It only seems a little odd, you know," Rosalind hastened to add. "Do they ever let you go into the bank part of your house?"

The conversation was brought to an end by a maid sent to find Rosalind. After she had gone Maurice saw a book on the grass where she had been lying, and reaching through the hedge with his crutch, he drew it toward him. When he removed the outside cover, even his uncritical eye saw it was a handsome hook. "Shakespeare's 'As You Like It.' Edited by Louis A. Sargent," he read. "Why, it is one of Shakespeare's plays," he said, in surprise. So this was the story Rosalind was talking about.

On the fly-leaf was some writing in small clear letters. "For Rosalind, with the wish that she may meet the hard things of life as bravely, and find as much happiness by the way, as did her namesake in the Forest of Arden. From her friend, Louis A. Sargent."

It was a pleasure to look at the large clear type; he soon became interested.

Half an hour later Katherine's voice broke in upon the Forest of Arden. "Maurice, Maurice, what are you doing? Mother sent me to find you."

PUZZLES.

"How weary are my spirits!"

Up to this time life had been a simple and joyous matter to Rosalind. She had known her own small trials and perplexities, but her father or Cousin Louis were always at hand to smooth out tangles and show her how to be merry over difficulties. Now all was different. There were puzzles on every side and no one to turn to.

Where was the charm of her father's stories of Friendship? Was it because her grandfather was dead that everything had changed? This was why her grandmother wore black dresses and added that heavy veil when she went out. Rosalind once drew a corner of it over her own face and the gloom appalled her.

She ventured to say one day as they drove along a pleasant country road, "Grandmamma, you don't know how bright the sunshine is," and Mrs. Whittredge replied, "I do not wish to know, Rosalind; nothing can ever again be bright to me." Yet if she would only look, she must see that it was bright. This was one puzzle.

Aunt Genevieve's manner was another. It was as if she scorned everything, and sometimes it made Rosalind almost angry.

In the next panel hung Matilda, his wife, as the massive marble in the cemetery said,—a youthful person with side curls and a comfortable smile.

Even with its southern windows the dining room was sombre in its massive furnishings of Flemish oak. Very different from the one at home, with its sunshine and flowers, its overflow of books from the study, and the odds and ends of pottery picked up by father and Cousin Louis in their travels.

"For me, Martin?" she exclaimed.

"The young gentleman from next door left it," said Martin.

"I did not know you knew any one next door, Rosalind," Mrs. Whittredge remarked questioningly.

"I am not very well acquainted, grandmamma," Rosalind answered, seeing suddenly in the handsome face a likeness to the dark portrait; "but I talked to Maurice through the hedge this morning. I remember now, I had my book. I must have left it on the grass."

"I believe Rosalind seldom loses an opportunity to speak to people. Miss Herbert says she is on quite intimate terms with Morgan," remarked Miss Genevieve.

"Your father over again," Mrs. Whittredge said, smiling. "What is your book, dear?"

"'As You Like It.' Cousin Louis gave it to me." As she spoke Rosalind caught the glance exchanged by her grandmother and aunt.

"When I was a little girl Cousin Louis told me the story because it is about Rosalind, you know, and ever since I have called it my story, because I like it best of all."

No comment was made on this explanation, and it seemed to her the next time she looked in his direction, that Uncle Allan frowned.

When father was displeased with her—and this was not often—he always told her, and they talked it over frankly, but grandmamma and Aunt Genevieve only looked at each other and said nothing. It both puzzled her and hurt her dignity to be treated in this way.

Presently it occurred to her that her grandmother might have been vexed at her carelessness in leaving her book on the grass. It was careless; father would have said so. Well, she could let grandmamma know she was sorry, and feeling relieved at having found a possible solution of the problem, she closed the spelling book.

Mrs. Whittredge looked up in evident surprise when Rosalind entered the room and announced, "I am sorry I left my book on the grass, grandmamma."

"What do you mean, my dear?" she asked.

"I thought you didn't like it because I was careless."

The color deepened in Rosalind's face. "It is my own, own book," she cried, clasping it to her heart.

"Very well, you need not be tragic about it," Mrs. Whittredge said coldly, turning to her writing.

Again Rosalind knew she had offended, and this time her resentment was aroused. "I don't like to be spoken to in that way," she told herself, as she walked from the room.

Before she had reached the head of the stairs her grandmother's voice called her hack. Reluctantly she returned.

Mrs. Whittredge had risen and now came to meet her and put her arm around her, and her voice was soft and full of affection as she asked, "Do you want to go to the cemetery with me this afternoon, pet? Aunt Genevieve has the carriage, and I think a walk will do me good."

The serious eyes brightened, and the lips curved into a smile at sight of Maurice and Katherine playing dominos under the maple. How lovely it must be to have a brother or sister to play with and talk to!

The cemetery was not new to Rosalind, for Mrs. Whittredge on her daily drive usually stopped there, and its winding paths and green slopes, its drooping willows and graceful oaks, and the flowers that bloomed everywhere, around the stately shafts of marble and the low headstones, seemed to her very pleasant. Here, however, her grandmother's sadness took on a deeper tinge as she moved among the mounds that lay in the shadow of the massive granite monument with "Whittredge" in letters of bronze at its base.

Where had it come from? Some one must have dropped it. She stood up and looked around, but there was no one in sight. On the other side of a holly bush, however, a number of just such roses lay on a grave. Rosalind walked over and stooped to read the name on the low headstone. "Robert Ellis Fair," she repeated half aloud as she laid her rose beside the others.

Rosalind felt she must explain, so she said, smiling in her turn, "I found a rose on the grass, and I thought it must belong here."

"Thank you. I suppose I dropped it. Won't you tell me who you are? I am sure you do not live in Friendship."

"No, I am visiting my grandmother. I am Rosalind Whittredge."

A strange expression crossed the face of the young lady at this announcement. Could it be that something displeased her? After a moment she spoke gravely, "I think some one is looking for you," she said.

Aunt Genevieve had come for them in the carriage, and as they drove home Rosalind tried to describe the young lady she had seen, saying nothing about the rose, however.

"It must have been Celia Fair, mamma, don't you think so?" asked Genevieve.

"Fair was the name on the stone," said Rosalind, adding, "She was pretty."

Miss Whittredge looked at her mother, then as that lady was silent, she remarked, in her usual languid tone, "I think you may as well know, Rosalind, that we have nothing to do with the Fairs."

Why did it make any difference to Rosalind? Why did everything seem wrong? Why did she feel so unhappy in spite of the blue sky and the sweet summer air?

When they reached home she sat on the garden bench and looked up at the griffins, and the fancy floated through her mind that it might be comfortable to be as unfeeling as they.

THE MAGICIAN MAKES TEA.

The magician was at work in his small garden adjusting some wire netting for the sweet peas, while Curly Q. looked on with interest, and Crisscross finished his saucer of milk.

Rosalind came through the shop so softly that only the cat was aware of it. He gazed at her in evident doubt whether to continue work on the rim of his saucer or take refuge on the fence.

Crisscross decided she was not dangerous, and keeping an eye on her by way of precaution went on with his supper. It was not long, however, before Curly Q. discovered her presence and came bounding to her side, with a sharp bark of welcome, then back to call his master's attention.

"Why! Why!" exclaimed the magician, holding up a pair of rather grimy hands.

"We'll have some tea," he said, sitting down beside her and asking again how she was.

Rosalind summoned all her learning and spelled out carefully, with the aid of some very dainty fingers, "I-am-lon—"

"Lonesome?" repeated the magician. "That is too bad. Mr. Pat wouldn't like that."

Rosalind shook her head. The tears were near the surface, but she kept them back, and remembering her book she laid it on the magician's knee, open at the words Cousin Louis had written: "If we choose we may travel always in the Forest where the birds sing and the sunlight sifts through the trees; where although we sometimes grow footsore and hungry we know that the goal is sure. Just outside is the dreary desert in which, alas! many choose to walk, shutting their eyes to the beauty and peace of the Forest, and losing by the way the sacred gift of happiness."

"Did I really cheer you up?" cried Rosalind, delighted; and nodding quite as if he heard, the magician answered, "Now I'll cheer you up." Rising, he beckoned her to follow him inside, and she obeyed, feeling as if she were somebody in a story.

The kettle was already singing merrily, and from a shelf the magician took down a fat little teapot and, rinsing it with boiling water, proceeded to make tea. Next he spread a white cloth on a small table, and from the cupboard took out some blue and white cups and plates.

"Let me set it," begged Rosalind, in pantomime, entering gayly into the spirit of the thing.

Laughing, the magician left it to her and went off to his store-room, from which he emerged with a pitcher of milk and a loaf of brown bread.

"DO YOU KNOW MISS BETTY?"

Rosalind shook her head.

"She makes good things," he added, as he unscrewed the top.

Rosalind's afternoon in the open air had given her an appetite, and she did full justice to the brown bread and jelly, the novelty of the occasion adding a flavor. Through the open door and window came the glow of the sunset, and the air was sweet with some far-off fragrance. All trouble had faded from her face; it was as if in the heart of the Forest she had come upon some friendly inn. Such a small matter as dinner in the house behind the griffins quite escaped her memory.

"Well, upon my word!"

"I'se been searchin' high and low for you, Miss Rosalind," Martin exclaimed, coming forward.

"I'm dreadfully sorry, Martin; I forgot," said Rosalind.

Miss Betty, who had declined the tea, now held out her hand. "This is Rosalind Whittredge, of course; I am your Cousin Betty."

"I didn't know I had any cousins," said Rosalind.

"You will find a few if you stay long enough," replied Miss Betty. "How do you come to be eating supper with Morgan, I'd like to know? I was sitting on my porch when you went in, so when Martin came along I was able to help him."

"I used to know your father very well indeed," said Miss Betty, as they walked together to the street, after Rosalind had told the magician good-by. "As you seem to like going out to tea, I hope you will come and take supper with me sometime," she added, with a twinkle in her eye.

When she reached home Miss Herbert stood at the gate, and in the door was Mrs. Whittredge. Rosalind's face was full of brightness as she ran up the path.

"Grandmamma, I meant only to stay a minute, and then I forgot."

"I have been worried about you, Rosalind," Mrs. Whittredge said gravely. "Why did you not come to me and tell me where you wished to go? Where have you been?"

"To see the magician—Morgan, I mean. I wanted so much to see him I did not think of anything else."

"Why did you wish to see him?" continued her grandmother.

The glow was fading from Rosalind's face. "Because—" she hesitated, "because—"

"Because I was lonely, grandmamma, and I was afraid I was going to cry. I promised father I would be brave, and—well—Morgan knows about the Forest, and is very good to cheer you up. He made tea in the dearest little teapot, and it was so amusing, I forgot. I am sorry."

"Do you mean you took supper with Morgan? Well, Rosalind, you are amazing!" Aunt Genevieve spoke from the hall.

"Never mind, Genevieve," said her mother. "I am sorry you were lonely, Rosalind, but I do not understand why you should go to Morgan. And what do you mean by the 'forest'?"

Rosalind's face was grave again. "I don't know, grandmamma," she faltered, and indeed she could not have told if her life had depended on it.

"I think you were very easy on her, mamma. It was certainly naughty of her to run away," Genevieve remarked, after Rosalind, worn out by the conflicting experiences of the day, had gone to bed.

"She is a peculiar, fanciful child, and quite old enough to know better. Professor Sargent may be a brilliant man, but it seems to me he has filled the child's head full of nonsense. I can't see what Patterson has been thinking of," Genevieve continued.

"I am not inclined to find much fault with her. I did not expect her to be perfect. She seems naturally sweet and happy," her mother replied.

"Losing by the way the sacred gift of happiness," Mrs. Whittredge's eyes went back to the book. Surely happiness had slipped from her grasp, leaving nothing but regret. It was sad to realize that her children found all their pleasure apart from her. Somewhere she had failed, but pride told her it was fate; that sorrow and disappointment were the common lot, that gratitude was not to be looked for.

TO MEET ROSALIND.

"Put you in your best array."

Miss Betty Bishop lived in a small white house with brown trimmings, which she herself likened to a white cake with chocolate filling. Everything about it was snug and neat and seemed to the observer a pleasant expression of that kindly, busy, cheery lady; but Miss Betty was in the habit of declaring it had taken her twenty years to get settled in those small, low-ceiled rooms, and that she didn't feel quite in yet.

When it became known that Miss Betty had invited certain of her young friends to tea to meet Rosalind Whittredge, a wave of excitement swept over Friendship.

All the children of the town had heard stories of Miss Betty's beauty and belleship, but those Washington winters belonged to twenty years ago and had no connection with her present popularity. Sophy's skill as a cook no doubt had something to do with the fame of her mistress's tea parties, but besides this Miss Betty knew how to make her guests, whether young or old, have a good time.

When asked if she was fend of children, she was sure to reply, "Some children. I don't like disagreeable children any better than I do disagreeable grown persons." And for this reason, perhaps, it had come to be esteemed something of an honor to be asked to her house.

The interest felt in Patterson Whittredge's daughter was very general. Patterson belonged to those old times when peace had reigned in Friendship. He had been a favorite in the village, and to many it seemed only the other day that he had gone away. It was incredible that this tall girl seen walking by Mrs. Whittredge's side could be his daughter. There were those like Mrs. Graham's pupils, who were inclined to invest her with a halo of romance; others criticised her as not at all the Whittredge style, not what one had a right to expect in Mrs. Whittredge's granddaughter. Some pitied Mrs. Whittredge for the responsibility thrust upon her, others pitied Rosalind, and still more, envied her.

"I do wish you had not soiled your embroidered muslin, Belle. You will have to wear your summer silk," said Mrs. Parton, addressing her daughter, who sat on the dining-room floor entertaining a Maltese kitten with a string and spool.

"I forgot to tell you, mother, Jack dropped some wax candle on it last Sunday night, when we were looking for a penny in the grass," Belle replied, lifting her merry black eyes for a moment. "Anyway, it isn't a dress-up party—only to supper."

"Bring that dress to me at once. I am astonished at you. The only decent thing you have!" Mrs. Parton sat down and clasped her hands in an attitude of desperation.

Followed by the kitten, Belle departed, returning directly with the blue and white checked silk over her arm.

"Whatever it is," her mother continued, I want you to look nice; Betty says Rosalind Whittredge has beautiful clothes."

"I just know she is a prig," remarked Belle, caressing the kitten.

"Mercy upon us, Jack! you are enough to startle the sphinx. Come out from under that table at once," commanded his mother.

"Did she do that?" asked Belle, with some interest, adding, "Is it very bad, mother? Can you clean it? How do you know she did, Jack?"

Mrs. Parton shook her head; "I'll try French chalk," she said.

"Miss Betty said so. She saw her," put in Jack.

Mrs. Parton rose. "Another time when you lose a penny, I will make it good rather than have your best dress spoiled," she remarked.

"But you see, mother, it was a church penny," Belle explained, as if she were mentioning some rare and peculiar coin. "Arthur brought the collection home because Uncle Ranney wasn't there, and when he untied his handkerchief on the porch a penny dropped out and rolled into the grass."

"Maurice and Katherine and you and me, and the Ellises, and—I don't know who."

"I know it will be stupid; I don't think I'll go."

"If it is stupid, you will make it so," retorted his sister, adding, "and you will go, too, for mother will make you; besides, you know you wouldn't miss Sophy's waffles." Belle departed with the kitten, leaving Jack to return to the latest Henty book and his retreat under the table.

The Partons' was a square house, with a wide hall dividing it through the middle and opening on a porch at either end. When the weather at all permitted, these doors stood wide open, and dogs and cats and children ran in and out as they pleased. In the afternoons Colonel Parton sat on the front porch smoking and reading, threatening the dogs and the children indiscriminately, receiving not the slightest attention from either.

As she passed him now, Belle mischievously deposited the kitten on his shoulder.

"O father! don't hurt her," Belle cried, running to the rescue, and in the scuffle that followed, the unfortunate kitten escaped.

"Don't you let me catch you doing a thing like that again," scolded the colonel, as he picked up his paper and settled himself in his chair again.

Belle laughed, and held up her face for a kiss, which her father gave with a hearty good will.

Mrs. Parton was not the only one who felt dress to be a matter of importance on this occasion. Charlotte Ellis stopped at the bank gate to ask Katherine what she was going to wear.

"My blue lawn, I think," Katherine answered. "Mother says it is nice enough, and that I must keep my new white dress for Commencement."

Katherine felt the force of this, but Maurice, who overheard Charlotte, was inclined to jeer. "Much difference it will make to her what you have on," he said, as Charlotte left them. "Her," meant Rosalind.

"How do you know it won't make any difference?" asked Katherine.

"Because she is not that kind."

"What kind? How do you know?"

Now Maurice had kept his interview with Rosalind to himself, saying nothing to any one when he returned her book. His sudden interest in Shakespeare had not passed unnoticed; but as this or something else had caused longer intervals of cheerfulness, the family had not ventured to disturb the agreeable change by asking questions.

"I know, because I talked to her the other day," he replied.

"Maurice, really?" cried Katherine. "I don't believe it"

On the appointed evening the guest of honor was the last to arrive, and the others were in such a state of expectancy they could not settle down to an examination of Miss Betty's puzzle drawer with which she usually entertained her young guests until supper was announced. Miss Betty, who adored puzzles and problems of all kinds, was continually adding to her collection, and this evening there was a brand new one, brought from the city only the day before; but even Belle, who was especially good at puzzles, and besides affected not to care about Rosalind Whittredge, could not keep her eyes from the window.

The application of French chalk had been successful, and she wore her blue and white silk; Katherine, in her blue muslin, with ribbons to match on her smooth braids, wished her mother had been more impressed with the importance of the occasion. Charlotte was complacent in her white dress with a large ribbon bow on top of her head, in a new fashion just received from her cousin in Baltimore.

The boys fingered the puzzles and talked about the ball game to be played to-morrow, but they shared the feeling of anticipation. Their hostess bustled back and forth.

"Children," she said, pausing in the door, "I want you to be as nice as possible to Rosalind. Remember she is a stranger, and we wish her to have a pleasant impression of Friendship."

"Here she is!" announced Belle, and the rest crowded around the window.

"There's Miss Genevieve," whispered Charlotte; "girls, she is coming in!"

The Whittredge carriage had stopped before the gate and Miss Genevieve, a marvel of grace in soft chiffons that rippled and curled about her slender height and emphasized the fairness of her skin, was actually escorting her niece to the door.

"Isn't she lovely?" sighed Charlotte, in an ecstasy.

"Not so sweet as Miss Celia," said loyal Belle.

"Mamma is just as usual, thank you. Yes, it was very kind of you to ask her; I have no doubt she finds it dull. Yes, we expect Allan in a week or two, but there is no counting on him."

So absorbed were the listeners, they did not begin their retreat soon enough, and their hostess, ushering Rosalind in, encountered a scene of confusion. Katherine in the excitement fell backward over a footstool and was rescued, flushed and shamefaced, by Jack Parton. Charlotte smoothed her dress and tried to look dignified. Belle and Maurice were in fits of laughter.

Miss Betty surveyed them in surprise. Rosalind stood beside her, and the girls at once noted that she wore pink.

"Is anything the matter?" asked Miss Betty, observing Katherine's flushed face. "I want to introduce Rosalind Whittredge to you. Rosalind, this is Charlotte Ellis, and Katherine Roberts, and Belle Parton—"

"Didn't you know I was coming in?" Rosalind asked, a gleam of fun in her own eyes.

"We wanted to see Miss Genevieve," added Belle.

As Miss Betty proceeded to name the boys, Rosalind said, "Oh, I know Maurice," quite as if he were an old friend; and she added, standing beside him, "I am so much obliged to you for bringing my book home."

"Does Maurice know her?" whispered Belle.

Katherine nodded, although she had had her doubts until this minute.

Maurice was agreeably conscious of Belle's eyes as he talked to Rosalind. He was not at all unwilling to have the distinction of being the only one to know the new-comer.

"I read the story," he said. "I did not know till after you had gone that it was one of Shakespeare's plays. We read Julius Caesar at school last winter."

"I know that too," Rosalind answered. I have Lamb's stories. Cousin Louis used to read them to me, and then from the real plays, but I like the story of the Forest best."

Rosalind looked across the room at her, and smiled in a way that seemed an invitation.

"It is a little funny for her to sit down beside a boy the first thing, don't you think?" Charlotte said in a low tone to Katherine, who assented because she was in the habit of agreeing with Charlotte.

Belle overheard. "Silly!" she said, and to show her scorn she went over and sat on an arm of the sofa beside Rosalind.

"Do you like to read?" she asked.

Rosalind opened her eyes. "Of course I do, don't you?"

Belle, who had browsed in her father's library since she had learned her letters, was known as a great reader, and felt rather proud of her reputation; but she found the stranger had read as much as she, and seemed to think nothing of it.

"Jack Parton, for pity's sake, sit up! and you too, Katherine; I cannot allow my guests to sit on their spines."

"But it is so much more comfortable," protested lazy Jack, slowly screwing himself into a more erect position, while Katherine straightened up with a blush.

"There seems to be something wrong with the spines of this generation, and the first thing you know it will react on their mental and moral natures. People without backbone are odious," Miss Betty continued.

"I wish you children could have seen Miss Patricia Gilpin as I saw her once when I was a little child, more than thirty years ago. She was straight as an arrow and pretty as a picture. Such old ladies have gone out of fashion. I remember hearing her describe the backboard and spiked collar she wore for several hours each day when she was a child."

"What was the spiked collar for?" Rosalind asked.

"I am glad I didn't live then," said Belle.

THE LOST RING.

"Wear this for me."

The old mahogany table had never reflected a circle of brighter faces than gathered about it that evening to do justice to Sophy's good things served on Miss Hetty's pretty china.

Rosalind at the left hand of her hostess looked around the company with frank enjoyment of the novelty of the occasion. These young people were very entertaining, particularly Belle; and more amusing than anything was the small waiter, at whom Miss Betty glanced so sternly when he showed a disposition to laugh at the jokes.

This was the first time Rosalind had heard mention of old Mr. Gilpin and the will.

"My grandmother and Cousin Thomas's mother were sisters," Miss Betty explained, "and when their father and mother died the family silver was divided between them. In this way the teapot came down to me, and some of the other pieces to Cousin Anne, who was, you know, Cousin Thomas's sister."

"Was old Mr. Gilpin related to me, Cousin Betty?" asked Rosalind.

"Why, certainly, my dear; it is time you were learning about your relations. He was your grandfathers own cousin. Your great-grandmother was Mary Gilpin before she married Mr. Whittredge."

"Rosalind looks puzzled," said Belle, laughing.

Rosalind laughed too. "I never knew about relations before. Does father know all this?"

"I should hope so; this is not much to know."

Rosalind wished very much to hear it, and Miss Betty, with a glance around the table, remarked, "I shall be glad to tell what I know if you care to have me, and Jack will sit up."

"Send for a pillow, Miss Betty; that is what mother does," Belle suggested, to the delight of the small waiter, who was compelled to retire suddenly to the hall, where he was heard giggling.

"As some of you know," Miss Betty began, "the ring belonged to Miss Patricia Gilpin, who was an aunt of Cousin Thomas's, and your great-great-aunt, Rosalind. If it is still in existence, it is not far from eighty years old. You might suppose from the way in which they are spoken of now, that in the early part of the century all young women were beauties and belles; but if there is any truth in her miniature, Patricia Gilpin was a really beautiful woman."

"Wasn't she married? I thought it was an engagement ring," said Charlotte.

"Did she live in Friendship?" Rosalind asked.

"During her father's lifetime this was her home. She was born in the old Gilpin house, which was new then; and perhaps you know that the rustic summer-house at the top of the hill on the left is called Patricia's arbor. For some years after her lover's death she lived in seclusion, seeing no one; and always when the weather permitted she would sit in the arbor, looking out upon the river.

"It was said that this was the scene of their courtship, but it may be only a story.

"That is what Cousin Louis says," remarked Rosalind, smiling at Maurice.

"But you haven't told us what the ring was like," put in Charlotte.

"Why didn't she leave it to you. Miss Betty?" asked Jack.

"Miss Patricia was not related to me. She was aunt to Cousin Thomas and Cousin Anne on their father's side, and I am connected through the Barnwells, his mother's family, just as Rosalind's grandmother is," she explained; adding, "As Cousin Anne left no will, everything she owned went to her brother; and you have all heard about his will. Most of his money was to go to the endowment of a hospital, all the other property to be sold and the proceeds divided among his first cousins or their children, except the ring and an old spinet that came to him through his wife. The first he left to Allan Whittredge, the other to Celia Fair."

"Yes, and everybody wonders why. However, when they came to take an inventory, the ring was not to be found."

"And they haven't the least idea what became of it," remarked Maurice.

"Don't you wish your uncle would give it to you if it is found?" Charlotte asked Rosalind.

"In his will Mr. Gilpin said he left the ring to Allan, who was aware of his wishes in regard to it. I have no idea what those wishes were, but I hardly think he had Rosalind in mind," Miss Betty said, smiling.

"Uncle Allan must know what he meant. How strange!"

"Like a story, isn't it?" said Belle.

"Have they looked everywhere for it?" continued Rosalind.

"Yes; the most, thorough search has been made, to no effect."

The rest of the evening was spent in games, and from the laughing that went on, Miss Betty's guests must have enjoyed themselves. When Martin came for her and Rosalind said good night to her new friends, she did not feel like the same girl who had had to go to the magician to be cheered a few days ago. The face she lifted to the stars as she walked home was very bright indeed.

"Have you had a pleasant time?" Mrs. Whittredge asked.

"A beautiful time, grandmamma. I do like to know people. And Miss Betty—I mean Cousin Betty—told us about the lost ring and—was she my aunt?—Patricia? Did you ever see her, grandmamma?"

"Yes, a number of times. She visited at our house when I was a child. She died a few years after my marriage. Your Aunt Genevieve is thought to resemble the miniature done of her in her girlhood."

Rosalind looked in the direction of the arm-chair where her aunt half reclined, her eyes on a book, her clear profile in relief against the dark leather, the mellow lamp-light bringing out the copper tints in her hair. "Then I know she must have been lovely," she said.

Mrs. Whittredge laughed, and Genevieve lifted her eyes to ask, "What is that?"

"Rosalind is sure Patricia Gilpin must have been handsome if you resemble her," her mother replied.

CELIA.

"One out of suits with fortune."

"O Celia!" called Miss Betty Bishop, from her front door, "come in a minute. I had a tea party last night, and I want to send your mother some of Sophy's marshmallow cake. I am so glad you happened by," she added, as Celia came up the walk, "I was wondering how I should get it to her."

"It is very kind of you, Miss Betty," said Celia, following her into the dining room.

"There is no kindness about it," asserted Miss Betty, opening the cake box. "I am just proud of Sophy's good things and like to make other people envy me."

Celia was warm and tired, and the dim, cool room was grateful to her as she sat resting in silence while Miss Betty fluttered back and forth.

"Perhaps you'll think I'd better mind my own business," she said, returning after a moment's absence, "but here is something I saw in the Gazette. It might be worth trying."

Celia knew by heart the advertisement held out to her. "Work at home. Fifteen dollars a week made with ease, etc." She accepted it meekly, however, not wishing to hurt her friend's feelings.

Celia laughed as she rose to go. "Thank you for the cake, even if it isn't a kindness. Mother will enjoy it," she said.

"You haven't noticed my hall paper," Miss Betty remarked, escorting her visitor to the door. "I don't expect you to say it is pretty, for it isn't. I have to confess wall paper is too much for me. This entry is so small I could not put anything big and bright on it, so I thought I was getting the very thing when I selected this,—and what does it look like? Nothing in the world but a clean calico dress. Now it is done I see it would have been better with plain paper."

"It is clean and unobtrusive," Celia agreed, smiling. Her smiles were a little forced this morning, it was easy to see; and Miss Betty, laying a kind hand on her arm, said, "Don't worry too much, Celia. I know something about hard times, and you will work through after a while."

From her babyhood she had been her father's companion and confidante, driving about the country with him, interested in all that concerned his large practice. A warm-hearted, impulsive man, open handed to the point of extravagance, Dr. Fair had had few enemies and many friends; and loving his work, life had been full of joy to him. In contrast with those happy years the bitterness of his last days seemed doubly cruel to Celia. Whenever she was tired and discouraged, the memory of that dark time rose before her.

She had been only a child when Patterson Whittredge left home, but she could remember how warmly her father had taken his side, and how this had caused the first coolness between him and his boyhood friend, Judge Whittredge. The judge was influenced by his wife, and between the stubborn doctor and imperious Mrs. Whittredge there had been no love lost.

"I have left you nothing but a heritage of misfortune, Celia," had been his last words to her.

The worst of it was the root of bitterness in her heart. She could never forgive Mrs. Whittredge. Few guessed the intensity hidden beneath Celia's gentle manner. Only now and then a spark from her dark blue eyes revealed it. The general construction put upon her proud reserve was that she was unsociable.

There is no loneliness like that of the unforgiving heart. Celia had never felt it so strongly as after her meeting with Rosalind Whittredge in the cemetery. There had been something in the soft gaze of the gray eyes that she could not forget. It had made her take up the rose again after she flung it away and carry it home with her.

"Good morning," he said, and there was an odd sort of embarrassment in his manner as he added, "Some of your window frames need fixing, Miss Celia."

She smiled and shook her head. "Can't afford it."

"Miss Celia, let me do it, I've lots of time, and the doctor was very good to me," he said.

Again Celia shook her head, but the hurt look on Morgan's face made her relent. "Well, perhaps the worst ones," she spelled. She would trust to being able to make it up to him sometime.