 Chapter 1 of Just Patty. It's a shame, said Priscilla. It's an outrage, said Connie. It's an insult, said Patty. To separate us now after we've been together three years. And it isn't as though we were awfully bad last year. Lots of girls had more demerits. Only our badness was sort of conspicuous, Patty admitted. But we were very good the last three weeks, reminded Connie. And you should see my new roommate, wailed Priscilla. She can't be any worse than Irene McCulloch. She is. Her father's a missionary, and she was brought up in China. Her name is Karen Hapak-Hersy, after Job's youngest daughter. And she doesn't think it's funny. Irene, said Connie Gloomily, gained twenty pounds through the summer. She weighs, but you should see mine, cried Patty in exasperation. Her name is Mae Mertel Van Arsdale. Karen studies every second. It expects me to walk on tiptoe so she can concentrate. You should hear Mae Mertel talk. She said her father was a financier, and wanted to know what mine was. I told her he was a reform judge, and that he spent his time putting financiers in prison. She says I'm an impertinent child. Patty grinned feebly. How old is she? She's nineteen, and has been proposed to you twice. Mercy! Whatever made her choose Saint Ursula's. Her father and mother ran away and got married when they were nineteen, and they're afraid she inherited the tendency. So they picked out a good, strict church-school. Mae doesn't know how she's ever going to fix her hair without a maid. She's awfully superstitious about moon-stones. She never wears anything but silk stockings, and she can't stand hash. I'll have to teach her how to make a bed. She always crosses on the white star-line. Patty scattered these details at random. The others listened sympathetically, and added a few of their own troubles. Irene weighs a hundred and fifty-nine pounds and six ounces, not counting her clothes, said Connie. She brought two trunks, loaded with candy. She has it hidden all over the room. The last sound I hear at night is Irene crunching chocolates, and the first sound in the morning. She never says anything. She simply chews. It's like rooming with a cow. And I have a sweet collection of neighbors. Kid McCoy's across the hall, and she makes more noise than half a dozen cowboys. There's a new French girl next door. You know the pretty little one with the two black braids? She looks rather desirable, said Patty. She might be if she could talk, but she only knows about fifty words. Harriet Gladden's rooming with her, as limp and mournful as an oyster, and Evelina Smith's at the end of the corridor. You know what a perfect idiot Evelina is. Oh, it's beastly, they agreed. Lordy's to blame, said Connie. The Dowager would never have separated us if she hadn't interfered. And I've got her, wailed Patty. You two have Mamzell and Wattoms, and they're nice, sweet, unsuspicious lambs. But the girls in the east wing simply can't sneeze, but Lordy shh! Connie warned, here she comes. The Latin teacher, in passing, paused on the threshold. Connie disentangled herself from the mixture of clothes and books and sofa cushions that littered the bed, and politely rose to her feet. Patty slid down from the white-ired foot rail, and Priscilla descended from the top of the trunk. Ladies don't perch about on the furniture. No, Miss Lorde, they murmured in unison, gazing back from three pairs of wide uplifted eyes. They knew, from gleeful past experience, that nothing so annoyed her as smiling acquiescence. Miss Lorde's eyes critically studied the room. Patty was still in travelling-dress. Put on your uniform, Patty, and finish unpacking. The trunks go down tomorrow morning. Yes, Miss Lorde. Priscilla and Constance, why aren't you out of doors with the other girls, enjoying this beautiful autumn weather? But we haven't seen Patty for such a long time, and now that we are separated, commenced Connie with a pathetic drooper for mouth. I trust that your lessons will benefit by the change. You, Patty and Priscilla, are going to college, and should realize the necessity of being prepared. Upon the thorough foundation that you lay here depends your success for the next four years. For your whole lives, one might say, Patty is weak in mathematics and Priscilla in Latin. Constance could improve her French. Let's see what you can do when you really try. She divided a curtain-odd between the three and withdrew. We are happy in our work, and we dearly love our teachers, chanted Patty, with ironical emphasis, as she rummaged at a blue skirt and middy-blouse with St. U in gold upon the sleeve. While she was dressing, Priscilla and Connie set about transferring the contents of her trunk to her bureau in whatever order the articles presented themselves, but with a carefully folded top-layer. The overworked young teacher, who performed the ungrateful task of inspecting sixty-four bureaus and sixty-four closets every Saturday morning, was happily of an unsuspicious nature. She did not penetrate below the crust. Lordy needn't make such a fuss over my standing, said Priscilla, frowning over an arm full of clothes. I passed everything except Latin. Take care, Pris, you're walking on my new dancing dress, cried Patty, as her head emerged from the neck of the blouse. Priscilla automatically stepped off a mass of blue chiffon and resumed her plaint. If they think sticking me in with Job's youngest daughter is going to improve my prose composition, I simply can't study till they take Irene McCullough out of my room, Connie echoed. She's just like a lump of sticky dough. Wait till you get acquainted with a maim or tell. Patty sat on the floor in the midst of the chaos and gazed up at the other two with wide, solemn eyes. She brought five evening gowns cut low and all her shoes have French heels and she laces my dears. She just holds in her breath and pulls. But that isn't the worst. She lowered her voice to a confidential whisper. She's got some red stuff in a bottle. She says it's for her fingernails, but I saw her putting it on her face. Oh, not really in a horrified whisper from Connie and Priscilla. Patty shut her lips and nodded. Isn't it dreadful? Awful, Connie shuttered. I say let's mutiny, cried Priscilla. Let's make the dowager give us back our old rooms in Paradise Alley. But how, inquired Patty, two parallel wrinkles appearing on her forehead, tell her that unless she does we won't stay. That would be sensible, Patty jeered. She'd ring the bell in order Martin to hitch up the hearse and drive us to the station for the 630 train. I should think you'd know by this time that you can't bluff the dowager. There's no use threatening, Connie agreed. We must appeal to her feeling of… of… affection, said Patty. Connie stretched at a hand and brought her up standing. Come on, Patty, you're good at talking. We'll go now while our courage is up. Are your hands clean? The three staunchly approached the door of Mrs. Trent's private study. I'll use diplomacy, Patty whispered, as she turned the knob in response to the summons from within. You people nod your heads at everything I say. Patty did use all the diplomacy at her command. Having dwelt touchingly upon their long friendship and their sorrow at being separated, she passed lightly to the matter of their new roommates. There are doubtless, very nice girls, she ended politely, only you see Mrs. Trent they don't match us, and it is extremely hard to concentrate one's mind upon lessons, unless one has a congenial roommate. Patty's steady, serious gaze suggested that lessons were the end of her existence. A brief smile flitted over the dowager's face, but the next instant she was grave again. It is very necessary that we study this year. Patty added, Priscilla and I are going to college, and we realize the necessity of being prepared. Upon the thorough foundation that we lay here depends our success for the next four years. For our whole lives, you might say. Connie jogged her elbow warningly, it was too patently a crib for Miss Lord. And besides, Patty added hastily, all my things are blue, and May has a purple screen and a yellow sofa cushion. That is awkward, the dowager admitted. We are used to living in paradise out, I mean the West Wing, and we shall miss the sunsets. The dowager allowed an anxious silence to follow, while she thoughtfully tapped the desk with her lawn yet. The three steadied her face with speculative eyes. It was a mask they could not penetrate. The present arrangement is more or less temporary, she commenced in equable tones. I may find it expedient to make some changes, and I may not. We have an unusual number of new girls this year, and instead of putting them together, it has seemed wisest to mix them with the old girls. You three have been with us a long time. You know the traditions of the school. Therefore, the dowager smiled, a smile partially tinged with amusement, I am sending you as missionaries among the newcomers. I wish you to make your influence felt. Patty straightened her back, and stared, Our influence? Your new roommate, Mrs. Trent continued improturbably, is too grown up for her years. She has lived in fashionable hotels, and under such conditions, it is inevitable that a girl should become somewhat affected. See if you cannot arouse in May an interest in girlish sports. And you, Constance, are rooming with Iraid McCullough. She is, as you know, an only child, and I fear has been a trifle spoiled. It would please me if you could waken her to a higher regard for the spiritual side of life, and less care for material things. I'll try," Connie stammered, dazed at so suddenly finding herself cast in the unfamiliar role of moral reformer. And you have next to you the little French girl, Aurelie de Reims. I should be pleased, Constance, if you would assume an oversight of her school career. She can help you to a more idiomatic knowledge of French, and you can do the same for her in English. You, Priscilla, are rooming with— She adjusted her lawn yet, and consulted a large chart. Ah, yes, Karen Hersey, a very unusual girl. You, too, will find many subjects of mutual interest. The daughter of a naval officer should have much in common with the daughter of a missionary. Karen bids fair to become an earnest student, almost, if such a thing were possible, too earnest. She has never had any girl companions, and knows nothing of the give-and-take of school life. She can teach you, Priscilla, to be more studious, and you can teach her to be more, shall I say, flexible. Yes, Mrs. Trent," Priscilla murmured. And so, the dowager finished, I am sending you out in my place as moral reformers. I want the older girls to set an example to the newcomers. I wish to have the real government of the school a strong, healthy public opinion. You three exert a great deal of influence. See what you can do in the directions I have indicated, and in others that may occur to you as you are mixed with your companions. I have watched you carefully for three years, and in your fundamental good sense I have the greatest confidence. She nodded dismissal, and the three found themselves in the hall again. They looked at one another for a moment of blank silence. Moral reformers, Connie gasped. I see through the dowager, said Patty. She thinks she's found a new method of managing us. But I don't see that we're getting back to Paradise Alley, Priscilla complained. Patty's eyes suddenly brightened. She sees them each by an elbow and shoved them into an empty school room. We'll do it. Do what? asked Connie. Pitch right in and reform the school. If we just keep at it steady, you'll see. We'll be back in Paradise Alley at the end of two weeks. Um, said Priscilla thoughtfully. I believe we might. We'll commence with Irene, said Connie, her mind eagerly jumping to details and make her lose that twenty pounds. That's what the dowager meant when she said she wanted her less material. We'll have her thin in no time, Patty nodded energetically, and we'll give May Mortel a dose of bubbling girlishness. And Karen, interposed Priscilla, will teach her to become frivolous and neglect her lessons. But we won't just confine ourselves to those three, said Connie. The dowager said to make our influence felt over the whole school. Oh yes, Patty agreed, rising to enthusiasm as she called the school roll. Kid McCoy uses too much slang, will teach her manners. Rosalie doesn't like to study, will pour her full of algebra and Latin. Harriet gladdens a jellyfish, becomes an awful little liar, Avelina Smith's a silly goose, Nancy Lee's a telltale. When you stop to think about it, there's something the matter with everybody, said Connie. Except us, amended Priscilla. Yes, Patty agreed in thoughtful retrospection. I can't think of a thing the matter with us. I don't wonder they chose us to head the reform. Connie slid to her feet, a bundle of energy. Come on, we'll join our little playmates and begin the good work. Party! They scrambled out of the open window in a fashion foreign to the dictates of Thursday evening manner class. Crowds of girls in blue-mitty blouses were gathered in groups around the recreation ground. The three paused to reconnoitre. There's Irene still chewing, Connie nodded toward a comfortable bench, set in the shade by the tennis courts. Let's have a circus, Patty proposed. We'll make Irene and Mae Mertel roll hoops around the oval. That will kill them both with one stone. Irene will get thin and Mae Mertel girlish. Hoop-rolling was a specialty of Saint Ursula's. The gymnasium instructor believed in teaching girls to run eleven times around the oval constituted a mile, and a mile of hoop-rolling freed one for the day from dumb bells and Indian clubs. The three dived into the cellar and returned with hoops as tall as themselves. Patty assumed command of the campaign and issued her orders. Connie, you take a walk with Karen and shock her as much as possible. Make her of being precise. And, Priss, you take charge of Mae Mertel. Don't let her put on any grown-up airs. If she tells you she's been proposed to twice, tell her that you've been proposed to so many times that you've lost count. Keep her snubbed all the time. I'll be elephant trainer and start Irene running. She'll be a graceful gazelle by the time I finish. They parted on their several missions. Saint Ursula's peace had ended. She was in the throes of reform. On Friday evening, two weeks later, an unofficial faculty meeting was convened in the Dowager's study. Lights out had rung five minutes before and three harried teachers relieved of duty for nine blessed hours while their little charges slept were discussing their troubles with their chief. But just what have they done? inquired Mrs. Trent in tones of judicial calm as she vainly tried to stop the flood of interjections. It is difficult to put one's finger on the precise facts, Mrs. Wadsworth quavered. They have not broken any rules so far as I can discover, but they have created an atmosphere. Every girl in my corridor, said Miss Lord with compressed lips, has come to me separately and begged to have Patty moved back to the west wing with Constance and Priscilla. Patty, mon dieu! Mademoiselle rolled a pair of speaking eyes to heaven. The things that child thinks of, she is one little imp. You remember the Dowager addressed Miss Lord I said when you suggested separating them that it was a very doubtful experiment. Together they exhaust their effervescence on each other. Separated. They exhaust the whole school! cried Miss Wadsworth on the verge of tears. Of course they don't mean it, but they're unfortunate dispositions. Don't mean it! Miss Lord's eyes snapped. Their heads are together planning fresh escapades every moment they are not in class. But what have they done? persisted Mrs. Trent. Miss Wadsworth hesitated a moment in an endeavor to choose examples from the wealth of material that presented itself. I found Priscilla deliberately stirring up the contents of Karen's bureau drawers with a shinny stick. And when I asked what she was doing she replied without the least embarrassment that she was trying to teach Karen to be less exact that Mrs. Trent had asked her to do it. Um, used the dowager, that was not my precise request, but no matter. But the thing that has really troubled me the most, Miss Wadsworth spoke diffidently, is a matter almost a blasphemy. Karen has a very religious turn of mind, but an unfortunate habit of saying her prayers out loud. One night after a particularly trying day she prayed that Priscilla might be forgiven for being so aggravating, whereupon Priscilla knelt before her bed and prayed that Karen might become less self-righteous and stubborn, and more ready to join in the sports of her playmates with generosity and openness of a spirit. They carried on, while really one might almost call it a praying match. Shocking, cried Miss Lord. And little orally to Rame, they have been drilling the child in... eh, idiomatic English. The phrase that I overheard her repeating seemed scarcely the expression that a lady would use. What was it? inquired the Dowager with a slightly expectant note. I'll be gum-swizzled! Miss Wadsworth colored a deep pink. It was foreign to her nature, even to repeat so doubtful an expression. The Dowager's lips twitched. It was a fact, deplored by her assistance, that her sense of humor frequently ran away with her sense of justice. A very naughty little girl, if she managed to be funny, would have escaped, whereas an equally naughty little girl, who was not funny, paid the full penalty of her crime. Fortunately, however, the school at large had not discovered this vulnerable spot in the Dowager's armor. Their influence, it was Miss Lord, who spoke, is demoralizing the school. May Van Arsdale says that she will go home if she has to room any longer with Patty Wyatt. I do not know what the trouble is, but I know it, it is touching the question of a switch. Of what? The Dowager crocked her head. Mademoiselle's English was at times difficult. She mixed her languages impartially. A switch, some hair, to make pompadour. Last week, when they have to blow, Patty has borrowed it and has dyed it with blue ink to make a beard for Bluebeard. But being yellow to start, it has become green, and the color will not wash out. It will ruin, entirely ruin, and Patty is desolate. She has apologized. She thought it would wash, but since it will not wash, she has suggested to May that she color her own hair to match the switch and may lose her temper and call names. Then Patty has pretend to cry and she put the green hair on May's bed with a wreath of flowers around and she hangers stocking on the door for crepe and invite the girls to come to the funeral and everybody laugh at May. It's just as well, said the Dowager unmoved. I do not wish to favor the wearing of false hair. It's the principle of the thing, said Miss Lord. And that poor Irene McCullough! Mademoiselle continued the tale. She dissolves herself in tears. Those three insist that she make herself thin and she has no wish to become thin. They take away her butter-ball, corroborated Miss Wadsworth, before she comes to the table. They make her go without dessert and they do not allow her to eat sugar on her oatmeal. They keep her exercising every moment and when she complains to me they punish her. I should think, the Dowager spoke with a touch of sarcasm, that Irene were big enough to take care of herself. She has three against her, reminded Miss Lord. I called Patty to my room, said Miss Wadsworth and demanded an explanation. She told me that Mrs. Trent thought that Irene was too fat and wished them to reduce her twenty pounds. Patty said that it was hard work. They were getting thin themselves but they realized that they were seniors and must exert an influence over the school. I really think she was sincere. She talked very sweetly about moral responsibility and the necessity of the older girls setting an example. It is her impudence, said Miss Lord, that is so exasperating. That's just Patty! The Dowager laughed. I must confess that I find all three of them amusing. It's good healthy mischief and I wish there were more of it. They don't bribe the maids to mail letters or smuggle in candy or flirt with the soda water clerk. They, at least, can be trusted. Trusted, gasp, Miss Lord. To break every minor rule with cheerful unconcern, not at the Dowager, but never to do the slightest thing dishonorable. They have kind hearts and the girls all love them. A knock sounded on the door with startling suddenness and before anyone could reply the door burst open and Karen Hapek appeared on the threshold. She was clutching with one hand the folds of a brilliant Japanese kimono, the other she reserved for gestures. The kimono was sprinkled with fire-eating dragons as large as cats and to the astonished spectators Karen's flushed face and disheveled hair seemed to carry out the decorative scheme. The Dowager's private study was a sacred spot reserved for interviews of formality. Never had a pupil presented herself in such unceremonious garb. Karen! cried Miss Wadsworth. What has happened? I want a new roommate. I can't stand Priscilla any longer. She's been having a birthday party in my room. A birthday party? Miss Trent turned questioningly to Miss Wadsworth. She nodded unhappily. Yesterday was Priscilla's birthday and she received a box from her aunt. This being Friday night, I gave her permission. Certainly. The Dowager turned to the tragic figure in the centre of the floor. It is Priscilla's room just as much as yours and Karen plunged into a sea of words. The four leaned forward in a strained endeavour to pluck some scents from the torrent. They used my bed for a table because it wasn't against the wall and Patty tipped a pot of chocolate over in the middle of it. She said it was an accident but she did it on purpose. I know she did and because I objected Priscilla said it wasn't polite to notice when a guest built anything and she tipped a glass of current jelly on my pillow to make Patty feel comfortable. That was the polite thing for a hostess to do, she said. They learned it last year in manor class and the chocolate soaked right through and Connie Wilder said it was fortunate I was thin because I could sleep in a curve around it. If it had happened to Irene McCullough she would have had to sleep in it because she's so big she takes up the whole bed and Priscilla said I could be thankful tomorrow Saturday when we get clean sheets and that would have happened so that I would have had to sleep in that puddle of chocolate a whole week and then the lights out rang and they left me to clean up and the housekeeper's gone to bed and I can't get any fresh bed clothes and I won't sleep that way. I'm not used to sleeping in chocolatey sheets. I don't like America and I hate girls. Tears were dripping from Karen's cheeks onto the fire-breathing dragons below. The Dowager without comment rose and rang the bell. Katie, she said, as the maid on duty appeared at the door some fresh sheets for Miss Karen please and remake her bed. That will do for tonight Karen. Get to sleep as quickly as possible and don't talk. You mustn't disturb the other girls. We can see about changing roommates tomorrow. Katie and the outraged dragons withdrew. A silence followed while Miss Wadsworth and Mademoiselle exchanged glances of despair and Miss Lord buckled on her war armor. You see, she said with a suggestion of triumph when they get to the point of persecuting a poor little in my experience of school life said Miss's trench judicially. It is a girl's own fault when she is persecuted. Their methods are crude, but to the point Karen is a hopeless little prig. But at least you can't allow her to suffer. Oh, no, I shall do what I can toward peace. Tomorrow morning Karen can move in with Irene McCullough and Patty and Connie and Priscilla go back to their old rooms in the West Wing. You, Mademoiselle, are somewhat inured. I do not mind them together. They are just, what you say, exhilarating. It is when they are spread out that it is difficult. You mean, Miss Lord stared, that you are going to reward their disgraceful conduct? It is exactly what they have been working for. You must acknowledge, smiled the dowager, that they have worked hard. Perseverance deserves success. The next morning, Patty and Connie and Priscilla their arms running over with dresses and hats and sofa cushions Gaely too stepped down the length of Paradise Alley while a relieved school assisted at the flitting. As they caught sight of Miss Lord hovering in the offing, they broke into the chorus of a popular school song. We like to go to chapel and listen to the preachers. We are happy in our work and we dearly love our teachers. Daughters of Saint Ursula. The dowager had a very sensible theory that boarding school girls should be kept little girls until their school life was over and they stepped out fresh and eager and spontaneous to greet the grown up world. Saint Ursula's was a cloister in fact as in name. The masculine half of the human species was not supposed to count. Sometimes a new girl was inclined to turn up her nose at the youthful pastimes that contented her companions. But in the end she would be drawn irresistibly into the current. She would learn to jump rope and roll hoops to participate in paper chases across country to skate and coast and play hockey on winter afternoons to enjoy molasses candy poles and popcorn around the big open fire on Saturday nights or impromptu masquerades when the school raided the trunks in the attic for costumes. After a few weeks time the most spoiled little worldling lost her consciousness of calls outside of bounds and surrendered to the spirit of the youthful sisterhood. But the girls in their teens answer readily to the call of romance. And occasionally in the twilight hour between afternoon steady and the dressing bell as they gathered in the window seat with faces to the western sky the talk would turn to the future particularly when Rosalie Patton was of the group. Pretty, dainty, inconsequential little Rosalie was preeminently fashioned for romance. It clung to her golden hair and looked from her eyes. She might be extremely hazy as to the difference between part of sipples and supines. She might hesitate on her definition of a parallel pipe head but when the subject under discussion was one of sentiments she spoke with conviction. For hers was no mere theoretical knowledge. It was gained by personal experience. Rosalie had been proposed to. She confided the details to her most intimate friends and they confided them to their most intimate friends until finally the whole school knew the entire romantic history. Rosalie's preeminence in the field of sentiment was held entirely fitting. Priscilla might excel in basketball, Connie Wilder in dramatics, Karen Hersey in geometry and Patty Wyatt in, well, in impudence and audacity. But Rosalie was the recognized authority in matters of the heart and until Mae Mertel Van Arsdale came nobody thought of questioning her position. Mae Mertel spent an uncomfortable month shaking into place in the school life. The point in which she was accustomed to excel was clothes but when she and her four trunks arrived she found to her disgust that clothes were not useful at St. Ursula's. The school uniform reduced all to a dead level in the matter of fashion. There was another field, however, in which she might hope for supremacy. Her own sentimental history was vivid compared to the colorless lives of most and she proceeded to assert her claims. One Saturday evening in October half a dozen girls were gathered in Rosalie's room on piled-up sofa cushions with the gas turned low and the light of the hunter's moon streaming through the window. They had been singing softly in a minor key but gradually the singing turned to talk. The talk, in accordance with the moonlight and flying clouds was in a sentimental vein and it ended naturally with Rosalie's great experience. Between maidenly hesitations and many promptings she retold the story. The new girls had never heard it and to the old girls it was always new. The stage setting had been perfect a moonlit beach and lapping waves and rustling pine trees. When Rosalie chanced to emit any detail her hearer's already familiar with the story eagerly supplied it. And he held your hand all the time he was talking, Priscilla prompted. Oh, Rosalie, did he? In a shocked chorus from the newcomers. Yes, he just sort of took hold of it and forgot to let go and I didn't like to remind him. What did he say? He said he couldn't live without me. And what did you say? I said I was awfully sorry but he'd have to. And then what happened? Nothing happened, she was obliged to confess. I suppose something might have happened if I had accepted him but you see I didn't. But you were very young at the time, suggested Evelina Smith. Are you sure you knew your own mind? Rosalie nodded with an air of melancholy regret. Yes, I knew I couldn't ever love him because he... Well, he had an awfully funny nose. It started to point in one direction and then changed its mind and pointed in the other. Her hearers would have preferred that she had admitted this detail but Rosalie was literal minded and lacked the storyteller's instinct for suppression. He asked if there wasn't any hope that I would change, she added pensively. I told him that I could never love him enough to marry him but that I would always respect him. And then what did he say? He said he wouldn't commit suicide. A profound hush followed while Rosalie gazed at the moon and the others gazed at Rosalie. With her gleaming hair and violet eyes she was entirely their ideal of a storybook heroine. They did not think of envying her. They merely wondered and admired. She was crowned by natural right, queen of romance. May Van Arstael, who had listened in silence to the recital was the first to break the spell. She rose, fluffed up her hair, straightened her blouse and politely suppressed a yawn. Nonsense, Rosalie, you're a silly little goose to make such a fuss over nothing. Good night, children, I am going to bed now." She sauntered toward the door but paused on the threshold to drop the casual statement, I have been proposed to you three times. A shocked gasp arose from the circle at this lace majesty. The disdainful condescension of a new girl was more than they could brook. She's a horrid old thing and I don't believe a word she says, Priscilla declared stoutly as she kissed poor crushed little Rosalie. Good night. This slight contreton marked the beginning of strained relations. May Martel gathered her own adherents and Rosalie's special coterie of friends rallied to the standard of their queen. They intimated to May's followers that the quality of the romance was quite different in the two cases. May might be the heroine of any number of commonplace flirtations but Rosalie was the victim of grand passion. She was marked with an indelible scar that she would carry to the grave. In the heat of their allegiance they overlooked the crookedness of the hero's nose and the avowed fact that Rosalie's own affections had not been engaged. But May's trump card had been withheld. Whispers presently spread about under the seal of confidence. She was hopelessly in love. It was not a matter of the past vacation but of the burning present. Her roommate wakened to the night to hear her sobbing to herself. She had no appetite. Her whole table could testify to that. In the middle of dessert, even on ice-cream nights she would forget to eat and with her spoon half-raised would sit staring into space. When reminded that she was at the table she would start guiltily and hastily bolt the rest of the meal. Her enemies unkindly commented upon the fact that she always came to before the end so she got as much as anybody else. The English classes at St. Ursula's were weakly drilled in the old fashioned manner writing. The girls wrote letters home minutely descriptive of school life. They addressed imaginary girlfriends and grandmothers and college brothers and baby sisters. They were learning the great secret of literary forcefulness to suit their style to their audience. Ultimately they arrived at the point of thanking imaginary young men for imaginary flowers. May listened to the somewhat stilted phraseology of these polite and proper the class covertly regarding her thrilled anew. Gradually the details of the romance spread abroad. The man was English May had met him on the steamer and some day when his elder brother died the brother was suffering from an incurable malady that would carry him off in a few years. He would come into the title though just what the title was May had not specifically stated. But in any case her father was a staunch American. He hated the English and he hated titles. The daughter of his should ever marry a foreigner. If she did she would never receive a dollar from him. However neither May nor Cuthbert cared about the money. Cuthbert had plenty of his own. His name was Cuthbert St. John, pronounced singin. He had four names in all but those were the two he used most. He was in England now having been summoned by Cable owing to the critical condition of his brother's health. But the crisis was passed and Cuthbert would soon be returning. Then May closed her lips in a straight line and stared defiantly into space. Her father should see. Before the throbbing reality of this romance Rosalie's poor little history paled into nothing. Then the plot began to thicken. Studying the lists of incoming steamers May announced to her roommate that he had landed. He had given his word to her father not to write but she knew that in some way she should hear. Sure enough the following morning brought a nameless bunch of violets. There had been doubters before but at this tangible proof of devotion skepticism crumbled. May wore her violets to church on Sunday. The school mixed its responses in a shocking fashion. Nobody pretended to follow the service. All eyes were fixed on May's upturned face and far off smile. Patty Wyatt pointed out that May had taken special pains to seat herself in the light of a stained glass window and that occasionally the wrapped eyes scanned the faces of her companions to make sure that the effect was reaching across the footlights. But Patty's insinuation was indignantly repudiated by the school. May was at last triumphantly secure in the role of leading lady. Poor and sippid Rosalie no longer had a speaking part. The affair ran on for several weeks gathering momentum as it moved. In the European travel class that met on Monday nights English country seats was the subject of one of the talks illustrated by the stereo opticon. As a stately terrorist mansion with deer cropping grass in the foreground was thrown upon the screen May Murtel suddenly grew faint. She vouchsafed no reason to the housekeeper who came with hot water bottles and cologne. But later she whispered to her roommate that that was the house where he was born. Violets continued to arrive each Saturday and May became more and more distraite. The annual basketball game with Highland Hall and nearby school for girls was imminent. St. Ursula's had been beaten the year before. It would mean everlasting disgrace if defeat met them a second time for Highland Hall was a third their size. The captain harangued and scolded an apathetic team. It's May Murtel and her beastly violets she grumbled disgustedly to Patty she's taken all the fight out of them. The teachers meanwhile were uneasily aware that the atmosphere was overcharged. The girls stood about in groups thrilling visibly when May Murtel passed by. There was a moonlight atmosphere about the school that was not conducive to high marks in Latin prose composition. The matter finally became the subject of an anxious faculty meeting. There was no actual data at hand it was all surmise but the source of the trouble was evident. The school had been sweat before by a wave of sentiment it was as catching the Dowager was inclined to think that the simplest method of clearing the atmosphere would be to pack May Murtel and her four trunks back to the paternal fireside and let her foolish mother deal with the case. Miss Lord was characteristically bent upon fighting it out. She would stop the nonsense by force. Mademoiselle who was inclined to sentiment feared that the poor child was really suffering. She thought sympathy intact but Miss Sally's bluff common sense won the day. If the sanity of St. Ursula's demanded it May Murtel must go but she thought by the use of a little diplomacy both St. Ursula's sanity and May Murtel might be preserved. Leave the matter to her she would use her own methods. Miss Sally was the Dowager's daughter. She managed the practical end of the establishment provided for the table ruled the servants and ran off with the utmost ease the two hundred acres of the school farm. Between the details of horseshoeing and haying and butter-making she lent her abilities wherever they were needed. She never taught but she disciplined. The school was noted for unusual punishments and most of them originated in Miss Sally's brain. Her title of Dragonette was bestowed in respectful admiration of her mental qualities. The next day was Tuesday. Miss Sally's regular time for inspecting the farm. As she came downstairs after luncheon drawing on her driving gloves she just escaped stepping on Connie Wilder and Patty Wyatt who flat on their stomachs were trying to poke out a golf ball from under the hat rack. Hello girls, was her cheerful greeting. Wouldn't you like a little drive to the farm? Run and tell Miss Wadsworth that you were excused from afternoon study. You may stay away from current events this evening and make it up. The two scrambled into hats and coats in excited delight. A visit to Round Hill Farm with Miss Sally was the greatest good that St. Ursula's had to offer. She was the funniest, most companionable person in the world. After an exhilarating five mile drive through a brown and yellow October landscape they spent a couple of hours romping over the farm, had milk and ginger cookies in Mrs. Spence's kitchen, and started back, wedged in between cabbages and eggs and butter. They chatted gaily on a dozen different themes, the Thanksgiving masquerade, a possible play, the coming game with Highland Hall and the lamentable new rule that made the editorials in the daily papers. Finally, when conversation flagged for a moment, Miss Sally dropped the casual inquiry. By the way, girls, what has gotten to May Van Oerstel? She droops about in corners that looks as dismal as a molting chicken. Petty and Connie exchanged a glance. Of course Miss Sally continued cheerfully. It's perfectly evident what the trouble is. I haven't been connected with a boarding school for ten years for nothing. The little idiot is posing as the object of an unhappy affection. You know that I never fail tail-bearing, but, just as a matter of curiosity, is it the young man who passes the plate in church, or the one who sells ribbon in Martian Elkins? Neither, Petty grinned, it's an English nobleman. What? Miss Sally stared. And May's father hates English nobleman, Connie explained, and has forbidden him ever to see her again. Her heart is broken, said he sadly. She's going into a decline. And the violets inquired Miss Sally. He promised not to send her any letters, but violets weren't mentioned. I see, said Miss Sally. And after a moment of thought, girls, I'm going to leave this matter in your hands. I want it stopped. In our hands? The school can't be stirred up any longer, but the matter's too silly to warrant the teachers taking any notice of it. This is a thing that ought to be regulated by public opinion. Suppose you see what you can do. I will appoint you a committee to bring the school back to a solid basis of common sense. I know that I can trust you not to talk. I don't exactly see what we can do, said Petty dubiously. You are not usually without resourcefulness. Miss Sally returned with a flickering smile. You may have a carte blanche to choose your own methods. And may we tell Priscilla? Connie asked. We must tell her, because we three are together? Miss Sally nodded. Tell Priscilla and let it stop at that. The next afternoon, when Martin drove into the village to accomplish the daily errands, he dropped Petty and Priscilla at the florists, empowered by the school to purchase flowers for the rector's wife and new baby. They turned inside, their minds entirely occupied with the rival merits of red and white roses. They ordered their flowers, inscribed the card, and then waited aimlessly till Martin should return to pick them up. Passing down the counter, they came upon a bill sticker, the topmost item being violets every Saturday to Miss May Van Arsdale, St. Ursula's school. They stopped and stared for a thoughtful moment. The florist followed their gaze. Do you happen to know the young lady who ordered them violets? He inquired. She didn't leave any name, and I'd like to know if she wants me to keep on sending them. She only paid up to the first, and then the price is going up. No, I don't know who it was, said Patty, with well-assumed indifference. What did she look like? She... she had on a blue coat, he suggested. As all sixty-four of the St. Ursula girls wore blue coats, his description was not helpful. Oh! Patty prompted. Was she quite tall with a lot of yellow hair, and that's her? He recognized the type with some assurance. It's May herself! Priscilla whispered excitedly. Patty nodded and commanded silence. We'll tell her, she promised. And by the way, she added to Priscilla, I think it would be nice for us to send some flowers to May from our secret society. But I'm afraid their treasury is pretty low just now. They'll have to be cheaper than violets. What are your cheapest flowers, she inquired of the man? There's a kind of small sunflower that some people likes for decorations. Cut and come again, they're called. I can give you a good-sized bunch for fifty cents. They make quite a show. Just the thing. Send a bunch of sunflowers to Miss Van Arsdale with this card. Patty drew a blank card toward her, and in an upright backhand traced the inscription, you're a disconsolate C. St. J. She sealed it in an envelope, then regarded the florist sternly. Are you a mason? She asked her eye on the crescent in his buttonhole. Yes, he acknowledged. Then you understand the nature of an oath of secrecy. You are not to divulge to anyone the center of these flowers. The tall young lady with the yellow hair will come in here and try to make you tell who sent them. You are not to remember. It may even have been a man. You don't know anything about it. This secret society at St. Ursula's is so very much more secret than the Masonic Society that it is even a secret that it exists. Do you understand? I... Yes, ma'am, he grinned. If it becomes known, she added darkly, I shall not be responsible for your life. She and Priscilla each contributed a quarter for the flowers. It's going to be expensive, Patty Side. I think we'll have to ask Miss Sally for an extra allowance while this committee is in session. May was in her room, surrounded by an assemblage of her special followers when the flowers arrived. She received the box and some bewilderment. He's sending flowers on Wednesdays as well as Saturdays, her roommate cried. He must be getting desperate. May opened the box and made an excited hush. How perfectly lovely they cried in chorus, though with a slightly perfunctory undertone they would have preferred crimson roses. May regarded the offering for a moment of stupefied amazement. She had been pretending so long that by now she almost believed in Cuthbert herself. The circle was waiting and she rallied her powers to meet this unexpected crisis. I wonder what sunflowers mean, she asked softly. They must convey some message. Does anybody know the language of flowers? Nobody did know the language of flowers, but they were relieved at the suggestion. Here's a card. Evelina Smith plucked it from among the bristling leaves. May made a motion to examine it in private, but she had been so generous with her confidences here too for that she was not allowed to withdraw them at this interesting point. They leaned over her shoulder and read it to see St. J. Oh, May, think how he must be suffering! Poor man! He simply couldn't remain silent any longer. He's the soul of honour, said May. He wouldn't write a real letter because he promised not to, but I suppose a little message like this Patty Wyatt passing the door sauntered in. The card was exhibited in spite of a feeble protest from May. That handwriting shows a lot of character Patty Wyatt. This was considered a concession, for Patty, from the first, had held aloof from the cult of Cuthbert-Singen. She was Rosalie's friend. The days that followed were filled with bewildering experiences for May Mertel. Having accepted the first installment of Sunflower, she could not well refuse the second. Once having committed herself, she was lost. Candy and books followed the flowers and horrifying profusion. The candy was of an inexpensive variety. Patty had discovered the Tencent store, but the boxes that contained it made up in decorativeness what the candy lacked. They were sprinkled with cupids and roses in vivid profusion. A message in the same backhand accompanied each gift, signed sometimes with initials, and sometimes with a simple birdie. Parsels had never before been delivered with such unsuspicious promptitude. Miss Sally was the one through whose hands they went. She glanced at the outside, scrawled a deliver, and the maid would choose the most embarrassing moments to comply, always when May Mertel was surrounded by an audience. May's Englishman, from an object of sentiment in a few days' time became the joke of the school. His taste in literature was as impossible as his taste in candy. He ran to titles which are supposed to be the special prerogative of the kitchen. Loved and lost, a born coquette, thorns among the orange blossoms. Poor May repudiated them, but to no avail, the school had accepted Cuthbert and was bent upon eliciting all the entertainment possible from his British vagaries. May's life became one long dread of seeing the maid appear with a parcel. The last straw was the arrival of a complete edition in paper of Marie Corelli. He never sent them, she sobbed, somebody's just trying to be funny. You mustn't mind May, because they aren't just the sort that an American man would choose, Patty offered comfort. You know that Englishmen have queer tastes, particularly in books. Everybody reads Marie Corelli over there. The next Saturday, a party of girls was taken to the city for shopping in the matinee. Among other errands, the art class visited a photograph dealers to purchase some early Italian masters. Patty's interest in giato and his kind was not very keen, and she sauntered off on a tour of inspection. She happened upon a pile of actors and her eye brightened as she singled out a large photograph of an unfamiliar leading man, with curling mustache and dimpled chin and large, appealing eyes. He was dressed in hunting costume and conspicuously displayed a crop. The picture was the last word in twentieth-century romance, and most perfect touch of all it bore a London mark. Patty unobtrusively deflected the rest of the committee from a consideration of Fra Angelico, and the three heads spent delightedly over the find. It's perfect, connoisseur, but it costs a dollar and fifty cents. We'll have to go without soda water forever, said Priscilla. It is expensive, Patty agreed, but, as she restudied the liquid, appealing eyes, I really think it's worth it. They each contributed fifty cents and the picture was theirs. Patty rode across the front in the bold backhand that May had come to hate. She sent her message in French and signed the full name Cuthbert-Singen. She had it wrapped in a plain envelope and requested the somewhat wondering clerk to mail it the following Wednesday morning as it was an anniversary present and must not arrive before the day. The picture came on the five o'clock delivery and was handed to May as the girls trooped out from afternoon study. She received it in a sulky silence and retired to her room. May had worked hard to gain a following and now it couldn't be shaken off. Open it, May, quick. What do you suppose it is? It can't be flowers or candy. He must be starting something new. I don't care what it is. May viciously tossed the parcel into the wastebasket. Irene McCullough fished it out and cut the string. Oh, May, it's his photograph, she squealed, and he's perfectly beautiful. Did you ever see such eyes? Does he curl his mustache or is it natural? Why didn't you tell us he had a dimple in his chin? Does he always wear those clothes? May was divided between curiosity and anger. She snatched the photograph away, cast one glance at the languishing brown eyes and tumbled it face downward into a bureau drawer. Don't ever mention his name to me again, she commanded, as with compressed lips she commenced brushing her hair for dinner. On the next Friday afternoon, shopping-day in the village, Patty and Connie and Priscilla dropped in at the florists to pay a bill. Two bunches of sunflowers, one dollar the man had just announced in ringing tones from the rear of the store, when a step sounded behind them and they faced about to find May Murtel Van Arsdale bent on the similar errand. Oh, said May fiercely, I might have known it was you three. She stared for a moment in silence, then she dropped into a rustic seat and buried her head on the counter. She had shed so many tears of late that they flowed automatically. I suppose, she sobbed, you'll tell the whole school and everybody will laugh and and... The three regarded her with unbending mean. They were not to be moved by a few tears. You said that Rosalie was a silly little goose to make such a fuss over nothing, Priscilla reminded her, and at least he was a live man, said Patty, even if he did have a crooked nose. Do you still think she was a silly little goose Connie inquired? No. Don't you think you've been a great deal more silly? Yes. And will you apologize to Rosalie? No. It will make quite a funny story, Patty ruminated the way we'll tell it. I think you're perfectly horrid. Will you apologize to Rosalie? Priscilla asked again. Yes. If you'll promise not to tell. We'll promise I'm going to tell you to break your engagement to Cuthbert's singin' and never refer to it again. Cuthbert sailed for England on the oceanic the following Thursday. St. Ursula's plunged into a fever of basketball and the atmosphere became bracingly free of romance. End of Chapter 2 Recording by Lorelle Anderson Sanford, Florida Chapter 3 Of Just Patty by Jean Webster This LibriVox record is in the public domain. Recording by Lorelle Anderson Chapter 3 Of Just Patty The Virgil Strike I'm tired of women's rights on Friday afternoons, said Patty disgustedly. I prefer soda water. This makes the third time they've taken away our holiday for the sake of a beastly lecture, Priscilla grumbled, as she peered over Patty's shoulder to read the notice on the bulletin board in Miss Lord's perpendicular library hand. It informed the school that instead of the usual shopping exposition to the village they would have the pleasure that afternoon of listening to a talk by Professor McVeigh of Columbia University. The subject would be the strike of the women laundry workers. Tea would be served in the drawing room afterwards, with May Van Arsdale, Harriet Gladden, and Patty Wyatt as hostesses. It's not my turn, objected Patty, as she noted the letter item I was hostess two weeks ago. That's because you wrote an essay on the eight hour day. Lordy thinks you will ask the Professor Man intelligent questions, and show him that Saint Ursula's is not a common boarding school where only superficial accomplishments are taught, but one in which the actual problems of, and I did want to go shopping, Patty mourned, I need some new shoestrings. My old ones every day for a week. Here she comes, whispered Priscilla, look happier, she'll make you translate the whole. Good morning, Miss Lord! We were just noticing about the lecture, it sounds extremely interesting. The two smiled a perfunctory greeting, and followed their teacher to the morning's Latin. Miss Lord was the one who struck the modern note at Saint Ursula's. She believed in militant suffragism and unions and boycotts and strikes, and she labored hard to bring the charges to her own advanced position. But it was against a heavy inertia that she worked. Her little charges didn't care a wrap about receiving their rights in the dim future of twenty-one, but they were very much concerned about losing a present half-holiday. On Friday afternoons they were ordinarily allowed to draw checks on the school bank for their allowances, and march in a procession, a teacher forming the head and tail, to the village stores where they laid in their weekly supply and soda, water, and Kodak films. Even had one acquired so many demerits that her weekly stipend was entirely eaten up by fines, still she marched to the village and watched the lucky ones disperse. It made a break in the monotony of six days of bounds. But every cloud has its silver lining. Miss Lord preceded the virtual recitation that morning by a discussion of the lecture to come. The laundry strike, she told them, marked an epic in industrial history. It proved that women as well as men were capable of standing by each other. The solidarity of labour was a point she wished her girls to grasp. Her girls listened with grave attention, and by eagerly putting a question whenever she showed signs of running down, they managed to stave off the Latin recitation for three-quarters of an hour. The professor, a mild man with a van dyke beard, came and lectured exhaustively upon the relations of employer and his audience listened with politely intelligent smiles, but with minds serenely occupied elsewhere. The great questions of capital and labour were not half so important to them as the fact of the lost afternoon, or the essays that must be written for tomorrow's English, or even that this was ice-cream night with dancing class to follow. But Patti, on the front seat, sat with wide, serious eyes fixed on the lecturer's face. She was absorbing his arguments T followed, according to schedule. The three chosen ones received their guests with a facility of long-tried hostesses. The fact that their bearing was under inspection with marks to follow did not appreciably diminish their case. They were learning by the laboratory method the social graces that would be needed later in the larger world. Harriet and May presided at the T-table, while Patti engaged the personage in conversation. He commented later to Miss Lorde upon the student's rare understanding in economic subjects. Miss Lorde replied with some complacence that she endeavored to have her girls think for themselves. Sociology was a field in which lessons could not be taught by rote. Each must work out her own conclusions and act upon them. Ice-cream and dancing restored the balance of Saint Ursula's after the mental exertions of the afternoon. At half-past nine, the school did until ten on dancing-nights. Patti and Priscilla dropped their good-night curtsy, murmured a polite bourgeois-memsel, and scampered upstairs, still very wide awake. Instead of preparing for bed with all dispatch, as well-conducted schoolgirls should, they engaged themselves in practicing the steps of their new Spanish dance down the length of the South Corridor. They brought up with a pirouette at Rosalie Patton's door. Rosalie, still in the pale blue dress of her dancing frock, was sitting cross-legged on the couch, her yellow curls bent over the open pages of a Virgil, tears spattering with dreary regularity on the lines she was conning. The course of Rosalie's progress through senior Latin might be marked by blistered pages. She was a pretty, cuddling, helpless little thing, deplorably babyish for a senior, but irresistibly appealing. Everyone teased her and protected her and loved her. She was irrevocably destined to bowl over the first band who came along with her ultra-feminine irresponsibility. Rosalie very often dreamed, when she ought to have been concentrating upon Latin grammar, of that happy future state in which smiles and kisses would take the place of gerunds and gerundives. You silly little muff, cried Patty, why on earth are you bothering with Latin on a Friday night? She landed herself with a plump on Rosalie's right, and took away it. I have to, Rosalie sobbed. I'd never finish if I didn't begin. I don't see any sense to it. I can't do eighty lines in two hours. Miss Lord always calls on me for the end, because she knows I won't do that. Why don't you begin at the end and read backward? Patty practically suggested. But that wouldn't be fair, and I can't do it so fast as the others. I work more than two hours every day, but I simply never get through. I know I shan't pass. Eighty lines is a good deal, Patty agreed. It's easy for you, because you know all the words, but I worked more than two hours on mine yesterday, said Priscilla, and I can't afford it either. I have to save some time for geometry. I just simply can't do it! Rosalie wailed, and she thinks I'm stupid, because I don't keep up with Patty. Connie Wilder drifted in. What's the matter, she asked, viewing Rosalie's tear-streaked cry on the pillow, child, don't spoil your dress? The Latin situation was explained. Oh, it's awful the way Lordy works us. She would like to have us spend every moment grubbing over Latin and sociology. She doesn't think dancing and French and manners are any good at all, sobbed Rosalie, mentioning the three branches in which she excelled, and I think they're a lot more sensible than subjunctives. You can put them to practical consideration, but there's not much use for sociology in Latin! Patty emerged from a moment of reverie. There is not much use in Latin, she agreed, but I should think something might be done with sociology. Ms. Lord told us to apply it to our everyday problems. Rosalie swept the idea aside with a gesture of disdain. Listen, Paddy commanded, springing to her feet and pacing the floor in an ecstasy of enthusiasm. but it'll learn, particularly Rosalie, and you heard what the man said, it isn't fair to gauge the working day by the capacity of the strongest, the weakest has to set the pace, or else he's left behind, that's what Lordy means when she talks about the solidarity of labour. In any trade the workers have got to stand by each other, the strong must protect the weak, it's the duty of the rest of the class to stand by Rosalie. Yes, but how, inquired Priscilla, breaking into the tirade, will form a virginal union and strike for sixty lines a day. Oh! gasped Rosalie, horrified at the audacity of the suggestion. Let's! cried Connie, rising to the call. Do you think we can? asked Priscilla dubiously. What will Miss Lorde say? Rosalie quavered. She can't say anything. Didn't she tell us to listen to the lecture and apply its teaching? Patty reminded. She'll be delighted to find we have, said Connie. But what if she doesn't give in? We'll call out the Cicero and Caesar classes in a sympathetic strike. Hooray! cried Connie. Lordy does believe in unions, Priscilla conceded. She ought to see the justice of it. Of course she'll see the justice of it, Patty insisted. We're exactly like the laundry workers, in the position of dependence and the only way we can match strength with our employer is by standing together. If Rosalie alone drops back to sixty lines, she'll be flunked. But if the whole class does, Lordy will have to give in. Maybe the whole class won't want to join the union, said Priscilla. We'll make them, said Patty. In accordance with Miss Lorde's desire, she had grasped some basic principles. We'll have to hurry, she added, glancing at the clock. Priss, you've run and fined Irene and Harriet and Florence Hissup. And Connie, you rad out Nancy Lee. She's up in Evelina Smith's room telling ghost stories. Rosalie stopped crying and dubbed the things off those chairs so somebody can sit down. Priscilla started obediently, but paused on the threshold. And what will you do, she inquired with meaning. I, said Patty, will be labour leader. The meeting was convened, and Patty, a self-constituted chairman, outlined the tenets of the Virgil union. Sixty lines was to constitute a working day. The class was to explain the case to Miss Lorde at the regular session on Monday morning, and politely but positively refused to read the last twenty lines that had been assigned. If Miss Lorde proved insistent, the girls were to close their books and go out on strike. The majority of the class, hypnotized by Patty's eloquence, daisily accepted the program, but Rosalie, for whose special benefit the union had been formed, had to be coerced into signing the Constitution. Finally, after a wealth of argument had been expended, she wrote her name in a very wobbly hand, and sealed it with a tear. By nature, Rosalie was not a fighter. She preferred gaining her rights by more feminine methods. Irene McCullough had also to be forced. She was a conscious soul who looked forward to consequences. One of the most frequently applied of Saint Ursula's punishments was to make the culprit miss desserts. Irene suffered keenly under this form of chastisement, and she carefully refrained from misdemeanors which might bring it upon her. But Connie produced a convincing argument. She threatened to tell that the chambermaid was in the habit of smuggling in chocolates, and poor, harassed Irene, threatened with the twofold loss of chocolates and desserts sullenly added her signature. Lights out rang. The Virgil union adjourned its first meeting and went to bed. Senior Latin came the last hour of the morning when everyone was tired and hungry. On Monday following the founding of the union, the Virgil class gathered outside the door in growing perturbation as the actual time for the battle approached. Patty rallied them in a brief address. Brace up, Rosalie. Don't be a crybaby. We'll help you out if the last lines come to you, and for goodness' sake, girls, don't look so scared. Remember you're suffering not only for yourselves, but for all the generations of Virgil classes that come after you. Anyone who backs down now is a coward. Patty established herself on the front seat, directly in the line of fire, and a slight skirmish occurred at the outset. Her heavy walking boots were conspicuously laced with pale baby blue ribbon, which caught the enemy's eye. That is scarcely the kind of shoelaces that a lady adopts. May I ask, Patty? I broke my other laces, Patty affably explained, and since we didn't go shopping on Friday I couldn't get any more. I don't quite like the effect myself, she conceited, as she stuck out of foot and critically surveyed it. See that you find some black ones immediately after class, Miss Lorde acidly suggested. Priscilla, you may read the first ten lines. The lesson progressed in the usual manner, except that there was a visible tightening of nerves as each recitation was finished, and they waited to hear the next name called. Connie's turn ended with the sixtieth line. No one had gone beyond that, all ahead was Virgin Jungle. This was the point for the Union to declare itself, and the burden, true to her forebodings, fell upon poor, trembling little Rosalie. She cast an imploring glance toward Patty's sternly waiting countenance, stammered, hesitated, and miserably plunged into a sight translation. Rosalie never had the slightest luck at sight translations. Even after two hours of patient work with a dictionary, she was still extremely hesitant as to meanings. Now she blindly forged ahead, amid a profound hush, attributing to the pious Aeneas a most amazing set of actions. She finished, and the slaughter commenced. Miss Lorde spent three minutes in obliterating Rosalie, then passed the lines to Irene McCullough. Irene drew a deep breath. She felt Connie encouragingly patting her on the back, while Patty and Priscilla at either hand jogged her elbow with insistent touch. She opened her mouth to declare the principles that had been foisted upon her overnight. Then she caught the cold gleam of Miss Lorde's eye. Rosalie's sobs filled the room. And she fell. Irene was fairly good at Latin. Her sight translation was at least intelligible. Miss Lorde's comment was merely sarcastic, as she passed to Florence Hissop. By this time the panic had swept through the ranks. Florence would like to have been true to her pledged trough, but the instinct of self-preservation is strong. She improved on Irene's performance. Take the next ten lines, Patty, and endeavor to extract a glimmering of sense. Please bear in mind that we are reading poetry. Patty raised her head and faced her superior in the matter of a Christian martyr. I only prepared the first sixty lines, Miss Lorde. Why did you not finish the lesson that I gave out? Miss Lorde inquired sharply. We have decided that eighty lines are more that we could do in a day. It takes too much time away from our other lessons. We are perfectly willing to do sixty lines and do them thoroughly, but we can't consider any more. Miss Lorde for a moment simply stared. Never had she known such a flagrant case of insubordination. And it was purely insubordination for Patty was the most capable person in the class. What do you mean, she gasped at last? We have formed a Virgil union, Patty gravely explained. You, Miss Lorde, will appreciate the fairness of our demands better than any of the other teachers, because you believe in unions. Now the girls in this class feel that they are overworked and underpaid. Uh, that is, I mean, the lessons are too long. Patty fetched a deep breath and started again. Eighty lines a day doesn't leave us any time for recreation, so we have determined to join together and demand our rights. We occupy the position of skilled laborers. You can get all the girls you want for Caesar and beginning Latin, but you can't find anybody but us to read Virgil. It's like the laundry trade. We are not just plain boilers and starchers. We are fancy ironers. If you want to have a Virgil class, you have got to have us. You can't call in scab labor. Now we aren't trying to take advantage because of our superior strength. We are perfectly willing to do an honest day's work, but we can't allow ourselves to be—or to be— Patty fumbled a moment for her word, but in the end she brought it out triumphantly. We can't allow ourselves to be exploited. Singly, we are no match for you, but together we can dictate our own terms. Because two or three of us can keep up the pace you set is no reason why we should allow the others to be overworked. It is our duty to stand by one another against the encroachments of our employer. We women are not so advanced as men, but we are learning. Upon the solidarity of labor depends the life of Rosalie. In case you refuse to meet our demands, the Virgil class will be obliged to go out on strike. Patty pronounced her ultimatum and leaned back with folded arms. A moment of silence followed. Then Miss Lord spoke. The class went down in hopeless abject terror before the storm. Miss Lord's icy sarcasm was, in moments of intensity, lightened by gleams of fire. She had Irish ancestors and red hair. Patty alone listened with head erect and steely eyes. The red blood of martyrs died her cheeks. She was fighting for a cause. Weak, helpless little Rosalie sniffling at her elbow should be saved. The cowardice of her comrades put to shame. She, single-handed, would fight and win. Miss Lord finally drew breath. The class is dismissed. Patty will remain in the school room until she has translated perfectly the last twenty lines. I will hear her read them after luncheon. The girls rose and pressed on a huddled body toward the hall while Patty turned into the empty school room. On the threshold she paused to her one contemptuous word over her shoulder. Scabs! The lunch bell rang, and Patty, at her desk in the empty school room, heard the girls laughing and talking as they clattered down the tin-covered back stairs to the dining room. She was very tired and very hungry. She had had five hours of work since breakfast with only a glass of milk at eleven o'clock. Even the pleasurable sensation of being abused did not quite offset the pangs of hunger. She listlessly set about learning the morrow's lesson in French history. It dealt with another martyr. Louis IX left his bones bleaching on the plains of Antioch. The cause was different, but the principle remained. If she was not to be fed until she learned the Latin, very well, she would leave her bones bleaching in the school room of Saint Ursula's. An insistent tapping sounded on the window. She glanced across an angle to find Osaki, the Japanese butler, leaning far out from his pantry window and extending toward her a dinner plate containing a large lone slab of turkey. Leave plate in wastebasket, Missy, he whispered hoarsely. Patty, for an instant, struggled with dignity and martyrdom, but hunger and a love of intrigue triumphed. She tiptoed over and received the offering. There was no knife or fork, but primitive methods suffice in a case of real starvation. She finished the turkey and buried the plate beneath a pile of algebra papers. It was Osaki's daily business to empty the wastebasket. The plate in due course would be restored to its shelf. A few moments later a scurrying footfall sounded at the door and a little junior A darted to Patty's side. She cast a conspiratorial glance over her shoulder as she drew from a bulging blouse two buttered rolls. Take him quick, she panted. I must hurry back or they'll suspect. I ask to be excused to get a handkerchief. Keep up your courage, we won't let you starve. It's splendid! She thrust the rolls into Patty's lap and vanished. Patty found it comforting to know that the school was with her. The attractions of martyrdom are enhanced by the knowledge of an audience. Also, the rolls were a grateful addition to the turkey. Her five-hour appetite was still insistent. She finished one of them and was about to begin on the second when furtive footfalls sounded behind her and one of the maids slipped a paper plate over her shoulder. Here's some fresh gingerbread, Miss Patty. Cook says. The sound of a closing door startled her and she scurried off like a detected thief. Patty placed her second roll in the waste basket in company with the turkey plate and was just starting on the gingerbread when a scrambling sounded at the end window. A blue hat appeared momentarily over the sill, its owner boosted from below and an unidentified hand sent an orange rolling down the center aisle. Patty hastily intercepted its course and dropped it into the waste basket. Luncheon would be over momentarily and a visit from Miss Lorde was imminent. The influx of supplies was growing embarrassing. She heard the rising flood of talk as the girls poured from the dining room. She knew the sympathetic group were viewing her from the open doors behind. Judging from the ceaseless shuffle of footsteps, all St. Ursula's had errands that led past the schoolroom door. Patty did not cast a glance behind, but with rigid shoulders stared into space. Presently a rattling sounded above her head. She raised startled eyes to a register set in the ceiling and saw Irene McCullough's anxious face peering through the opening. You can live for days on chocolates, came in a stage whisper. I'm awfully sorry there's only half a pound. I ate the rest last night. The register was lifted out and a box was swiftly lowered by a string. Irene was chief of the scabs. Thank you, Irene. Patty returned in a haughty stage whisper. I do not care to accept any. Miss Lorde's voice became audible in the hall. I thought, young ladies, that afternoon recreation was to be spent out of doors. Patty just had time to snatch the box and drop it in her lap with an open essay book above when Miss Lorde advanced into the room. Patty's face assumed an air of suffering stoicism as she stared ahead in the profound hope that Irene would have sense enough to remove eight feet of dangling string. Miss Lorde was followed by Osaki carrying a tray with two slices of dry bread and a glass of water. Have you finished your Latin, Patty? No, Miss Lorde. Why not? I am going to do tomorrow's lesson in afternoon study hour. Patty's tone was respectful, but her meaning was clear. She emphasized slightly the word tomorrow. You will do the twenty lines immediately. A speaking silence from Patty. Do you hear me? Yes, Miss Lorde. Well? The mono syllable was sharp enough to cut. I stand by my principles, said Patty. I am not a scab. You may sit here until those twenty lines are finished. Very well, Miss Lorde. I do not wish you to suffer. Here is bread and water. She motioned Osaki to sit down the tray. Patty waved it aside. I am not a convict, she said with dignity. I refuse to eat until I am served properly at the dining-room table. A fleeting grin replaced for a moment Osaki's oriental calm. Miss Lorde set the bread on a neighboring desk and the two withdrew. All through recreation and afternoon study Patty sat at her desk, the plate of bread conspicuously untouched at her elbow. Then the five o'clock bell rang and the girls trooped out and dispersed in their various businesses. The hour between afternoon study and dressing bell was the one hour of the day entirely their own. Patty could hear them romping up the back stairs and racing through the corridors. Kid McCoy was conducting a pillow fight in Paradise Alley above her head. Groups passed the schoolroom window with happy calls and laughter. Pepper and Tabasco, the two riding horses, were saddled and brought out. She could see the girls taking turns and galloping around the oval, as Ringmaster waved his whip and urged them on. Martin now was bent with rheumatism, but in his far-off reckless youth he had been a cowboy, and when he taught the girls to ride it was with a disregard of broken bones that dismayed even the adventurous gymnasium teacher. Patty was his star pupil. She could stick on red pepper's back with nothing but a blanket to hold her. It was only very occasionally when Martin was in a propitious mood that the horses were saddled with public amusement. Patty's heart was sore as she watched Priscilla and Connie, her two dearest friends, disport themselves, regardless of their incarcerated mate. It grew dusk. Nobody came to furnish a light, and Patty sat in the semi-darkness. Her head bent wearily on her arms. Finally she heard footsteps in the hall and Miss Sally entered and closed the door behind her. Patty braced herself anew. One needed keen wits to match the dragonette. Miss Sally had been talking with Miss Lord, and she was inclined to think that Patty needed chastisement of a rare sort, but it was her practice to hear both sides. She drew up a chair and commenced with business-like directness. See here, Patty, what is the meaning of all this nonsense? Patty raised reproachful eyes. Nonsense, Miss Sally? Yes, nonsense! Miss Lord says that you refused to learn the lesson that she assigned and that you incited the rest of the girls to mutiny. You are one of the most able pupils in the class, and your failure to finish the lesson is nothing in the world but stubbornness. If it were rosely patent now, there might be some sense in it. I don't think you understand, said Patty gently. It might be well for you to explain, suggested Miss Sally. I must stand by my principles. By all means, Miss Sally affably agreed, and what are your principles? To hold out for sixty lines of Virgil. It isn't because I want to strike Miss Sally, it would be much easier for me to do the eighty lines, but that wouldn't be fair to Rosalie. The working day should not be gauged by the capacity of the strongest. Miss Lord will flunk Rosalie if the rest of us don't take care of her. Upon the solidarity of labour depends the welfare of the individual worker. It is the fight of the oppressed against the encroachments of of the organized authority. Oh, I see. I really begin to believe that you listened to that lecture, Patty. Of course I listened, Patty nodded, and I must say that I am awfully disappointed in Miss Lord. She told us to apply our knowledge of sociology to the problems of our daily lives, and when we do, she backs down. But anyway, we intend to maintain the strike until she is ready to meet our just demands. It isn't through selfish motives that I am acting Miss Sally. I should a lot rather have something for writing. I am fighting for the cause of my suffering sisters. The ceiling above shook at the impact as four of her suffering sisters came down on top of one another while the walls resounded with their shrieks and laughter. Miss Sally's lip twitched, but she controlled herself and spoke with serious gravity. Very well, Patty. I am glad to know that this unprecedented behavior is caused by charitable motives. I am sure that when Miss Lord finds out the case, she will feel gratified. Suppose I act as intermediary and lay the matter before her. We may be able to arrive at a compromise. The half hour that followed dinner was usually devoted to dancing in the big square hall, but tonight the girls were inclined to stand about in groups with furtive glances toward the school room. A conference was going on inside. Miss Lord, the Dowager, and the Dragonet had passed in and shut the door. Kid McCoy, returning from Paradise Alley, where she had been stretched on her stomach with her face to the register, reported that Patty had fainted through lack of food, that the Dowager had revived her with whiskey, and that she had come to still cheering for the union. Kid McCoy's statements, however, were apt to be touched by imagination. The school was divided in its opinion of Patty's course. The scabs were inclined to make light of her achievement, but Connie and Priscilla finally the school room door opened and the faculty emerged and passed to the Dowager's private study while the dancing commenced with sudden fervor. No one today, like to be caught by Miss Lord, was spring in a corner. Patty followed alone. Her face was pale, and there were weary circles about her eyes, but in them shown the light of victory. Patty! Are you dead? How did it come out? It was perfectly splendid. Was she furious? What did she say? We arbitrated the question and have settled on a compromise, Patty replied, with quiet dignity. Hereafter, the lesson will be seventy lines. The Virgil strike is declared off. They pressed about her eager for details, but she separated herself and kept on toward the dining room door. There was an aloofness about her, an air of having experienced the heights alone. She was not quite ready to rub shoulders with common humanity. The school settled itself to evening study and Patty to her dinner. They could see her across the court through the lighted window as she sat in state at the end of a long table. Osaki on one side tendered preserved strawberries and Maggie on the other frosted cakes. The rewards of martyrdom in Patty's case were solidly substantial. End of Chapter 3 Recording by Larell Anderson Sanford, Florida Chapter 4 Of Just Patty This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Larell Anderson Just Patty by Jean Webster Chapter 4 The Third Man from the End Oh, Patty! Did you bring us some wedding cake? Did you have any adventures? Connie at Priscilla with the dexterity of practice sprang upon the rear step of the hearse as it turned in at the school gate and rolled up the curving drive to the Port Couchere. The hearse was the popular name for the black-varnished wagonette which conveyed the pupils of St. Ursula's from church and station. It was planned to accommodate twenty. Patty and her suitcase, alone in the capaceous interior, were jolting about like two tiny peas in a very big pod. Adventures, she called back excitedly. Wait till you hear! As they came to a stop they were besieged by a crowd of blue-coated girls. It was afternoon recreation for the broad. The welcome that she received would have led an onlooker to infer that Patty had gone three months instead of three days. She and her two postillions descended and Martin gathered up his reins. Come on, use! All who once arrived to the stables was his hospitable invitation. It inundated him with passengers. They crowded inside, twice as many as the hearse would hold. They swarmed over the driver's seat while the horse's backs. What's the adventure? demanded Connie and Priscilla in a breath as the cavalcade rattled off. Patty waved her hand toward the suitcase. There it is. Take it upstairs. I'll be with you as soon as I've reported. But that isn't your suitcase. Patty shook her head mysteriously. If you tried a thousand years you'd never guess who owns it. Who? Patty laughed. Looks like a man, said Connie. It is. Oh, Patty, it's aspirating. Where'd you get it? Just a little souvenir that I picked up. I'll tell you as soon as I've interviewed the Dowager. Hurry and slip in while Jelly isn't looking. They cast a quick glance over their shoulders toward the gymnasium instructor who was arguing fat Irene McCullough into faster movements on the tennis court. Miss Jellings was insistent that recreation should be actively pursued out of doors. The two could easily have obtained permission to greet Patty's return inside, in the trio never to ask permission in minor matters. It wasted one's credit unnecessarily. Priscilla and Connie turned upstairs, lugging the suitcase between them while Patty approached the principal's study. Ten minutes later she joined her companions in seven Paradise Alley. They were sitting on the bed, their chins in their hands, studying the suitcase propped on the chair before them. Well, they inquired in a breath. She says she's glad to see me back in bed and cake. If my lessons show any sign of falling off, who owns it? The man with the black eyebrows and the dimple in his chin who sang the funny songs third from the end on the right-hand side. German Hillier Jr. Priscilla asked breathlessly. Not really. Connie laid her hand on her heart with an exaggerated sigh. Truly an honest Patty turned it over and pointed to the initials on the end. J. H. Jr. His, cried Priscilla. Where on earth did you get it, Patty? Is it locked? Yes, Patty nodded, but my key will open it. What's in it? Oh, a dress suit and collars and... and things. Where'd you get it? Well, said Patty languidly, it's a long story. I don't know that I have time before study hour. Oh, tell us, please! I think you're beastly. Well, the Glee Club was last Thursday night. They nodded impatiently at this useless piece of information. And it was Friday morning that I left. As I was listening to the Dowager's part of remarks about being inconspicuous and reflecting credit on the school by my nice manners, Martin sent in word that Princess was lame and couldn't be driven. So instead of going to the station in the hearse, I went with Mamzell in the trolley car. When we got in, it was crammed full of men. The entire Yale Glee Club was going to the station. There were so many of them that they were sitting in each other's laps. The whole top layer said perfectly gravely and politely, Madame, take my seat. Mamzell was outraged. She said in French, which of course they all understood, that she thought American college boys had disgraceful manners, but I smiled a little. I couldn't help it, they were so funny. And then two of the bottom ones offered their seats, and we sat down. And you'll never believe it, but the third man from the end was sitting right next to me. Not really! Oh, Patty! Is he as good looking near to as he was aged? Better. Are those his real eyebrows, or were they blacked? They looked real, but I couldn't examine them closely. Of course they're real, said Connie indignantly. And what do you think, Patty demanded, they were going on my train. Did you ever hear of such a coincidence? What did Mamzell think of that? She was as flustered as an old hen with one chicken. She put me in charge of a conductor with so many instructions that I know he felt like a newly engaged nursemaid. The Glee Club men rode in the smoking car, except German Hillier Jr., and he followed me right into the parlor car and sat down in the chair exactly opposite. Oh, Patty! they cried in shocked chorus. You surely didn't speak to him. Of course not. I looked out the window and pretended he wasn't there. Oh, Connie murmured disappointedly. Then what happened? Priscilla asked. Nothing at all. I got out at Coombsdale and Uncle Tom met me with the automobile. The chauffeur took my suitcase from the porter, and I didn't see it near two at all. We reached the house just at tea time, and I went straight into tea without going upstairs. The butler took up my suitcase, and the maid came and asked for the key so she could unpack. The house is simply running over with servants. I'm always scared to death. For fear I'll do something they won't think is proper. All the ushers and bridesmaids were there, and everything was very jolly. Only I couldn't make out what they were talking about half the time, because they all knew each other, and had no idea what they were talking about. Connie nodded feelingly. That's the way they acted at the seaside last summer. I think grown people have horrid manners. I did feel sort of young, Patty acknowledged. One of the men brought me some tea and asked what I was studying in school. He was trying to obey Louise and amuse little cousin, but he was thinking all the time what an awful bore it was talking to a girl with her hair braided. I told you to put it up, said Priscilla. Just wait, said Patty portentiously. When I went upstairs for dinner, the maid met me in the hall with her eyes popping out of her head. Big pardon, Miss Patty, she said, but is that your suitcase? Yes, I said, of course it's my suitcase. What's the matter with it? She just waved her hand toward the table and didn't say a word, and there it was, wide open. Patty took a key from her pocket, unlocked the suitcase, and threw back the lid. A man's dress suit was neatly folded on the top, with a pipe, a box of cigarettes, some collars, and various other masculine trifles on the interstices. Oh, they gasped in breathless chorus. They belonged to him, Connie murmured fervently. Patty nodded, and when I showed Uncle Tom that suitcase, he nearly died laughing. He telephoned to the station, but they didn't know anything about it, and I didn't know where the Glee Club was going to perform, so we couldn't tell a graph, Mr. Hilliard. Uncle Tom lives five miles from town, and there simply wasn't anything we could do that night. I'd just imagine his feelings when he started to dress for the concert and found Patty's new pink evening gown spread out on top, suggested Priscilla. Oh, Patty! Do you suppose he opened it, asked Connie? I'm afraid he did. The cases are exact twins, and the keys both seem to fit. I hope it looked all right. Oh, yes, it looked beautiful. Everything was trimmed with pink ribbon. I always pack with an eye to the maid when I visit Uncle Tom. But the dinner and the wedding! What did you do without your clothes? Asked Priscilla in rueful remembrance of the dress-makers. That was the best part of it, Patty affirmed. Miss Lorde simply wouldn't let me get a respectable evening gown. She went with me herself and told Miss Pringle how to make it, just like all my dancing dresses, nine inches off the floor, with elbow sleeves and a silly sash. I hated it, anyway. You must remember you are a school girl, Connie quoted, and until just wait till I tell you, Patty triumphed. Louise brought me one of her dresses, one of her very best ball gowns, which I didn't wear it anymore because she had all new clothes in her trousseau. It was white crepe embroidered in gold spangles and it had a train. It was long in front, too. I had to walk without lifting my feet. The maid came and dressed me. She did my hair up on top of my head with a gold fillet. And Aunt Emma loaned me a pearl necklace and some long gloves, and I looked perfectly beautiful. I did, honestly. You wouldn't have known me. And you know he tried to flirt with me. He did, really, and he was getting awfully old. He must have been almost forty. I felt as though I were flirting with my grandfather. You know, Patty added, it isn't so bad being grown up. I believe you really do have a sort of good time, if you're pretty. Six eyes sought the mirrors for a reflective moment before Patty resumed her chronicle. And Uncle Tom made me tell about the suitcase at the dinner table. Everybody laughed. It made a very exciting story. I told them about the whole school going to the Glee Club and falling in love in a body with the third man from the end, and how we all cut his picture out of the program and pasted it in our watches, and then about my sitting across from him in the train and changing suitcases. Mr. Harper, the man next to me, said it was the most romantic thing he had ever heard in his life, that Louise's marriage was nothing to it. But about the suitcase they prompted, didn't she do anything more? Uncle Tom telephoned again in the morning, and the station agent said he had got the party on the wire as had the young lady's case. And he was coming back here in two days and I was to leave his suitcase with the baggageman at the station, and he would leave mine. But you didn't leave it. I came on the other road. I'm going to send it down. And what did you wear at the wedding? Louise's clothes. It didn't matter a bit am I not matching the other bridesmaids, because I was made of honour and ought to dress differently anyway. I've been grown up for three days, and I just wish Miss Lord could have seen me with a hair on top of my head talking to men. Did you tell the Dowager? Yes, I told her about getting the wrong suitcase. I didn't mention the fact that it belonged to the third man from the end. What did she say? She said it was very careless of me to run off with a strange man's luggage, and she hoped he was a gentleman and would take it nicely. She telephoned to the baggageman that it was here, but she couldn't send Martin with it this afternoon, because he had to go to the farm for some eggs. Recreation was over, and the girls came trooping in to gather books and pads and pencils for the approaching study hour. Everyone who passed number seven dropped in to hear the news. Each in turn received the story of the suitcase, and each in turn gasped anew at the sight of the contents. Doesn't it smell tobacco-y and bay-rum-ish? said Rosalie Patton, sniffing. Oh, there's a button loose! cried Florence Hissop, the careful housewife. Where's some black silk, Patty? She threaded a needle and secured the button. Then she daringly tried on the coat. Eight others followed her example and thrilled at the touch. It was calculated to fit a far larger person than any present. Even Irene McCullough found it baggy. He had awfully broad shoulders, said Rosalie, stroking the satin lining. They peered daintily at the other garments. Oh! squealed Maymertel. He wears blue silk suspenders. And something else blue chirped Edna Hartwell peering over her shoulder, their pajamas. And to think of such a thing happening to Patty, sighed Maymertel. Why not? bristled Patty. You're so young! Wait till you see me with my hair done up. I wonder what the end will be? asked Rosalie. The end, said May unkindly, will be that the baggage man will deliver the suitcase and German Hilliard Junior will never know. A maid appeared at the door. If you please, she murmured, her amazed eyes on Irene, who was still wearing the coat. Mrs. Trent would like to have Miss Patty Wyatt and I am to take the suitcase down. The gentleman is waiting. Oh! Patty! a gasp went around the room. Do your hair up! quick! Priscilla caught Patty's twin braids and wound them around her head while the others in a flutter of excitement thrust in the coat and relocked the suitcase. They crowded after her in a body and hung over the banisters at a perilous angle, straining their ears in the direction of the drawing room. Nothing but a murmur of voices floated up, punctuated by an occasional deep base laugh. When they heard the front door close with one accord they invaded Harriet Gladden's room, which commanded the walk and pressed their noses against the pane. A short, thick-set man of German build was waddling toward the gate and the trolley-car. They gazed with wide, horrified eyes and turned without a word to meet Patty as she trudged upstairs lugging her errant suitcase. A glance told her that they had seen and dropping on the top step she leaned her head against the railing and laughed. His name, she choked, is John Hochstetter Jr. He's a wholesale grocer and was on his way to a grocer's convention where he was to make a speech comparing American cheese with imported cheese. He didn't mind at all not having his dress suit never feels comfortable in it any way, he says. He explained to the convention why he didn't have it on and it made the funniest speech of the evening. There's the study bell. Patty rose and turned toward Paradise Alley but paused to throw back a further detail. He has a dear little daughter of his own just my age.