ise your letter. What your poor dear
father would have thought I cannot conceive.

"What I did was done from the best motives, as I felt you were
compromising yourself by a secret engagement.

"I am sorry to find that you have become exceedingly self-willed of
late, and I fear London has done you no good.

"As your sole surviving relative, it is my duty to look after your
welfare. This I promised your dear father on his death-bed.

"Gratitude I do not ask, nor do I expect it; but I am determined to do
my duty by my brother's child. I cannot but deplore the tone in which
you last wrote to me, and also the rather foolish threat that your
letter contained.

"Your affectionate aunt,
"ADELAIDE BRENT.

"P.S.--I shall make a point of coming up to London soon. Even your
rudeness will not prevent me from doing my duty by my brother's
child.--A. B."

As she tore up the letter, Patricia remembered her father once saying,
"Your aunt's sense of duty is the most offensive sense I have ever
encountered."

One day as Patricia was endeavouring to sort out into some sort of
coherence a sheaf of notes that Mr. Bonsor had made upon Botulism, Mr.
Triggs entered the library. After his cheery "How goes it, me dear?"
he stood for some moments gazing down at her solicitously.

"You ain't lookin' well, me dear," he said with conviction.

"That's a sure way to a woman's heart," replied Patricia gaily.

"'Ow's that, me dear?" he questioned.

"Why, telling her that she's looking plain," retorted Patricia.

Mr. Triggs protested.

"All I want is a holiday," went on Patricia. "There are only three
weeks to wait and then----"

There was, however, no joy of anticipation in her voice.

"You're frettin'!"

Patricia turned angrily upon Mr. Triggs.

"Fretting! What on earth do you mean, Mr. Triggs?" she demanded.

Mr. Triggs sat down suddenly, overwhelmed by Patricia's indignation.

"Don't be cross with me, me dear." Mr. Triggs looked so like a child
fearing rebuke that she was forced to smile.

"You must not say absurd things then," she retorted. "What have I got
to fret about?"

Mr. Triggs quailed beneath her challenging glance. "I--I'm sorry, me
dear," he said contritely.

"Don't be sorry, Mr. Triggs," said Patricia severely; "be accurate."

"I'm sorry, me dear," repeated Mr. Triggs.

"But that doesn't answer my question," Patricia persisted. "What have
I to fret about?"

Mr. Triggs mopped his brow vigoro