Patty—Bride

“I am a coquette,” Helen admitted, calmly, “but not at all a sad one! Indeed, I’m as merry as a grig. Why, I get letters from lots of the boys in camp. Miss Fairfield is content with only one correspondent, while I have a dozen! I just adore to get their letters, and to send them things, and to write to them. The war is terrible, but it does give one some new and pleasant experiences. And I don’t feel it my duty to lament all the time. My mission is cheering people up and cheering soldiers on.”

“I make no doubt you’re a grand success at it, too. And some day you’ll decide to send all your letters to the same address, as Miss Fairfield does. Where is Mr. Farnsworth now, may I ask?”

“In Washington,” Patty replied.

“And is he coming to New York soon?”

“I don’t know, I’m sure.” Patty spoke a little coldly, for Bill had cautioned her over and over again, never on any account to tell any one of his plans or to repeat anything he might write, which concerned military matters or might give war information of any sort.

“How you must long to know! I don’t mean definitely, of course, but can’t you hope to see him soon?”

An insistent tone in Mrs. Doremus’ voice caused Patty to look up quickly, and she saw the keen eyes regarding her intently through the big glasses.

But though the old lady’s interest might have been a bit strong for such short acquaintance, Patty was too polite to resent that, and she laughed and said, “It’s impossible to tell, with a soldier boy. One can only hope,—one may not expect.”

“That’s a philosophical attitude, my dear, and does you credit. Is Captain Farnsworth in the Engineers’ Camp?”

“Yes,” said Patty, this time with decided shortness; “how very nice this sweetbread is! I’ve always been so fond of them. But one oughtn’t to serve them on a sweetless day, ought one?”

“Oh, Patty, what a silly joke!” chided Helen. “You mean a meatless day!”

“Both ought to be barred,” smiled Patty; “also they ought not to be served on a breadless day!”

“It looks as if they wouldn’t be served at all any more,” said Herron; “let’s gather these sweetbreads while we may!”

“And perhaps the war will soon be over, and then we can eat what we like,” Helen suggested. “It will be over soon, you know, because of the eagles.”

“What do you mean?”

“Yes, it’s a true omen. You know down at Beverly, New Jersey, long ago,—oh, during the Revolution,——”

“Is this a real honest-to-goodness, once-upon-a-time story?” asked Van Reypen.

“Yes, it is.”

“Then I move we move to the sun-parlour, and have our coffee there. We’ll take our coffee,—sugarless, if Patty says so,—and then we can hear the story, and then we must see about going home.”

“Fine,” Patty agreed. “Will you join us in this desperate scheme, Mrs. Doremus?”

“Don’t think you must, if you’re busy,” interposed Herron. “I’m sure the ladies will excuse you if you have duties to attend to.”

“I haven’t,” returned the chaperon, calmly. “I’ll be glad to have the coffee and the story, if I am permitted.”

“Surely,” said Helen, jumping up, “come along, Mrs. Doremus; you and I will pick out the sunniest spot. Philip, bring Patty; and Mr. Herron, will you order the coffee served there?”

Helen slipped her arm through that of the grey-haired lady, and they walked away together.

Philip detained Patty as she was about to follow.

“Queer old party,” he said, very low.

“Who? Mrs. Doremus? I rather like her.”

“Well, I don’t! Be careful what you say before her, and we must get away as soon as we can.”

“Why, Phil, what do you mean?”

“Nothing particular. Only, don’t let Helen persuade you to stay all the afternoon. It’s nearly three now, and we must get away by four, at latest.”

“All right, Phil, but I never knew you to look so scared. Why?”

“Don’t fuss, Patty; go ahead and join the crowd; but remember not to answer personal questions.”

Patty wondered what had come over Philip’s mind, but she thought no more about it, rather glad than otherwise, that he was determined to go home so early.

They crossed the big foyer, and across a chair there, was a fur stole of Patty’s which she had left there in case of need while in the house. She picked it up, exclaiming: “Why, here’s my fur! I might have forgotten it!”

“Lend it to me, won’t you, if you’re not wearing it?” asked Mrs. Doremus. “I feel a bit chilly,—but, perhaps you do too?”

“Oh, no; I’m warm as toast. Use it, by all means. Let me put it round you.”

Patty draped the long stole round the shivering shoulders, and Mrs. Doremus said, apologetically, “I’m not really cold, but I take precaution for fear of rheumatism.”

“Certainly,” Patty acquiesced, and then the coffee tray was brought and Patty did the honours.

“Sugar?” she asked of the chaperon.

“One, please; and may I be excused for a few moments? I’ve just thought of an order I meant to give, and the gaiety of our little party made me forget it. I don’t mind if my coffee gets a little cool,—I like it better so.”

Mrs. Doremus went off toward the housekeeping quarters, and the others made merry over their coffee cups.

“I don’t see why you want to start right off, Philip,” Helen demurred. “I think it’s going to stop snowing just about now.”

“Do you, my child?” said Van Reypen, serenely; “be that as it may, we stand not on the order of our going, but go at once,—instanter,—immejit,—all-in-a-hurry,—so soon as your coffee is despatched.”

“But why?” and Helen pouted.

“Yours not to put that direct question. Yours not to make remarks. Yours but to get into your befurments and hie away to town.”

“I’m not at all sure we can make it,” said Herron, pouring himself another cup of the rich brown beverage.

“Oh, yes, you can,” and the cheery voice of Mrs. Doremus sounded in the doorway. “This my cup? Fine! I like it a lot better not so blooming hot!”

Patty looked up suddenly, for the lapse into slang made her think that the pastry cook had been on her guard at lunch time, and had now fallen back to what must be her usual diction.

The old lady was smiling, and as she took her cup and sat down near the girls, Patty felt a sudden aversion.

But she reproached herself for such a feeling toward one who had not only been kind and polite but had helped them out of a real predicament.

By way of salving her conscience, she assumed a kinder manner, and gently readjusted the fur stole.

“What a dear girl you are!” said Mrs. Doremus, in a burst of admiration. “I don’t wonder Little Billee loves you.”

Patty stared at her in astonishment.

“You do know Captain Farnsworth, then!” she exclaimed, “or how would you know he is called that by his intimate friends?”

The chaperon looked confused.

“I think I have heard you call him that since you’ve been here.”

“Indeed you haven’t! I never speak of him that way to strangers!”

“Come, come, Patty, don’t get wrathy!” said Philip, smiling at the lifted chin and tossed head.

“No, I won’t,” and Patty realised her own foolishness. “Forgive me, Mrs. Doremus, I suppose I’m a silly young thing. But you see, I’ve never been engaged before and I’m a little fussy about it!”

“Oh, that’s all right, young folks ought to be like that. My, when I was engaged, I flew off my head if anybody so much as looked at my young man!”

“It couldn’t have been so very long ago,” smiled Patty, who had suddenly come to the conclusion that Mrs. Doremus was not so very old, and was, doubtless, prematurely grey-haired.

“Oh yes, many and many a year. But memory is still green, and the sight of young lovers makes my mind turn back, as to a well-remembered page.”

Again, Patty caught the strange inflection, as if Mrs. Doremus’ words were not quite sincere.

“Come, girls,” said Philip, “as you’ve finished your coffee, let’s be thinking about starting.”

“I don’t want to go!” protested Helen; “it’s perfectly lovely here, and we can just as well stay an hour longer as not. Can’t we, Mr. Herron?”

“So far as I am concerned, yes. But, unless you start soon, you may find the roads impassable, and be obliged to remain here over night.”

“Oh, I’ve the idea!” Helen cried, “you men go back to town, and leave us girls here to stay the night with Mrs. Doremus! I do think that would be fine! You’d take care of us, wouldn’t you?”

She turned her bright, coaxing face to the apple-cheeked old lady, with mute appeal.

To her surprise, Mrs. Doremus was suddenly afflicted with a hard coughing spell. She choked and nearly strangled, growing red in the face, and gasping for breath.

Herron jumped up and quickly led her from the room, with some hasty words about fresh air.

Van Reypen looked angry and a bit puzzled, but Patty was deeply concerned for the old lady’s comfort.

“Let me go, too,” she exclaimed, rising, “she needs me,—not Mr. Herron.”

“Sit down, Patty,” Philip ordered, somewhat gruffly. “Stay where you are. There are plenty of women servants to look after her.”

“But she’s so nice, Phil! Too nice to have only servants’ care.”

“Sit down, I tell you. You can’t go to her. Remember, Patty, you’re not a member of this Club.”

“Oh, that’s so,” and Patty sat down.

“All right,” said Herron, returning; “she just choked a little, that’s all. And she has chronic throat trouble, so it rather strangled her. She sends you her adieux, and begs to be excused from further appearance.”

“Why, of course,” said Patty, “she mustn’t think of returning. And we’re going now, anyhow. Stop your nonsense, Helen, and come, let’s get our coats.”

“Don’t wanna!”

“I know you don’t, you old goose, but you must.” Patty took her cousin’s arm and led her off to the cloak-room.

“Be goody-girl,” Herron called after her, “and we’ll stop at any place you like for afternoon tea.”

“Oh, will you?” and Helen brightened up suddenly. “At the Sunset Tea-room?”

“Yes, wherever you say.”

The sleigh came to the door,—horses prancing, bells jingling, and the driver cracking his whip, in true old-time style.

“Oh, wait a minute,” Patty cried, as they were about to get in, “where’s my stole? Mrs. Doremus still has it! I’m so glad I remembered.”

“I’ll get it,” volunteered Herron. “You others wait here.”

He was gone so long that Philip suggested Mrs. Doremus had decamped with the fur.

“Was it valuable, Patty?”

“Yes; that is, it’s a perfectly good piece of kolinski.”

“Better make up your mind to order another. Something tells me you’ll never see that particular animal again.”

“How silly, Phil, of course I will. They don’t have kleptomaniacs in a Club like this.”

“People of acquisitive tendencies are to be found everywhere. However, here comes Herron with the pelt, but he looks as if he’d had to fight for it!”

Sure enough, Herron appeared, greatly ruffled. His face was red, his eyes glowering, and his whole aspect that of a man who has been through a war of words.

“All right,” he said, with a very evident effort to seem at ease, “here’s your fur cape,—or whatever you call it.”

“Stole,” corrected Philip.

“No it wasn’t!” cried Herron. “Mrs. Doremus had mislaid it, in her excitement, and couldn’t remember for the moment where it was. But she found it at once.”

He put the fur round Patty’s neck, and assisted her into the sleigh in silence.

“Something’s up!” that astute young woman remarked to herself. “I must find out about it,—that is, if it concerns me, and I pretty much think it does.”

But she was far too canny to ask questions of Herron then. She chatted gaily and smiled brightly, telling herself the while, that there could be nothing really wrong.

The snow had almost ceased falling, and before they had gone more than a mile, the sun came straggling through the clouds, as it sometimes does when anxious to finish off a snowstorm quickly.

And Helen was delighted, for she knew that meant they would stop at her favourite tea-room, and she could have the chocolate and sweet cakes which were her beloved though “forbidden fruit.”

CHAPTER VIII
IN THE TEA-ROOM

The Sunset Tea-room did not belie its name. The draperies and decorations were of true sunset tints,—gold and amber, with glints of red, and all most harmonious and effective.

The quartette found a pleasant table, where the shaded lights cast a soft glow over the pretty appointments, and Helen picked up the menu card with pleased anticipation.

“You’re just incorrigible, Bumble!” laughed Patty; “you promised me you’d cut out sweet things for afternoon tea, yet I see you voraciously devouring the cake list!”

“I know it, Patsy Poppet, but today is an exception,——”

“What day isn’t? All right, girlie, but like Lady Jane in the play ‘there will be too much of you in the coming by-and-by!’”

“There can’t be too much of a good thing!” said Herron, gaily, “so go ahead, Miss Barlow, choose all the puff paste and whipped cream you want.”

“If I did that, I’d order the whole card,” Helen returned, “and that wouldn’t do at all.”

“Like the story of the little pickaninny,” put in Van Reypen; “they said he was ill from eating too much watermelon. And a neighbour said, ‘Law sakes! Dey ain’t no such t’ing as too much watermillion!’ and the reply was, ’Den dere wasn’t enough boy!’”

“That’s it exactly,” and Helen smiled; “there aren’t too many kinds of cakes here,—but there isn’t quite enough me!”

But after some careful consideration, she selected the most irresistible dainties, and the others also made their choice.

“You never told us the ‘Eagle’ story,” Herron reminded, as they waited for their order to be served.

“That’s so,” said Patty, “what was it, Helen? Didn’t you say it had to do with the end of the war?”

“That’s as you look at it. Here’s the tale. You see, down at Beverly, just before the close of the Revolution, there appeared a few eagles——”

“Bald?” inquired Phil.

“Dunno if they were bald or long-haired or blonde,—but they were eagles,—real, live American eagles. And they had never been seen in that locality before. Well, their appearance heralded the end of the Revolution,—and immediately it ended.”

“Great!” cried Philip, a little ironically; “it reminds me of the slave who called out, ‘Oh, King live forever!’ and immediately the King lived forever!”

“I shouldn’t wonder if that’s a better story than mine,” laughed Helen, “but I’ll proceed with mine, as, if I don’t, I may not get it done before my cakies come. Well, the Revolution ended, and no eagles were seen any more at all, in or near Beverly. Until,—near the close of the Civil War, those same eagles appeared in Beverly again!”

“Sure they were the same ones? Pretty old birds!”

“Oh, eagles live thousands of years! That’s nothing for an eagle! Anyway, the eagles came, and the Civil War soon came to its close.”

“Now then for the point of this tale,” said Herron. “Has friend eagle showed up of late?”

“He has!” cried Helen triumphantly; “several eagles were seen there last week! Now, I believe this war will soon end!”

“The American eagle is a war-ender, all right!” declared Phil, “and I hope to goodness, Helen, your pet scheme works out. Just how long after the eagles’ arrival is peace declared? Usually, I mean.”

“That I can’t say. Nor do I swear to the truth of the story. But I tell the tale as ’twas told to me, and you can take it or leave it.”

“I’ll take it,” said Patty, promptly. “I’m a wee bit superstitious, and I like to think of the eagles appearing as a harbinger of hope of peace,—like the Ark dove.”

“It can’t do any harm to believe it,” and Philip smiled at her; “and it may do good. If you believed in a thing I’m sure it would make me do so, too, and if a lot of us believe, it might help to make it come true.”

“Then we’ll all believe,” said Helen, “and I’m sure glad to be the means,—in a small way,—of helping my country toward peace!”

“One can scarcely call it more than a small way,” Herron said, mock-judicially, “and yet it’s as much as many of us do. Even if we’re willing, we can’t perform. I’m ready to fly to the ends of the earth for my old Uncle Sam, but I have to await orders.”

“And I can’t help feeling glad that you do,” interposed Helen. “What would us girls do without you boys to play with? To be sure, we’ll give you up

“For us, it’s ‘Ready! Fly!’ and we fly away,” and Philip looked eager at the thought. “I hate to leave my ain fireside, and that of friends and fellow citizens, but there is an urge——”

“You sound like Sam Blaney!” and Patty laughed. “He was always talking about the Cosmic Urge.”

“That isn’t in it with the Urge of the Flag. Oh, you girls don’t know the thrill of feeling that you can be of real help,—however small or insignificant help it is!”

Patty gave Phil an admiring glance. She liked this sort of talk and though she knew of his patriotism, she had rarely heard him express it so strongly.

“Here’s your cakaroons!” cried Herron, as the tray appeared, and the tea and chocolate were served to them.

“Now, no war talk, for the moment,” begged Helen. “It does interfere with my enjoyment of my frugal fare, to get stirred up, even by patriotism.”

“Let’s talk about our visit at the Club,” said Patty, suddenly. “Did it strike any of you that Mrs. Doremus was a very strange person?”

“Did it!” said Philip, with emphasis. “Well, rather!”

“As how?” asked Herron.

“To begin with, she was no lady,” Van Reypen asserted.

“Just what do you mean?” pursued Herron.

“That’s a little harsh,” Patty demurred, “but she certainly acted queer.”

“What do you care?” Herron demanded, “she served the purpose of chaperon, when no one else was there to do so.”

“Yes, I know. The principal thing I noticed that seemed strange was that she didn’t knit!”

“My goodness gracious! I never thought of that!” exclaimed Herron.

“Perhaps she couldn’t,” laughed Patty.

“At least, she could have made a stab at it, which is what most women do. Oh, you needn’t laugh! I’ve observed them! They spend more time holding their work off and looking at it, or counting stitches, or picking back—whatever that is!—or correcting mistakes, or, just patting and pinching the thing!”

“You’re right, Mr. Herron,” and Patty laughed at his graphic description, which was greatly aided by his dramatic imitation of a nervous knitter. “But Mrs. Doremus didn’t even do that. Nor did she say anything about it,—which was queer, I think.”

“Yes, it was queer,” agreed Helen, “though I hadn’t thought of it before. Oh, Patty! This cream cake is a dream!”

“A dream cake?” suggested Philip, “a cream cake dream cake,—well, what I noticed especially about our friend and benefactor, was her shoes.”

Herron looked up quickly.

“No lady would wear shoes like those!” Van Reypen asserted.

“I didn’t see them,” said Patty, “her dress was so long. Queer, to have such very long skirts, nowadays.”

“No lady would wear such a long skirt,” Van Reypen went on.

“Oh, Phil, don’t be so critical,” and Patty shook her head at him. “Mrs. Doremus wasn’t fashionable, I know, nor even very well posted as to a chaperon’s duties, but she was kind, and she filled what I think is known as a long-felt want.”

“She told me something you haven’t told me, Patty,” and Helen looked reproachfully at her cousin.

“What?”

“She says your Big Bill is coming to New York in February.”

“She did! A lot she knows about it! She’s a meddlesome Matty,—I think! And, besides, he isn’t,—’cause why? ’cause if he had been he would have told his little Patty person!”

“How’d she know?” asked Philip.

“Dunno. She may have heard some rumours or had inside information from somebody. I thought you’d be glad to hear it, Patty.”

“I am, if it’s true. But, I never believe good news, till I’m pretty positive. It saves disappointment, lots of times.”

“Little philosopher!” and Van Reypen gave her a sympathetic glance. “But I shouldn’t be surprised if that news were true, for I saw something in the paper this morning that looked like it.”

“When I get home, I’ll have a letter,” and Patty blushed a little, “and I rather guess I’ll be told, if there’s anything to tell.”

“Of course you will,” said Herron. “Also, I’d not be surprised if Miss Fairfield knows more herself than she tells! These letters from Washington to personal friends are not to be read aloud in the market-place,—for more reasons than one.”

Patty looked conscious, but said nothing. Indeed, it was true that Farnsworth often wrote bits of comment on subjects that Patty knew must not be talked over nor his information divulged. And so, she preserved a scrupulous secrecy regarding any war news her letters might hold.

Also, once in a while, Farnsworth sent Patty a little letter, sealed and enclosed in another. This he sometimes asked her not to open until a certain time, or he asked her to mail it in New York, for secret reasons.

All of these matters Patty attended to with punctilious care and she loved to think that she was helping her Little Billee and also her country.

“One doesn’t read one’s love letters aloud,—naturally!” and Patty looked down and blushed.

“Of course not!” cried Helen; “I should say not! And especially yours! Oh, I know! You’ve read bits to me now and then, and if what you omit is any more—ahem—well, turtle-dovish than what you do read, and I’ve no doubt it is——”

“It is,” Patty returned, with unmoved equanimity. “What’s the use of being engaged if one may not be what you call turtle-dovey! I’m not a bit embarrassed about it. But for my part, I think Mrs. Doremus was decidedly over-curious and forward about me and my affairs.”

“Unladylike,” put in Van Reypen.

“How you harp on that word!” exclaimed Patty. “I don’t think it was so much that, as a lack of good breeding——”

“Oh, come now, Patty, didn’t you catch on?”

“Catch on to what?”

“Why, that Mrs. Doremus was no lady,—because,—she was a man.”

“What!”

“She sure was! And I’d like an explanation, Herron. I thought I’d let the matter pass until I could see you alone, but I think it’s better to have it out here and now. You brought that person to us, you fixed up the matter, now tell us about it.”

George Herron burst into laughter.

“I own up!” he confessed, “I did it! Alone I did it! Oh, it was a joke!”

Patty looked puzzled. “A man?” she said; “masquerading?”

“Just that, dear lady,” and Herron laughed afresh. “I couldn’t help it! There was no woman on the premises save the housekeeper’s daughter, who was only a girl of fifteen or so. There was no way to keep you girls there for luncheon except by providing a chaperon. So,—I did my best. Don’t look so shocked. It was only a harmless jest. Surely, the quondam chaperon was in no way objectionable; and, as Miss Fairfield admits, she—or he—filled a long-felt want!”

“But who was she—or he?”

“One of the Club attendants. He’s on the house force, sort of manager of the heating and electricity departments. Well, I was put to it, as you know, and I was asking him what to do, and he suggested,—or to be accurate, he fell in with my suggestion,—that he slip into one of the housekeeper’s gowns and play ’Charley’s Aunt.’ So he did.”

“What do you mean, ‘Charley’s Aunt’?” asked Helen.

“That’s an old play, all college chaps know, where a young man played chaperon just as Munson did today. Not going to be mad about it, are you, Miss Fairfield?”

“Of course she isn’t!” cried Helen; “I think it’s a great joke! And, as you say, we couldn’t have stayed there, otherwise! Oh, Patty, don’t get on your Puritanic high horse! It was only a regard for a convention, anyway, and the convention was regarded!”

Helen went off in peals of laughter at the reminiscence of the so-called chaperon. “No wonder he wore a long skirt! To cover up his feet,—of course! And his white wig! Oh, it was perfect! Where did he get a wig so handy?”

“It was in a little room where a lot of things are, left, I believe, from some theatrical jinks. Anyway, he said he could make up perfectly,—and he did.”

“Oh, he did! I think he was fine!”

“He was fine, Helen, as a masquerader,” said Patty, slowly, “but I don’t think it was a fine performance,—by any means!” She looked gravely at Herron, who reddened a little, but stood his ground.

“Oh, come, now, Miss Fairfield, I didn’t mean any harm. Honest, I never dreamed of offending you, or annoying you,—I thought only of how to manage to keep you there for our little party. Moreover I thought you’d think it a great joke,—honest, I did.”

Herron’s clear brown eyes were so earnest and his expression so troubled, that Patty’s heart was touched.

“I don’t doubt it, Mr. Herron,” and she smiled kindly at him, “but it wasn’t just the thing to do,—was it, Phil?”

“Oh, well, forget it, Pattibelle, and if you can’t forget it—forgive it, anyway. Herron meant no harm and I knew at once, that Dame Doremus,—as I told you,—was no lady! But I saw through Herron’s motive as well as his joke, and there’s no great harm done that I can see.”

“I agree with Phil,” and Helen nodded her head positively; “I’m jolly glad you did it, for otherwise, I’d have had to come home without any luncheon!”

“Than which there could be no worse hardship!” Herron sympathised. “Am I forgiven, Miss Fairfield?”

“I’m not sure,” Patty gave him a half smile, “I’ll think it over. Didn’t you know this man?”

“Not from Adam! But, you know, you can size up a chap a lot from appearances, and he was a good sort, and amenable to—well, to argument.”

“Golden argument,” laughed Philip. “You put it over, all right, Herron, old chap, and I’m sure Miss Fairfield will overlook her chaperon’s extra-sized feet! Had it not been that I noticed those, I might have been fooled myself. For the boy,—isn’t he a boy?”

“About twenty-five or so,—I should judge.”

“Well, his face was boyish, and his general effect young, yet he donned age with his wig and gown, and on the whole I call it a remarkable bit of disguise.”

“No wonder he didn’t knit!” exclaimed Helen. “And no wonder he choked when I proposed that we girls stay there longer!”

“He acted queerly all the time;” Patty looked thoughtful. “I’m thinking he knew too much about me and my affairs.”

“What are you getting at now, Patty?” Helen asked. “Think he’ll reappear in his proper person, and presume on our acquaintance?”

“No,” said Patty, “I’m afraid he won’t!”

Van Reypen looked at her.

“Of course, the chap’s all right, eh, Herron? Credentials, and that?”

“Must be or they wouldn’t have him in the Club.”

“There are spies everywhere,” said Patty, in a whisper.

“Oh, Pitty-Pat!” cried Helen, “is that what’s troubling you? Well, well! Those letters you get from Washington do sure go to your head! I see it, now, people! Bill tells Patty to look out for spies, and so,—she sees them everywhere!”

“Spies in the brooks, spies in the pastry-cooks!” exclaimed Herron, and Helen giggled.

“Yes, and I shouldn’t wonder if Patty suspects every one of us!”

“You needn’t laugh,” and Patty shook her curly head. “There is danger, isn’t there, Phil?”

“Of course, child. But even if this bad Mrs. Doremus was a spy,—she learned nothing from us, today.”

“She—he asked a heap of questions.”

“But nothing of any importance. It seems to me that,—Munson, is that his name?—only showed such curiosity as would become an elderly lady talking with two charming girls. You practically told her—him,—of your engagement, Patty, so you mustn’t wonder that he showed some interest.”

“I s’pose so. Well, we won’t say anything more about it. I’m foolish, I suppose,—but I don’t like that sort of thing.”

“Then I apologise,” said Herron, heartily; “I’m truly sorry I did it, but I ask you to believe that I would not have done it, had it occurred to me for a moment that you would feel about it as you do.”

“I do believe that,” and Patty’s blue eyes shone with forgiveness and understanding. “I know, Mr. Herron, that you really did it out of the kindest motives, and I exonerate you——”

“Wow! what a big word!” cried Helen. “If you’re exonerated, Mr. Herron, surely you can’t ask for more! Why, I thought to be ex—what do you call it? was what the Pope does!”

“No, my child, that’s to be excommunicated, and Mr. Herron shan’t be that!” And Patty beamed full forgiveness on the culprit.

CHAPTER IX
LETTERS

Captain William Farnsworth sat in his room, opening his morning mail. Or rather, his morning mail was waiting to be opened, while he eagerly perused a letter from Miss Patricia Fairfield.

“For the love of pickled peppers!” he exclaimed, in a self-addressed murmur, “she didn’t! she couldn’t!”

For the letter said,—in part:

“I am so glad you’re thinking of coming to New York in February! That’s soon here! Which day? What hour? Oh, my Little Billee, how can I wait to see you! I want to look in those dear, big, loving blue eyes, and have them answer the questions I want to ask. You know what the questions are! Oh, well, suppose I do know the answers,—I guess a little Patty Blossom can ask over again if her big Sir Galahad loves her,—and why,—and how much,—and a few such things,—that are important, if true! And there is nothing in this whole round world truer than our love,—is there, dear? I just live in it,—when I am alone, I thing of nothing but US, and, I’m afraid I am absent-minded, even when other people are about. Do come home soon,—come to your own Patty Posy. Tell me quick when to look for you! Why didn’t you tell me sooner there was hope of seeing you soon? My own dear big man, my own, my owner, my ownest, I’m now and forever “Your “Patty Blossom.”

Farnsworth frowned,—he looked puzzled, amazed, hurt.

Again he resorted to expletives. “Great jumping kangaroos!” he said to himself, “I can’t see it! Patty never did such a thing! never! But if not, how did she know? I believe the very walls have not only ears but tongues and pens in their hands, and a whole wireless outfit beside! I can’t suspect Patty,—and yet,—all women are curious,—and, of course, this doesn’t matter so much,—but if I can’t trust her in everything how can I trust her at all?”

With a sigh, he laid the letter aside, and turned to his business correspondence.

Farnsworth’s position was a responsible one, and it contained and involved many secrets that must be carefully guarded. Among these was the fact and date of his next trip to New York. It was on a matter of moment, and it was not desirable that his absence from Washington should be known. He had written Patty about it, but he had enclosed the message in a sealed envelope, with directions not to open it until he wired her to do so. Thus, he planned, she would know it in time, but the information could not leak out. And now it had leaked out. Patty knew and made no secret of the knowledge that he was expected in New York. Had she told others? And,—worst of all,—had she opened the sealed letter before he told her to? This was incredible,—yet, what other solution or theory was possible? And there was to be considered a grouchy old Colonel, who would make all sorts of trouble for Captain Farnsworth if it became known that he was careless with his personal correspondence.

Because of his well-trained mind, and his power of concentration, Farnsworth forced himself to attend to matters in hand, but ever and again flashed across his preoccupied brain the fact that Patty had disregarded his instructions.

He lived with a pleasant family in the Capital, and his quarters were the whole of the second floor of the small house. This gave him a good-sized sitting room, which was his private office, and here he transacted all business that didn’t require his presence at the more public buildings.

He kept doggedly at work, determined not to let the disturbing episode interfere with his efficiency. And he succeeded, but only by dint of perseverance in his resolve not to think of Patty at all.

This was difficult, for every glance of his eye fell on something remindful of her. A photograph on his desk; other little snapshots lurking among his papers; a paper-cutter she had given him; indeed, the pen he wrote with was her parting gift; and all spoke eloquently of the girl he had so reluctantly left behind him.

“Busy, Captain?” called a gay voice, and a merry face peeped in at the door.

“Always busy,” he returned, cheerily, “but never too busy to say good morning.”

“Oh, I know what that means! That I must say good morning, and nothing more! But I do want just half a dozen more words.”

The piquant face smiled coaxingly, as Lena Richards danced in. She was the daughter of the house, a dark-haired, olive-skinned little gipsy, who, being quite spoiled by her doting parents, assumed the right to have her own way with every one else.

Farnsworth liked her as no one could help doing, but he was often obliged to speak more curtly than he liked to, or she would intrude too often on his time.

She wore a smock of pink linen and her curly hair was bundled into a little Dutch cap. She came in, with the venturesome air of a mischievous child, and perched saucily on the corner of the big desk.

“You see,” she began, “I’m in an awful scrape—well, that is, I’m not, but somebody else is——”

“Who isn’t?” said Farnsworth, smiling at the roguish little face that wore such a troubled frown.

“Yes, I s’pose everybody is, more or less, from the President down. And when you think of that, my little brother does seem small, but—you see, to me——”

“It’s a national calamity?”

“Personal rather than national,—yet it may be said to be international.”

“Many of our troubles are. Your story interests me strangely,—my che-ild,—but truly, Lena, I can’t take time now to hear the yarn. I suppose your fudge was lumpy, or your new ribbons don’t match your frock,—is that it?”

“You always talk as if I were a child!” and the scarlet lips pouted petulantly.

“Of course! I always think of you as a kiddy in a middy.”

“This isn’t a middy, it’s a smock, and a very grown up one at that.”

“Do smocks grow up? Thought they only grew old. Well, anyway, whatever your age, I’ve no time to waste on you this morning. My country needs me!”

“You’re always so unkind to me,——” and two crystal drops formed in the big, brown eyes.

Now, William Farnsworth was the sort of man who can’t stand seeing a woman in distress. And though he knew that this sixteen-year-old chit could have no real or deep trouble, he yet could not bring himself to speak sternly to her, and tell her to leave the room.

Against his will, he obeyed the dictates of his kind heart, and taking out his watch, said:

“I’ll give you ten minutes. Spill your story in Papa’s ear!”

The dark little face lighted with gladness, and Lena murmured, “How good you are! Listen, then! You know my friend, Gracie Hadley?”

“Haven’t the pleasure. Who’s she in America?”

“Well, she’s just Gracie, that’s all. And—sh!”—Lena looked cautiously about, “don’t breathe it, but she’s in love with an English chap who’s over here. And her mother doesn’t approve——”

“Why? Who’s the Britisher?”

“I don’t want to tell you, ’cause it’s Gracie’s secret——”

“All right; I don’t want to know anyway. But where do I come in? I hate to hurry you, but I’m assuming I play a part in this tragedy, and I want my cue, for honest to goodness, Lena, I’ve troubles of my own!”

“Yes, I know, Captain, and I won’t be but a minute explaining. Well, Gracie has been corresponding with this man,——”

“Oh, naughty! naughty!”