"Why did you object to come here?" asked Aunt Jane.
"Well, I didn't know you; and I didn't especially want to know you. Not that I bear grudges, understand, although you've been little of a friend to my folks these past years. But you are rich and proud—and I suspect you're a little cross, Aunt Jane—while we are poor and proud and like to live our lives in our own way."
"Are you a working girl?" enquired Miss Merrick.
"Surely," said Patsy, "and drawing a big lump of salary every Saturday night. I'm a hair-dresser, you know—and by the way, Aunt Jane, it puzzles me to find a certain kink in your hair that I thought I'd invented myself."
"Louise dressed my hair this way," said Miss Merrick, a bit stiffly.
"Your maid?"
"My niece, Louise Merrick."
Patsy whistled, and then clapped her hand over her mouth and looked grave.
"Is she here?" she asked, a moment later.
"Yes, and your other cousin, Elizabeth De Graf, is here also."
"That's just the trouble," cried Patsy, energetically. "That's why I didn't want to come, you know."
"I don't understand you, Patricia."
"Why, it's as plain as the nose on your face, even if I hadn't pumped Mr. Watson until I got the truth out of him. You want us girls here just to compare us with each other, and pick out the one you like best."
"Well?"
"The others you'll throw over, and the favorite will get your money."
"Haven't I a right to do that?" asked the invalid, in an amazed tone.
"Perhaps you have. But we may as well understand each other right now, Aunt Jane. I won't touch a penny of your money, under any circumstances."
"I don't think you will, Patricia."
The girl laughed, with a joyous, infectious merriment that was hard to resist.
"Stick to that, aunt, and there's no reason we shouldn't be friends," she said, pleasantly. "I don't mind coming to see you, for it will give me a bit of a rest and the country is beautiful just now. More than that, I believe I shall like you. You've had your own way a long time, and you've grown crochetty and harsh and disagreeable; but there are good lines around your mouth and eyes, and your nature's liable to soften and get sunny again. I'm sure I hope so. So, if you'd like me to stay a few days, I'll take off my things and make myself at home. But I'm out of the race for your money, and I'll pay my way from now on just as I have always done."
Silas Watson watched Aunt Jane's face during this speech with an anxious and half-frightened expression upon his own. No one but himself had ever dared to talk to Jane Merrick as plainly as this before, and he wondered how she would accept such frankness from a young girl.
But Patricia's manner was not at all offensive. Her big eyes were as frank as her words, but they glistened with kindliness and good nature, and it was evident the girl had no doubt at all of her aunt's reply, for she straightway begun to take off her hat.
The invalid had kept her eyes sternly fastened upon her young niece ever since the beginning of the interview. Now she reached out a hand and touched her bell.
"Misery," she said to the old housekeeper, "show my niece, Miss
Patricia, to the rose chamber. And see that she is made comfortable."
"Thank you," said Patsy, jumping up to go.
"Make yourself perfectly free of the place," continued Aunt Jane, in an even tone, turning to Patricia, "and have as good a time as you can. I'm afraid it's rather stupid here for girls, but that can't be helped. Stay as long as you please, and go home whenever you like; but while you are here, if you ever feel like chatting with a harsh and disagreeable old woman, come to me at any time and you will be welcome."
Patsy, standing before her, looked down into her worn face with a pitying expression.
"Ah! I've been cruel to you," she exclaimed, impulsively, "and I didn't mean to hurt you at all, Aunt Jane. You must forgive me. It's just my blunt Irish way, you see; but if I hadn't been drawn to you from the first I wouldn't have said a word—good or bad!"
"Go now," replied Aunt Jane, turning in her chair rather wearily. "But come to me again whenever you like."
Patsy nodded, and followed the housekeeper to the rose chamber—the prettiest room old Elmhurst possessed, with broad windows opening directly upon the finest part of the garden.
Lawyer Watson sat opposite his old friend for some moments in thoughtful silence. "The child is impossible." he said, at last.
"You think so?" she enquired, moodily.
"Absolutely. Either of the others would make a better Lady of Elmhurst. Yet I like the little thing, I confess. She quite won my old heart after I had known her for five minutes. But money would ruin her. She's a child of the people, and ought not to be raised from her proper level. Jane, Jane—you're making a grave mistake in all this. Why don't you do the only right thing in your power, and leave Elmhurst to Kenneth?"
"You bore me, Silas," she answered, coldly. "The boy is the most impossible of all."
It was the old protest and the old reply. He had hardly expected anything different.
After a period of thought he asked;
"What is this I hear about John Merrick having returned from the
West?"
"He came yesterday. It was a great surprise to me."
"I never knew this brother, I believe."
"No; he had gone away before I became acquainted with either you or
Tom."
"What sort of a man is he?"
"Honest and simple, hard-headed and experienced."
"Is he independent?"
"I believe so; he has never mentioned his affairs to me. But he has worked hard all his life, he says, and now means to end his days peacefully. John is not especially refined in his manner, nor did he have much of an education; but he seems to be a good deal of a man, for all that. I am very glad he appeared at Elmhurst just at this time."
"You had believed him dead?"
"Yes. He had passed out of my life completely, and I never knew what became of him."
"He must be an eccentric person," said Mr. Watson, with a smile.
"He is." she acknowledged. "But blood is thicker than water, Silas, and I'm glad brother John is here at last."
A little later the lawyer left her and picked his way through the gardens until he came to Kenneth's wing and the stair that led to his room. Here he paused a moment, finding himself surrounded by a profound stillness, broken only by the chirping of the birds in the shrubbery. Perhaps Kenneth was not in. He half decided to retrace his steps, but finally mounted the stair softly and stood within the doorway of the room.
The boy and a little stout man were playing chess at a table, and both were in a deep study of the game. The boy's back was toward him, but the man observed the newcomer and gave a nod. Then he dropped his eyes again to the table.
Kenneth was frowning sullenly.
"You're bound to lose the pawn, whichever way you play," said the little man quietly.
The boy gave an angry cry, and thrust the table from him, sending the chess-men clattering into a corner. Instantly the little man leaned over and grasped the