"Why, yes, of course I do," said Patty, smiling, "that is, after papa and Aunt Alice and Marian and Uncle Charley and Frank and Mancy and Pansy—and Mr. Hepworth."

Patty might not have added the last name if she had not just then seen that gentleman coming toward her.

He looked at Patty with an especial kindliness in his eyes, and said gently:

"Miss Fairfield, may I see your card?"

Patty flushed a little and her eyes fell.

"Please don't talk like that," she said. "I'm not grown up, if I am dressed up. I'm only Patty, and if you call me anything else I'll run away."

"Don't run away," said Mr. Hepworth, still looking at her with that grave kindliness that seemed to have about it a touch of sadness. "I will call you Patty as long as you will stay with me."

Then Patty smiled again, quite her own merry little self, and gave him her card, saying:

"Put your name down a lot of times, please; you are a beautiful dancer, and I like best to dance with the people I know best."

"I wish I had a rubber stamp," said Mr. Hepworth; "it's very fatiguing to write one's name on every line."

"Oh, good gracious!" cried Patty, "don't take them all. I want to save a lot for Frank and Ken—"

"And your father," said Mr. Hepworth.

"Papa? He doesn't dance—at least, I never saw him."

"But he did dance that last waltz, with Miss Allen."

"With Nan? Well, then, I rather think he can dance with his own daughter. Don't take any more; I want all the rest for him, and please take me to him."

"Here he comes now. Mr. Fairfield, your daughter wishes a word with you."

"Papa Fairfield!" exclaimed Patty, "you never told me you could dance!"

"You never asked me; you took it for granted that I was too old to frisk around the ballroom."

"And aren't you?" asked Patty teasingly.

"Try me and see," said her father, as he took her card.

The trial proved very satisfactory, and Patty declared that she must have inherited her own taste for dancing from her father.

The evening passed all too swiftly. Pretty Patty, with her merry ways and graceful manners, was a real belle, and Aunt Alice was besieged by requests for introductions to her niece and daughter. But Marian, though a sweet and charming girl, had a certain shyness which always kept her from becoming an immediate favourite. Patty's absolute lack of self-consciousness and her ready friendliness made her popular at once.

Mr. Fairfield and Nan Allen were speaking of this, as they stood out on the veranda and looked at Patty through the window.

"She's the most perfect combination," Miss Allen was saying, "of the child and the girl. She has none of the silly affectations of young-ladyhood, and yet she has in her nature all the elements that go to make a wise and sensible woman."

"I think you're right," said Mr. Fairfield, as he looked fondly at his daughter. "She is growing up just as I want her to, and developing the traits I most want her to possess. A frank simplicity of manner, a happy, fun-loving disposition, and a gentle, unselfish soul."

Meantime Patty and Mr. Hepworth were sitting on the stairs.

"Now my cup of happiness is full," remarked Patty. "I have always thought it must be perfect bliss to sit on the stairs at a party. I don't know why, I'm sure, but all the information I have gathered from art and literature have led me to consider it the height of earthly joy."

"And is it proving all your fancy painted it?" asked Mr. Hepworth, who was sitting a step below.

"Yes—that is, it's almost perfect."

"And what is the lacking element?"

"Oh, I wouldn't like to tell you," said Patty, and Mr. Hepworth was not quite certain whether her confusion were real or simulated.

"May I guess?" he asked.

"Yes, if you'll promise not to guess true," said Patty. "If you did, I should be overcome with blushing embarrassment."

"But I am going to guess, and if I guess true I will promise to go and bring you the element that will complete your happiness."

"That sounds so tempting," said Patty, "that now I hope you will guess true. What is the missing joy?"

"Kenneth Harper," said Mr. Hepworth, looking at Patty curiously.

Without a trace of a blush Patty broke into gay laughter.

"Oh, you are ridiculous!" she said. "I have you here, why should I want him?"

"Then what is it you do want?" and Mr. Hepworth looked away as he evaded her question.

"Since you make me confess my very prosaic desires, I'll own up that I'd like a strawberry ice."

"Well, that's just what I'm dying for myself," said Mr. Hepworth gaily; "and if you'll reserve this orchestra chair for me, I'll go and forage for it. It looks almost impossible to get through that crowd, but I'll return either with my shield or on it. Unless you'd rather I'd send Harper back with the ice?"

"Do just as you please," said Patty, with a sudden touch of coquetry in her smiling eyes; "it doesn't matter a bit to me."

But though a willing messenger, Mr. Hepworth found it impossible to accomplish his errand with any degree of rapidity, and when he returned, successful but tardy, he found young Harper waiting where he had left Patty.

"She's gone off to dance with Frank Elliott," explained the boy cheerfully, "and she said you and I could divide the ices between us."

"All right," said the artist; "here's your share."

The next morning Patty, Nan, and Marian went down to the beach for a quiet chat.

"Let's shake everybody," said Patty, "and just go off by ourselves. I'm tired of a lot of people."

"You're becoming such a belle, Patty," said Nan, "that I'm afraid you'll be bothered with a lot of people the rest of your life."

"No, I won't," said Patty. "Lots of people are all very well when you want them, but I'm going to cultivate a talent for getting rid of them when you don't want them."

"Can you cultivate a talent, if you have only a taste to start with?" said Marian, with more seriousness than Patty's careless remark seemed to call for.

"If you have the least little scrap of a mustard-seed of taste, and plenty of will-power, you can cultivate all the talents you want," said Patty, with the air of an oracle, "Why, what do you want to do now, Marian?"

Marian's ambitions were a good deal of a joke in the Elliott family. At one time she had determined to become a musician, and had spent, unsuccessfully, many hours and much money in her endeavours, but at last she was obliged to admit that her talents did not lie in that direction. Later on she had tried painting, and notwithstanding discouraging results, she had felt sure of her artistic ability for a long time, until at last she had proved to her own satisfaction that she was not meant to make pictures; and now, when she asked the above question in a serious tone, Patty felt sure that some new scheme was fermenting in her cousin's brain.

"What's up, Marian?" she said. "Out with it, and we'll promise to help you, if it's only by wise discouragement."

"I think," said Marian, unmoved by her cousin's attitude, "I think I should like to be an author."

"Do," said Patty; "that's the best line you've struck yet, because it's the cheapest. You see, Nan, when Marian goes in for painting and sculpture and music, her whims cost Uncle Charley fabulous sums of money. But this new scheme is great! The outlay for a fountain pen and a few sheets of stamps can't be so very much, and the scheme will keep you out of other mischief all winter."

"It does sound attractive," said Nan. "Tell us more about it. Are you going to write books or stories?"

"Books," said Marian calmly.

"Lovely!" cried Patty. "Do two at once, won't you? So you can dedicate one to Nan and one to me at the same time; I won't share my dedication with anybody."

"You can laugh all you like," said Marian; "I don't mind a speck, for I'm sure I can do it; I've been talking to Miss Fischer, she's written lots of books, you know, and stories, too, and she says it's awfully easy if you have a taste for it."

"Of course it is," said Patty; "that's just what I told you. If you have a taste—good taste, you know—and plenty of will-power and stamps, you can write anything you want to; and I believe you'll do it. Go in and win, Marian! You can put me in your book, if you want to."

"Willpower isn't everything, Patty," said Nan, whose face had assumed a curious and somewhat wistful look; "at least, it may be in literature, but it won't do all I want it to."

"What do you want, girlie?" said Patty. "I never knew you had an ungratified ambition gnawing at your heart-strings."

"Well, I have; I want to be a singer."

"You do sing beautifully," said Marian. "I've heard you."

"Yes, but I mean a great singer."

"On the stage?" inquired Patty.

"Yes, or in concerts; I don't care where, but I mean to sing wonderfully; to sing as I feel I could sing, if I had the opportunity."

"You mean a musical education and foreign study and all those things?" said Patty.

"Yes," said Nan.

"But after all that you might fail," said Marian, remembering her own experiences.

"Yes, I might, and probably I should. It's only a dream, you know, but we were talking about ambitions, and that's mine."

"And can't you accomplish it?"

"I don't see how I can; my parents are very much opposed to it. They hate anything like a public career, and they think I sing quite well enough now without further instructions."

"I think so, too," said Patty. "I'd rather hear you sing those quaint little songs of yours than to hear the most elaborate trills and frills that any prima donna ever accomplished."

"Your opinion is worth a great deal to me, Patty, as a friend, but technically, I can't value it so highly."

"Of course, I don't know much about music," said Patty, quite unabashed; "but papa thinks so too. He said your voice is the sweetest voice he ever heard."

"Did he?" said Nan.

"What is your ambition, Patty?" said Marian, after a moment's pause. "Nan and I have expressed ourselves so frankly you might tell us yours."

"My ambition?" said Patty. "Why, I never thought of it before, but I don't believe I have any. I feel rather ashamed, for I suppose every properly equipped young woman ought to have at least one ambition, and I don't seem to have a shadow of one. Really great ones, I mean. Of course, I can sing a little; not much, but it seems to be enough for me. And I can play a little on the piano and on the banjo, and I suppose it's shocking; but really I don't care to play any better than I do. I can't paint, and I can't write stories, but I don't want to do either."

"You can keep house," said Marian.

Patty's eyes lighted up.

"Yes," she said; "isn't it ridiculous? But I do really believe that's my ambition. To keep house just perfectly, you know, and have everything go not only smoothly but happily."

"You ought to have been a chatelaine of the fourteenth century," said Nan.

"Yes," said Patty eagerly; "that's just my ambition. What a pity it's looking backward instead of forward. But I would love to live in a great stone castle, all my own, with a moat and drawbridge and outriders, and go around in a damask gown with a pointed bodice and big puffy sleeves and a ruff and a little cap with pearls on it, and a bunch of keys jingling at my side."

"They usually carry the keys in a basket," observed Marian; "and you forgot to mention the falcon on your wrist."

"So I did," said Patty, "but I think the falcon would be a regular nuisance while I was housekeeping, so I'd put him in the basket, and set it up on the mantelpiece, and keep my keys jingling from my belt."

"Well, it seems," said Nan, "that Patty has more hopes of realising her ambition than either of us."

"Speak for yourself," said Marian.

"I think I have," said Patty. "I have all the keys I want, and I'm quite sure papa would buy me a falcon if I asked him to."

CHAPTER XXIV
AN AFTERNOON DRIVE

The next Saturday Mr. Fairfield proposed that they all go for a drive to Allaire.

"What's Allaire?" said Patty.

"It's a deserted village," replied her father. "The houses are empty, the old mill is silent, the streets are overgrown; in fact, it's nothing but a picturesque ruin of a once busy hamlet."

"They say it's a lovely drive," said Nan. "I've always wanted to go there."

"The boys will be down by noon," said Mr. Elliott, "and we can get off soon after luncheon. Do you suppose, Fred, we can get conveyances enough for our large and flourishing family?"

"We can try," said Mr. Fairfield. "I'll go over to the stables now and see what I can secure."

On his return he found that Hepworth, Kenneth, and Frank had arrived.

"Well, Saturday's children," he said, "I'm glad to see you. I always know it's the last day of the week when this illustrious trio bursts upon my vision."

"We're awfully glad to burst," said Frank; "and we hope your vision can stand it."

"Oh, yes," said Mr. Fairfield; "the sight of you is good for the eyes.

And now I'll tell you the plans for the afternoon."

"What luck did you have with the carriages, papa?" asked impatient Patty.

"That's what I'm about to tell you, my child, if you'll give me half a chance. I secured four safe, and more or less commodious, vehicles."

"Four!" exclaimed Marian. "We'll be a regular parade."

"Shall we have a band?" asked Nan.

"Of course," said Kenneth; "and a fife-and-drum corps besides."

"You won't need that," said Patty, "for there'll be no 'Girl I Left Behind Me.' We're all going."

"Of course we're all going," said Mr. Fair-field; "and as we shall have one extra seat, you can invite some girl who otherwise would be left behind."

"If Frank doesn't mind," said Patty, with a mischievous glance at her cousin, "I'd like to ask Miss Kitty Nelson."

They all laughed, for Frank's admiration for the charming Kitty was an open secret.

Frank blushed a little, but he held his own and said:

"Are they all double carriages, Uncle Fred?"

"No, my boy; there are two traps and two victorias."

"All right, then, I'll take one of the traps and drive Miss Nelson."

"Bravo, boy! if you don't see what you want, ask for it. Miss Allen, will you trust yourself to me in the other trap?"

"With great pleasure, Mr. Fairfield," replied Nan; "and please appreciate my amiability, for I think they're most jolty and uncomfortable things to ride in."

"I speak for a seat in one of the victorias," said Aunt Alice; "and I think it wise to get my claim in quickly, as the bids are being made so rapidly."

"I don't care how I go," said Patty, "or what I go in. I'm so amiable, a child can play with me to-day. I'll go in a wheelbarrow, if necessary."

"I had hoped to drive you over myself," said Mr. Hepworth, who sat next to her, speaking in a low tone; "but I'll push you in a wheelbarrow, if you prefer."

"You go with me, Patty, in one of the traps, won't you?" said Kenneth, who sat on the veranda railing at her other side.

Patty's face took on a comical smile of amusement at these two requests, but she answered both at once by merrily saying:

"Then it all adjusts itself. Mr. and Mrs. Allen and Mr. and Mrs. Elliott shall have the most comfortable carriage, and Marian and Mr. Hepworth and Ken and I will go in the other."

That seemed to be the, best possible arrangement, and about three o'clock the procession started.

Patty and Marian took the back seat of the open carriage, Mr. Hepworth and Kenneth Harper sat facing them.

As Marian had already become very much interested in her new fad of authorship, and as under Miss Fischer's tuition she was rapidly developing into a real little blue-stocking, it is not strange that the conversation turned in that direction.

"I looked in all the bookshops in the city for your latest works, Miss Marian," said Mr. Hepworth, "but they must have been all sold out, for I couldn't find any."

"Too bad," said Marian. "I'm afraid you'll have to wait until a new edition is printed."

"You're not to tease Marian," said Patty reprovingly. "She's been as patient as an angel under a perfect storm of chaff, and I'm not going to allow any more of it."

"I don't mind," said Marian. "I think, if one is really in earnest, one oughtn't to be annoyed by good-natured fun."

"Quite right," said Kenneth; "and ambition, if it's worth anything, ought to rise above comment of any sort."

"It ought to be strengthened by comment of any sort," said Mr. Hepworth.

"Of any sort?" asked Marian thoughtfully.

"Yes, for comment always implies recognition, and that in itself means progress."

"Have you an ambition, Mr. Hepworth?" said Patty suddenly. "But you have already achieved yours. You are a successful artist."

"A man may have more than one ambition," said Mr. Hepworth slowly, "and I have not achieved my dearest one."

"I suppose you want to paint even better than you do," said Patty.

"Yes," said the artist, smiling a little, "I hope I shall always want to paint better than I do. What's your ambition, Harper?"

"To build bridges," said Kenneth. "I'm going to be a civil engineer, but my ambition is to be a bridge-builder. And I'll get there yet," he added, with a determined nod of his head.

"I think you will," said Mr. Hepworth, "and I'm sure I hope so."

Then the talk turned to lighter themes than ambition, and merry laughter and jest filled up the miles to Allaire.

All were delighted with the place. Aside from the picturesque ruined buildings and the eerie mysterious-looking old mill, there was a novel interest in the strange silent air of desertion that seemed to invest the place with an almost palpable loneliness.

"I don't like it," said Patty. "Come on, let's go home."

But to Marian's more romantic imagination it all seemed most attractive, so different was her temperament from that of her sunshiny, merry-hearted cousin.

At last they did go home, and Patty chattered gaily all the way in order, as she said, to drive away the musty recollections of that forlorn old place.

"How did you like it, Nan?" she asked, when they were all back at the hotel.

"I thought it beautiful," said Nan, smiling.

That evening there was a small informal dance in the parlours. Not a large hop, like the one given the week before, but Patty declared the small affair was just as much fun as the other.

"I always have all the fun I can possibly hold, anyway," she said; "and what more can anybody have?"

Toward the close of the evening Mr. Fairfield came up to Patty, who was sitting, with a crowd of merry young people, in a cosey corner of the veranda.

"Patty," he said, "don't you want to come for a little stroll on the board walk?"

"Yes, of course I do," said Patty, wondering a little, but always ready to go with her father. "Is Nan going?"

"No, I just want you," said Mr. Fairfield.

"All right," said Patty, "I'm glad to go."

They joined the crowd of promenaders on the board walk, and as they passed Patty's favourite bit of beach she said:

"That's where we girls sit and talk about our ambitions."

"Yes, so I've heard," said Mr. Fairfield. "And what are your ambitions, baby?"

"Oh, mine aren't half so grand and gorgeous as the other girls'. They want to do great things, like singing in grand opera and writing immortal books and things like that."

"And your modest ambition is to be a good housekeeper, isn't it?"

"Well, yes, papa; but not only that. I was thinking about it afterward by myself, and I think that the housekeeping is the practical part of it—and that's a good big part too—but what I really want to be is a lovely, good, womanly woman, like Aunt Alice, you know. I don't believe she ever wanted to write books or paint pictures."

"No she never did," said Mr. Fairfield, "and I quite agree with you that her ambitions are just as high and noble as those others you mentioned."

"Well, I'm glad you think so, papa, for I was afraid I might seem to you very small and petty to have all my ambitions bounded by the four walls of my own home."

"No, Patty, girl, I think those are far better than unbounded ambitions, far more easily realised, and will bring you greater and better happiness. But don't you see, my child, that the very fact of your having a talent—which you certainly have—for housekeeping and home-making, implies that some day, in the far future, I hope, you will go away from me and make a home of your own?"

"Very likely I shall, papa; but that's so far in the future that it's not worth while bothering about it now."

"But I'm going to bother about it now to a certain extent. Do you realise that when this does come to pass, be it ever so far hence, that you're going to leave your poor old father all alone, and that, too, after I have so carefully brought you up for the express purpose of making a home for me?"

"Well, what are you going to do about it?" said Patty, who was by no means taking her father's remarks seriously.

"Do? Why, I'm going to do just this. I'm going to get somebody else to keep my house for me, and I'm going to get her now, so that I'll have her ready against the time you leave me."

Patty turned, and by the light of an electric lamp which they were passing, saw the smile on her father's face, and with a sudden intuition she exclaimed:

"Nan!"

"Yes," replied her father, "Nan. How do you like it?"

"Like it?" exclaimed Patty. "I love it! I think it's perfectly gorgeous! I'm just as delighted as I can be! How does Nan like it?"

"She seems delighted too," said Mr. Fairfield, smiling.