xt7xks6j1r46 https://exploreuk.uky.edu/dips/xt7xks6j1r46/data/mets.xml Leonard, Mary Finley, 1862- 1902  books b92-253-31804879 English W.A. Wilde, : Boston : Contact the Special Collections Research Center for information regarding rights and use of this collection. Mr. Pat's little girl  : a story of the Arden Foresters / by Mary F. Leonard ; with illustrations by Chase Emerson. text Mr. Pat's little girl  : a story of the Arden Foresters / by Mary F. Leonard ; with illustrations by Chase Emerson. 1902 2002 true xt7xks6j1r46 section xt7xks6j1r46 



Mr. Pat's Little Girl









       COpyright, 1902,
      AU rg/hts reserved.




      A. E. F.




 This page in the original text is blank.


                  CONTE NTS.

CHAFPER                                                PAGE
   I. THINGS BEGIN TO HAPPEN.                           I I
            " A magician most profound in his art."

  II. ON THE OTHER SIDE OF THE HEDGE .          .       21
               Give me leave to speak my mind."

           " True it is that we have seen better days."

  IV. AN UNQUIEr MORNING.                               41
                  " You amaze me, ladies !"
   V. MAURICE.                                           50
                " The stubbornness offortune."
                " How weary are my spirits."

                        "If that love or gold
         Can in this place buy entertainment,
         Bring us where we may rest ourselves and feed."

VIII. "To MEET ROSALIND".                            8
                 " Put you in your best array."

                    " Wear this for me."
  X. CELIA .110
               " One out of suits with fortune."

  XI. MAKING FRIENDS ..            .   .   .     .      I18
                  "I s not that neighborly"

 XII. THE GILPIN PLACE        .   .1..           .   .27
                " This is the Forest of Arden."

 XIII. IN PATRICIA'S ARBOR                              14..... . I
       " 0, how full of briers is this working-day world."

 XIV. THE ARDEN FORESTERS .1..             .     .   .47
            " Like the old Robin Hood of England."



 CHAPTER                                              PAGE
   XV. A NEW MEMBER                                    158
                 " In the circle of this forest."

  XVI. RECIPROCITY                                     171
             T' Take upon command what we have."

 XVII. A NEW COMRADE              .        .82
          Ad I know you are a gentleman of good conceit."

                   The house doth keep itself
                   There's none within."

  XIX. OLD ACQUAINTANCE      .   .    .   .   ..       212
                "And there begins my sadness."

   XX. THE SPINET        .   .   .    .   .   ..       222
          " Thou art not for the fashion of these times."

  XXI. "UNDER 'I IE (;REENNXW)' I) TREE"  .    .   . 229
            " Must you then be proud and pitiless"

  XXII. CIRCUMSTANTIAI, EVIDENCE       .    .   .    . 242
          " I sometimes do believe and sometimes do not."

 XXIII. THE DETECTIVE .       .   .   .    .   ..       254
                   "' Twas IA but 'tis not /."

 XXIV. AT THE AUCTION         .   .   .    .,    .     265
               " Assuredly the thing is to be sold."

  XXV. QUESTIONS..                              .    . 276
              " Yhey asked one another the reason."

 XXVI. THE PRESIDENT       ..          .    .   .      284
                  "-And good in everything."

XXVII. OLD ENEMIES       .   .    .   .   .   .        294
              " Kindness nobler ever than revenge."

XXVIII. BETTER THAN DREAMS                              298
                      " I like this place."

 XXIX. AT THE MAGICIAN'S      .     .   .    .     .   308
                     "- would have you."
  XXX. OAK LEAVES        .    .   .   .   .    .   .   319
                      " Bid mefiarewell."



" ' How sweet the breath beneath the hill
    Of Sharon's lovely rose"'

" Do you know Miss Betty "

" Looking up, he discovered his visitors "

" They crossed over to speak to her"

" She chose a chest of drawers "


Frontispiece   1 2


         . 153


     .   . 268

 This page in the original text is blank.


     Mr. Pat's Little Girl.

              CHAPTER FIRST.


          "A magician most profound in his art."

IT was Sunday afternoon. The griffins on the
     doorstep stared straight before them with an
expression of utter indifference; the feathery
foliage of the white birch swayed gently back
and forth; the peonies lifted their crimson heads
airily; the snowball bush bent under the weight
of its white blooms till it swept the grass; the
fountain splashed softly.

           "' By cool Siloam's shady rill
               How fair the lily grows,"'

Rosalind chanted dreamily.
  Grandmamma had given her the hymn book,
telling her to choose a hymn and commit it to
memory, and as she turned the pages this had
caught her eye and pleased her fancy.



  " It sounds like the Forest of Arden," she said,
leaning back on the garden bench and shutting
her eyes.
         "'How sweet the breath beneath the hill
             Of Sharon's lovely rose.'"
She swung her foot in time to the rhythm. She
was not sure whether a rill was a fountain or a
stream, so she decided, as there was no dictionary
convenient, to think of it as like the creek where
it crossed the road at the foot of Red Hill.
  Again she looked at the book; skipping a stanza,
she read:-

           By cool Siloam's shady rill
             The lily must decay:
             The rose that blooms beneath the hill
             Must shortly pass away.'"

The melancholy of this was interesting; at the
same time it reminded her that she was lonely.
After repeating, " Must shortly pass away," her
eyes unexpectedly filled with tears.
  " Now I am not going to cry," she said sternly,
and by way of carrying out this resolve she again
closed her eyes tight. It was desperately hard
work, and she could not have told whether two
minutes or ten had passed when she was startled

I 2



by an odd, guttural voice close to her asking,
"What is the matter, little girl"
  If the voice was strange, the figure she saw
when she looked up was stranger still. A gaunt
old man in a suit of rusty black, with straggling
gray hair and beard, stood holding his hat in his
hand, gazing at her with eyes so bright they made
her uneasy.
  " Nothing," she answered, rising hastily.
  But the visitor continued to stand there and
smile at her, shaking his head and repeating,
"Mustn't cry."
  " I am not crying," Rosalind insisted, glancing
over her shoulder to make sure of a way of escape.
  With a long, thin finger this strange person now
pointed toward the house, saying something she
understood to be an inquiry for Miss Herbert.
  Miss Herbert was the housekeeper, and Rosa-
lind knew she was at church; but when she tried
to explain, the old man shook his head, and taking
from his pocket a tablet with a pencil attached,
he held it out to her, touching his ear as he
uttered the one word "Deaf."
  Rosalind understood she was to write her an-
swer, and somewhat flurried she sat down on the

1 3



edge of the bench and with much deliberation and
in large clear letters conveyed the information,
"She is out."
  The old man looked at the tablet and then at
Rosalind, bowing and smiling as if well pleased.
" You'll tell her I'm going to the city to-morrow  "
he asked.
  There was something very queer in the way
he opened his mouth and used his tongie, Rosa-
lind thought, as she nodded emphatically, feel-
ing that this singular individual had her at an
unfair advantage. At least she would find out
who he was, and so, as she still held the tablet,
she wrote, " What is your name  "
  He laughed as if this were a joke, and search-
ing in his pocket, produced a card which he
presented with a bow.    On it was printed
"C. J. Morgan, Cabinet Work."
  "What is your name " he asked.
  Rosalind hesitated.  She was not sure it at
all concerned this stranger to know her name,
but as he stood smiling and waiting, she did
not know how to refuse; so she bent over the
tablet, her yellow braid falling over her shoulder,
as she wrote, "Rosalind Patterson Whittredge."




  "Mr. Pat's daughter" There was a twinkle
in the old man's eye, and surprise and delight
in his voice.
  Rosalind sprang up, her own eyes shining.
"How stupid of me!" she cried. "Why, you
must be the magician, and you have a funny
old shop, where father used to play when he
was little. Oh, I hope you will let me come to
see you!"   Suddenly remembering the tablet,
she looked at it despairingly. She couldn't write
half she wished to say.
  Morgan, however, seemed to understand pretty
clearly, to judge from the way he laughed and
asked if Mr. Pat was well.
  Rosalind nodded and wrote, " He has gone
to Japan."
  " So far  Coming home soon "
  With a mournful countenance she shook her
  Morgan stood looking down on her with a
smile that no longer seemed uncanny. Indeed,
there was something almost sweet in the rugged
face as he repeated, "Mr. Pat's little girl, well,
well," as if it were quite incredible.
  Rosalind longed to ask at least a dozen ques-

I 5



tions, but it is dampening to one's ardor to have
to spell every word, and she only nodded and
smiled in her turn as she handed back the
  "I wish father had taught me to talk on
my fingers," she thought, feeling that one branch
of her education had been neglected. " Perhaps
Uncle Allan will, when he comes."
  She watched the odd figure till it disappeared
around a turn in the trim garden path, then
she picked up the big red pillow which had
fallen on the grass, and replacing it in one cor-
ner of the bench, curled herself up against it.
The hymn book lay forgotten.
  " I believe things are really beginning to hap-
pen," she said to herself.  "You need not pre-
tend they are not, for they are," she added,
shaking her finger at the griffins with their pro-
voking lack of expression. " You wouldn't make
friends with anybody, not to save their lives,
and it seemed as if I were never to get ac-
quainted with a soul, when here I have met the
magician in the most surprising way.  And to
think I didn't know him!"
  The dream  spirit was abroad in the garden.



Across the lawn the shadows made mysterious
progress; the sunlight seemed sifted through an
enchanted veil, and like the touch of fairy fin-
gers was the summer breeze against Rosalind's
cheek, as with her head against the red pillow,
she travelled for the first time in her life back
into the past.
  Back to the dear old library where two stu-
dents worked, and where from the windows
one could see the tiled roofs of the university.
Back to the world of dreams where dwelt that
friendly host of story-book people, where only
a few short weeks ago Friendship, too, with its
winding shady streets and this same stately gar-
den and the griffins, had belonged as truly as
did the Forest where that other Rosalind, loveli-
est of all story people, wandered.
  Friendship was no longer a dream, and Rosa-
lind, her head against the red pillow, was begin-
ning to think that dreams were best.
  "If we choose, we may travel always in the
Forest, where the birds sing and the sunlight
sifts through the trees."
  These words of Cousin Louis's in his intro-
duction to the old story pleased Rosalind's fancy.

1 7



She liked to shut her eyes and think of the
Forest and the brave-hearted company gathered
there, and always this brought before her the
fair face of the miniature on her father's desk
and a faint, sweet memory of clasping arms.
  When the doctor with a grave face had said
that only rest and change of scene could restore
Cousin Louis's health, and when Rosalind un-
derstood that this must mean for her separation
from both her dear companions, it was to the
Forest she had turned.
  "I'll pretend I am banished like Rosalind in
the story," she had said, leaning against her
father's shoulder, as he looked over the proofs
of "The Life of Shakespeare" on which Cousin
Louis had worked too hard. "Then I'll know I
am certain to find you sometime."
  Her father's arm had drawn her close,-she
liked to recall it now, and how, when she
added, " But I wish I had Celia and Touchstone
to go with me," he had answered, " You are
certain to find pleasant people in the Forest of
Arden, little girl." And putting aside the proofs,
he had talked to her of her grandmother and
the old town of Friendship.



  She had been almost a week in Friendship
now, and-well, things were not altogether
as she had pictured them.   Silver locks and
lace caps, arm-chairs and some sort of fluffy
knitting work, had been a part of her idea of
a grandmother, and lo ! her own grandmother
was erect and slender, with not a thread of
gray in her dark hair, nor a line in her hand-
some face.
  She was kind - oh, yes, but so sad in her
heavy crepe.  Aunt Genevieve in her trailing
gowns was charming to behold, but no more
company for Rosalind-at least not much more
-than the griffins.  Miss Herbert was not a
merry, comfortable person like their own Mrs.
Browne at home. The house was very quiet.
The garden was beautiful, but she longed to be
outside its tall iron gates; and she longed-
how she longed-for her old companions!
  Cousin Louis had given her her favorite
story in a binding of soft leather, delicious to
hold against one's cheek, and her father had
added a copy of the beautiful miniature. With
these treasures she had set out upon her journey.
But she had begun to feel as if in the great




Forest she had lost her way, when the friendly
face of the magician reassured her.
  The sound of sweeping draperies broke in
upon her- thoughts.   It was Aunt Genevieve,
and she had not learned her hymn. Picking up
her book, she stole swiftly across the grass till
she was hidden by some tall shrubbery. Before
her was a high hedge of privet; beyond it, among
the trees, the chimneys of a red brick house.
  Walking back and forth, Rosalind began to
study in earnest. Looking first at her book and
then up at the blue sky, she repeated: -

       "'Lo! such the child whose early feet
          The paths of peace have trod,
          Whose secret heart with influence sweet
          Is upward drawn to God.'"





          " Give me leave to speak my mind."

     HERE was another garden on the other
     side of the hedge; not so large, nor so
beautifully kept perhaps, but a pleasant gar-
den, for all that.  The red brick house to
which it belonged was by no means so stately
as the one whose doorstep the griffins guarded,
yet it had an importance all its own. On week
days, when the heavy shutters on the lower front
windows were open, The ANational Bank of Friend-
ship was to be seen in gilt letters on the glass;
on Sundays, however, when they were closed,
there was little to suggest that it was anything
more than a private dwelling. It was a square,
roomy house, and the part not in use for bank
purposes was occupied by the cashier, Mr. Mil-
ton Roberts, and his family.



  While Rosalind, curled up on the garden seat,
was thinking of home, Maurice Roberts lay in the
hammock under the big maple near the side
porch, where his mother and Miss Betty Bishop
sat talking. He held a book, but instead of read-
ing was allowing himself the lazy entertainment
of listening to their conversation.
  From his position, a little behind the visitor,
he had an excellent view of her as she sat erect
in the wicker chair, her parasol across her lap.
Miss Betty was plump and short, and had a
dimple in her chin. Her hair, which was turn-
ing gray, waved prettily back from her forehead
into the thickest of braids, and altogether there
was a pleasant air of crispness about her; though
something in the keenness of her glance, or the
firmness with which her lips met, suggested
that on occasion she might be unyielding.
"The Barnwell stubbornness," she herself would
have explained, with the same complacency she
manifested when displaying her grandmother's
  Mrs. Roberts, Maurice's mother, was a gentle
person, with large, soft eyes and a quiet manner.
  The preliminary conversation had not been




interesting, pertaining chiefly to flowers and the
weather, and Maurice gave a sigh of satisfaction
when, after a moment's pause, Miss Betty straight-
ened herself and remarked, "Well, I hear the
will is certain to be sustained."
  "Then the property will have to be sold"
questioned Mrs. Roberts.
  "Yes, and I may as well say good-by to the
cream-jug and sugar-dish that Cousin Anne al-
ways said should be mine. Still, I never shall
believe Cousin Thomas was out of his mind when
he made that last will, it was too much like him.
Dear knows it ought to be broken, but not on
that ground. It was a case of pure spite."
  "Oh, Betty!"
  Maurice smiled to himself at his mother's
  " I assure you it was. I knew Cousin Thomas.
Didn't Cousin Anne tell me dozens of times in
his presence, 'Betty, this is your cream-jug and
sugar-dish, because they match your teapot'"
  " I should think you had enough silver, Betty;
still it was a shame Miss Anne left that list
unsigned," said Mrs. Roberts.
  " If you knew Cousin Anne at all, Mrs.



Roberts, you knew how hesitating she was. She
couldn't decide whether to leave the Canton china
to Ellen Marshall or to Tom's wife. She changed
her mind any number of times, but she was
always clear about my cream-jug and sugar-
dish. If Cousin Thomas had had any decency,
he would have considered her wishes.   Think
of my own grandmother's things put up at pub-
lic auction!"
  " Most of Mr. Gilpin's money goes to the hos-
pital, I suppose," remarked Mrs. Roberts.
  " Pretty much everything but the real estate
in and around Friendship, and the contents of
the house, all of which will have to be sold and
divided among his first cousins or their heirs.
The only bequests made besides the money to
the hospital are to Celia Fair and Allan Whit-
tredge. Celia is to have the spinet, and Allan
that beautiful old ring, if ever it comes to light
again.  I wish Cousin Thomas had left Celia
some money.    She was one person for whom
he had a little affection."
  Maurice wished so too. He admired Miss Celia
Fair, and felt it was too bad she should get only
an antiquated piano.




  "Are the Fairs related to the Gilpins 7 " his
mother asked. Not being a native of Friendship,
she had difficulty in mastering the intricacies of
its relationships.
  It was ground upon which Miss Betty was
entirely at home, however. "They were kin to
Cousin Thomas's wife," she explained. "Mrs.
Fair's grandmother was half-sister to Cousin
Emma's mother, and raised Cousin Emma as
her own child. Of course it is not very near
when it comes to Celia. The spinet belonged
to old Mrs. Johnson, -Celia's great-grandmother,
you know,-whose name was also Celia. Saint
Cecilia they used to call her, because she was so
good and played and sang so sweetly. It is right
the spinet should go to Celia, but that would
not have influenced Cousin Thomas a minute if
he had not wished her to have it."
  "And the ring has never been heard of "
Mrs. Roberts asked, as her visitor paused for
  " I doubt if it ever comes to light. It is nearly
three years now since it disappeared," was the
reply. Miss Betty looked up at the vines above
her head, and her lips curled into a sort of



half smile.   " I should like to hear Cousin
Ellen Whittredge on the will," she added. " I
don't think she cares much about the money,
however; it is more that old feeling against
Dr. Fair.  You remember he testified to Mr.
Gilpin's sanity."
  "And her son" asked Mrs. Roberts.
  "Allan It is hard to find out what Allan
thinks, but there is no bitterness in him. He
is like his father, poor man! What I am
curious to know is, what Cousin Thomas meant
by saying in his will that Allan knew his wishes
in regard to the ring.  That strikes me as a
little sensational. I asked Allan about it the
last time I saw him, but he only laughed and
said he'd have to get it before he could dispose
of it."
  Miss Betty now made some motions preliminary
to rising, but as if on second thought, she laid
her parasol across her knees again and asked,
"Have you heard that Patterson's daughter is
here  "
  " Yes, I think I saw her in the carriage with
her grandmother yesterday," was Mrs. Roberts's




  This was news to Maurice, and he listened with
  Miss Betty shook her head. " I am surprised,"
she said. "That marriage of Patterson's was a
dreadful blow to Cousin Ellen."
  "It seems to me she was unreasonable about
it. I am glad she sent for him before his father
died." Mrs. Roberts spoke with some hesitation.
She did not often array her own opinions against
those of her friends.
  " I don't blame her as some do. A person of
that sort, and Patterson the very light of her
eyes! How would you feel if Maurice some day
should do a thing like that"
  Maurice laughed softly.  His thoughts were
not much occupied with marriage. His mother
ignored the question, and in her turn asked, " Did
Mrs. Whittredge ever see her daughter-in-law "
  "No, indeed.  This child was not more than
three when she died."
  "Poor little thing!" Mrs. Roberts sighed.
  " Such a name! I detest fancy names. Rosa-
lind ! " Miss Betty rose.
  " A good old English name and very pretty, I
think. Was it her mother's  "



  " I suppose so, but I don't know. Yes, I must
go; Sophy will think I am lost. Good-by," and
Miss Betty stepped briskly down the path.
  The gate had hardly closed when Maurice
heard some one calling him.  Looking over his
shoulder, he saw his sister Katherine beckoning.
  " Maurice, Maurice, do come here; I want you
to see something."
  Her tone impressed him as unduly mysterious.
"What is it" he asked indifferently.
  "Come, and I'll show you."
  " I sha'n't come till you tell me," he persisted.
  "Oh, I think you might, because if I stop to
tell you she may be gone."
  "Who'll be gone   You might have told it
twice over in this time."
  " The girl I want you to see," explained Kath-
erine, drawing nearer in desperation. "Did you
know there was a girl next door"
  " Yes, of course."  There was nothing in
Maurice's tone to indicate how brief a time had
passed since this information had been acquired.
  "Truly  I don't believe it," Katherine faltered.
  "She is Mrs. Whittredge's granddaughter, and
her name is Rosalind, so now! "




  Privately, Katherine thought her brother's
power of finding things out, little short of super-
natural. " Don't you want to see her" she
asked meekly. " There is a thin place in the
hedge behind the calycanthus bush, and she is
walking to and fro studying something." Would
Maurice declare he had already seen this girl
  Maurice sat up and reached for a crutch that
rested against the tree. He had his share of
curiosity. He was a tall, well-grown boy of thir-
teen, and it was apparent as he swung himself
after Katherine, that accident and not disease had
caused his lameness.
  Rosalind, studying her hymn all unconscious of
observation, was a pleasant sight.
  "Isn't she pretty" whispered Katherine, but
Maurice silenced her so sternly she concluded
he did not agree with her.
  In reality he thought very much as she did,
although he would not have used the same adjec-
tive. There was something unusual about this
girl. Why it was, he did not understand, but she
seemed somehow to belong in a special way to the
sweet old garden with its June roses. Maurice
had fancies that would have astonished Katherine



beyond measure if she could have known any-
thing about them. But how was she to know
ws hen he pinched her arm and looked sternly
  The tea bell called them back to the house;
on the way Katherine's enthusiasm burst forth
  "Isn't she sweet and such a beautiful name
-Rosalind. How old dlo you think she is and
do you suppose she is going to live there 
Oh, Maurice, shouldn't you be afraid of Mrs.
Whittredge "
  " I don't know anything about her," Maurice
replied, forgetting for the moment that he had
been pretending to know a great deal.
  "I should like to have my hair tied on top
of my head with a big ribbon bow as hers is,"
continued Katherine, who would innocently per-
sist in laying herself open to brotherly scorn.
  "I suppose you think you will look like her
then," was his retort.
  "Now, Maurice, I don't.  I know I am not
pretty." Katherine's round face grew suddenly
long, and tears filled her blue eyes.
  "Don't be a goose, then. I'll tell you what




she made me think of, that statue of Joan of
Arc-don't you    remember   Where   she is
listening to the voices We saw it at the
Academy of Fine Arts."
  " Why, Maurice, how funny! She is much
prettier than that," said Katherine.




        "True it is that we have seen better days."

 A   RAMBLING, sleepy town was Friendship,
 ,A    with few aspirations beyond the traditions
 of its grandfathers and a fine indifference toward
 modern improvements.
 During the era of monstrous creations in
 black walnut it had clung to its old mahogany
 and rosewood, and chromos had never displaced
in its affections the time-worn colored prints of
little Samuel or flower-decked shepherdesses. In
consequence of this conservatism Friendship one
day awoke in the fashion.
  There were fine old homes in Friendship
which in their soft-toned browns and grays
seemed as much a part of the landscape as the
forest trees that surrounded them and shaded
the broad street.  Associated with these man-



sions were names dignified and substantial, such
as Molesworth, Parton, Gilpin, Whittredge.
  In times past the atmosphere of the village
had seemed to be pervaded by something of
the spirit of its name, for here life flowed on
serenely in old grooves and its ways were the
peaceful ways of friendship. But of late years,
alas ! something alien and discordant had
crept in.

      "'And what is Friendship but a name-"'

quoted the cabinet-maker sadly one morning
when after climbing the hill from the wharf he
paused to rest on the low stone wall surround-
ing the Gilpin place.
  Landing Lane ended at the top of the hill,
and here at right angles to it the Main Street
of Friendship might be said to begin, slowly
descending to a level and following the lei-
surely curves of the old stage road till it
came to a straggling end at the foot of another
prominence known as Red Hill.
  In forty years a life takes deep root, and this
time had passed since Morgan, a raw Scotch
boy of eighteen, had come to Friendship as



assistant to the village cabinet-maker. A year or
two later an illness deprived him of his hearing,
but fortunately not of his skill, and upon the
death of his employer he succeeded to the busi-
ness, his kindly, simple nature, together with his
misfortune, having won the heart of Friendship.
  His fame for making and doing over furni-
ture had spread beyond the borders of the
town; his opinion was valued highly by collect-
ors, and it was said he might have made a for-
tune in the city. But what use had he for a
fortune   It was the friendly greetings, the
neighborly kindnesses, the comradeship with the
children of the village, that made his life.
  In spite of its rugged lines his face as he
grew older had taken on a singularly sweet
expression, but it was sad to-day as he sat on
the wall in his knit jacket and work apron,
looking down on the town, its roofs and spires
showing amongst the trees.  It seemed to him
that the times were out of joint, and his cheer-
ful philosophy was beginning to fail him. Some-
thing had been wrong ever since Patterson
Whittredge went away, more than a dozen years




  Morgan never failed to follow with interest
the careers of the boys of Friendship as they
went out into the world, and of all the boys of
the village Patterson had been his favorite. He
had understood the trouble as well as if it had
been carefully explained to him.  His deafness
had quickened his insight. A girl's lovely face
on IPat's dressing-table, seen when he replaced
a broken caster, partly told the story, and Mrs.
Whittredge's pride and determination were no
secret to any one.
  Judge WVhittredge's whitening head and heavy
step, his fruitless search for health abroad, his
return to die at last in his old home, Patterson's
coming,-sent for by his heart-broken mother,-
this was the rest of the story. But before this
family difference had been settled by the stern
hand of death, the removal of Thomas Gilpin
had precipitated another quarrel upon the town.
  It was a puzzle to Morgan that a man like
his old friend Mr. Gilpin, who had it in his
power to do so much good, should have chosen
to do harm   instead.  As he rose to go, he
looked over his shoulder at the old house, closed
and deserted since the death of its owner.

3 5



  The site was a beautiful one, commanding a
view of valley and hill and the narrow winding
river. The house, an unpretentious square of
red brick, with sloping roof and dormer windows,
wore its hundred years with dignity, and amid
its fine trees was an object of interest to strangers,
of pride to the villagers.
  Below it on the slope stood a more modern
house, in what had been until recently a hand-
some garden.  Morgan as he passed recalled
how proud Dr. Fair had been of his flowers.
Celia, who was entering the gate, nodded and
smiled brightly.  He noted, however, that her
face was losing its soft curves and rose tints.
Celia was another of his favorites, and he knew
she was having her battle with misfortune, meet-
ing it as bravely as a young woman could.
Thomas Gilpin might so easily have smoothed
the way for her. The spinet was an interesting
heirloom, no doubt, but would not help Celia
solve the problem of bread and butter.
  The shop of the cabinet-maker was just off
Main Street, at the foot of the hill.  To its
original two rooms he had added two more, and
here he lived with no companions but a striped




cat and a curly dog, who endured each other
and shared the affection of their master.
  Morgan's housekeeping was not burdensome.
Certain of his neighbors always remembered him
on baking day, and his tastes were simple. His
shop opened immediately on the street; back of
it was his living room and the small garden
where he cultivated the gayest blooms.  The
living room had an open fireplace, for it was
one of the cabinet-maker's pleasures to sit in
the firelight when the work of the day was
over, and a small oil stove sufficed for his cook-
ing. On one side of the chimney was a high-
backed settle, and above it a book shelf. Like
most Scotch boys, he had had a fair education,
and possessed a genuine reverence for books
and a love of reading.  In the opposite corner
was an ancient mahogany desk where he kept
his accounts, and near by in the window a shelf
always full of plants in the winter. A cupboard
of his own manufacture, a table,