nes--take charge of a little girl?
And now--"

"There is Aunt Sarah," interrupted Pat, refusing to be convinced. "Or
school. I thought you had her in boarding-school like me. Where is she?"

Mr. Patterson was just going to tell Pat about Anne and her whereabouts.
But now he was provoked that his son put the question, not as a request,
but as a demand. He spoke sternly. "You forget yourself, Patrick. It is
not your place to take me to task for pursuing the course that I thought
proper in this matter. We will drop the subject, if you please."

"But, father, Anne--"

"Patrick!" Mr. Patterson interrupted. "Either sit down and finish your
dinner quietly or go to your room."

Pat turned on his heel and went up-stairs, but not to his chamber.
Instead, he made his way to a little attic room with a dormer window.
There was a couch which his mother had covered with chintz patterned in
morning-glories, his birth-month flowers. The book-shelves and the chest
for toys were covered with the same design, applied by her dear hands.
How many a rainy Sunday afternoon his mother and he had spent in this
den, reading and talking together! In the months since his mother's
death, he had never missed her as he did now--in these first days at
home. There was no one to take away the loneliness. Aunt Sarah was with
Cousin Hugh. And now Anne was away--not just for a time but for always.
There was no one left but his father, who seemed like a stranger and
whom--he said it over and over to himself--he did not love.

The boy threw himself face downward on his couch and sobbed as he had
not done since the first days after his mother's death. Where was Anne?
Was she with people who were good to her? If only he had written to her
long ago! Father would have sent the letter, or given the address. He
had begun a letter telling about a big baseball game but he had blotted
it; it was in his portfolio still, unfinished. Poor little Anne! The
tears came afresh. He could see his mother stroking Anne's fair hair, as
she had done one day when he was teasing about Honey-Sweet.

"My son," the gentle voice had said, "you must be good to our little
girl. Remember, she has no one in the world but us."

Dear little Anne! What a jolly playmate she was,--brave, good-tempered,
affectionate! and what a generous little soul! How she always insisted
on dividing her fruit and candies with him when he devoured his share
first.

An hour passed. Mr. Patterson came up