“I – I forgot!”
“Well, it's no kind of a name for you to be using, but it’s as good as any for the present, I suppose. Here, take my purse and get a special delivery stamp put on that one. Now go, and don't hurry! I'm going to take a nap right here in the sunshine and I shan't want to be disturbed for an hour at least, so you can take your time."
Patty thus dismissed, went off on her walk, but the old lady would have been disappointed if she could have watched her taking a bypath into the woods and keeping entirely away from the regular walk, where all the hotel guests promenaded. Patty, on the other hand, would have been astonished if she could have seen the alert old lady who rose from her chair as soon as the girl had disappeared around the turn of the walk. She steered straight for the office and consulted the hotel register, gleaning a few names for further consideration. She asked an abrupt question or two of the hotel clerk, and then giving a comprehensive glance around the circle of rocking chairs ranged about the big open fireplace, she selected one which commanded a good view of the front door, the wide staircase, the descending elevators, and had the added advantage of being next to a woman whom she recognized as an old habitue of the hotel. Not that she cared for the woman, or had ever given her even scant courtesy in the years gone by, but just now she felt she might make use of her. So she dropped down in the vacant rocker and fell upon her knitting grimly:
"Well, I see you're back again early. Who's here now? Any of the last year's people?"
The woman in lavendar looked up surprised at the friendly tone and prepared for a good hour's work. Here was one whom she had longed to question and had always lacked the opportunity.
“Oh, how delightful, dear Miss Cole. Are the Horliss-Coles down this season? I thought I saw your niece with you last night.”
“No, that wasn't my niece, that's a young cousin named Fisher, Edith Fisher.”
“A cousin?” said the lavendar one, pricking up her ears, and not a Horliss-Cole? “You didn't have other brothers or sisters, did you? Excuse me for asking, but we were discussing that matter here on the porch the other day, and I said I thought there was another brother – or was it a sister?”
“Oh, no, nothing like that,” declared Miss Cole with a grim, set of amusement to her thin lips. “There were only two of us, Jim and I. This girl's related farther back. We both had the same great-grandfather several times removed. Adams, the name. You wouldn't probably know.”
“Now you speak of it, I do remember hearing of the Adams-Fishers. There was a Fisher-Adams down here last week. Probably he was related.”
“Probably,” said Miss Cole, dryly.
“What a pity he isn't here now! It is so interesting to trace relationships, don't you think. Miss Cole?”
“I presume there are plenty of young men left, aren't there? Who is here anyway?”
“Oh, there's the most interesting man, just back from France, Dunham Treeves! You ought to see him. He's handsome as a picture, and absolutely indifferent, they say. He's a nephew of old Calvin Treeves, you know, the multi-millionaire, son of his only brother, who died a number of years ago. They say it's quite romantic, his being here. It seems there's been an estrangement in the family or something, and Calvin wouldn't recognize his brother's wife. But she's dead now and this young man has appeared on the scene. Mrs. Burleson says that he is to be Calvin Treeves's heir. She ought to know, for Burleson has been old Treeves's lawyer for the last twenty years ——”
“H'm! Calvin Treeves's nephew! How old is he?”
“Well, I should say twenty-five or maybe twenty-six – nobody seems to know exactly. But he’s stunningly handsome and has no end of honors on his head. Though the queer thing about it is he won’t wear any of his medals nor his uniform nor anything. They say his uncle's peeved about that, and of course it is trying, but then I understand the best young fellows are pursuing that indifferent method, and it really gives a kind of eclat, you know. But it makes it hard for the relatives. I really don't see why they won't wear their uniforms, though, they do look so fascinating in them, especially if a man has legs! Legs, you know, are really a thing to be proud of, there are so few. I should have adored to live in the time when gentlemen wore short breeches and knee buckles; they must have given such an air of refinement, and thread lace ruffles ——!”
“I think we have fools enough how without putting ruffles on them!” snorted Miss Cole, forgetting her affable role for the moment.
“Oh, well, this Dunham Treeves is no fool, I can tell you. They say he was head of his class in college!”
“They say! They say!” grumbled Miss Cole. “Who are they, I'd like to know? Or is that what Calvin Treeves wishes to have believed about his beloved nephew?”
“Oh, now dear Miss Cole, you are so funny!” chirped the lavendar lady. “But really this young man is a very superior fellow, indeed. And independent! Why he doesn't look twice at a girl! And the girls are just crazy about him!”
“Poor fools! Well, how does he look?”
In the course of half an hour Miss Sylvia Cole gathered sufficient data to be sure of the identity of the young man, and excusing herself with scant ceremony she took another look at the registry book. Yes, there it was “J. D. Treeves, Maple Brook, N. Y.” She shut the book and her lips together with a snap of satisfaction and went back to her sheltered corner of the piazza in time to settle herself into the semblance of a profound nap before the return of the girl.
Late that afternoon they were sitting, Patty, and her employer, in a sheltered nook of pines down one of the winding paths that led from the hotel into the resinous grove. There were comfortable rustic seats in plenty scattered here and there in quiet corners, and paths of pine-needle paving threaded the whole hillside, in such cunningly devised pattern that no one intruded upon another, though often they were close enough for a voice to carry from one to another. Miss Cole had settled herself with a book and promptly gone to sleep among a multitude of cushions. It was quite obvious that she was asleep. Patty, with a book in her lap lay back on other cushions and let her eyes follow dreamily the hazy mountain line in the distance, just visible through a carefully trimmed opening in the plumy green curtains about their harbor. Down the mountainside she could hear gay voices calling, and childish laughter, and up above in other paths subdued chatter floated now and again in fragments, and it all made the world seem very far away, and herself a lonely little soul stranded here with a queer old stranger. Almost her heart began to fail her again, and a tear stole out beneath her lashes. She flashed it away with a furtive glance at Miss Cole, and straightened up with a firm little upper lip, setting herself to study the beauty about her. It really was a wonderful place for a girl without a home to have dropped down into, and she ought to be very glad. She was. She even managed a watery little smile at the gentle snores that issued from Miss Cole’s direction.
Suddenly a voice broke the whispering silence of the pines, a voice that she could never mistake:
“Patty Merrill! Is that you down there on the next path? I’ve been looking for you everywhere. Won’t you come down to the first patch of sunlight below you and wait for me? I’ve something to tell you.”
CHAPTER VIII
Patty half started to her feet and lifted her eyes to the plumy wall of green above her, her lips parted to answer,
