one of the best
families in the village. Mark is gay and thought-less, but never has he
been seen the worse for liquor, and never has he done a thing for
which a wife need hang her head. It is something for a young fellow
of four-and-twenty to be able to provide for a wife and keep her in
comfort; and when all is said and done, it is a true love-match."

Patty seized this inopportune moment to forget her father's presence,
and the tragic nature of the occasion, and, in her usual impetuous
fashion, flung her arms around Waitstill's neck and gave her the hug of
a young bear.

"My own dear sister," she said. "I don't mind anything, so long as you
stand up for us."

"Don't make her go to-night, father," pleaded Waitstill. "Don't send
your own child out into the cold. Remember her husband is away from
home."

"She can find another up at the Mills as good as he is, or better. Off
with you, I say, you trumpery little baggage, you!"

"Go, then, dear, it is better so; Uncle Bart will keep you overnight;
run up and get your things"; and Waitstill sank into a chair, realizing
the hopelessness of the situation.

"She'll not take anything from my house. It's her husband's business to
find her in clothes."

"They'll be better ones than ever you found me," was Patty's response.

No heroics for her; no fainting fits at being disowned; no hysterics at
being turned out of house and home; no prayers for mercy, but a quick
retort for every gibe from her father; and her defiant attitude enraged
the Deacon the more.

"I won't speak again," he said, in a tone that could not be mistaken.
"Into the street you go, with the clothes you stand up in, or I'll do
what I said I'd do."

"Go, Patty, it's the only thing to be done. Don't tremble, for nobody
shall touch a hair of your head. I can trust you to find shelter
to-night, and Mark will take care of you to-morrow."

Patty buttoned her shabby coat and tied on her hood as she walked from
the kitchen through the sitting-room towards the side door, her heart
heaving with shame and anger, and above all with a child's sense of
helplessness at being parted from her sister.

"Don't tell the neighbors any more lies than you can help," called her
father after her retreating form; "an' if any of 'em dare to come up
here an' give me any of their imperdence, they'll be treated same as
you. Come back here, Waitstill, and don't go to slobberin' any good-byes
over her. She ain't likely to get out