Grandmother Sanford's pension had come to be a standing joke. The charming old lady had begun to found upon her expectations the most extensive schemes for benevolence; which, as the pension, if obtained, would be only eight dollars a month, seemed rather premature.

"Charles," she said, "I wish thee'd advance me a small sum on the security of my pension. I desire to send some wine to old Mrs. Utley, and I do not wish to draw for it."

"That pension will be the ruin of you, mother," he said, laughing, as he gave her the money. "You've spent it two or three times over now."

"Thee is mistaken, son," she returned. "There are arrears due, besides that for the future. If friend Putnam would hasten a little, and arrange matters, it would be pleasant."

Mr. Putnam with his nephews had planned a fishing expedition, meaning to leave home Saturday morning, and camp in the woods a few days.

Will Sanford remarked at the breakfast-table Sunday morning, that they did not get away before noon; and some comment was made about their starting so near Sunday.

"They must be back so soon for rehearsals," Patty remarked. "Hazard said they wanted all the time they could get."

"It is a splendid day," Will continued. "I wish I were with them! There's no meeting to-day, and I think I'll drive over to Samoset to church this afternoon. Want to go, girls?"

"I'll go," answered Flossy. "I want to see what they wear over there."

Her cousin, however, preferred remaining at home, and about the middle of the afternoon might have been seen sauntering leisurely down the garden-path, book in hand, toward the old-fashioned summerhouse.

As has been said, the Putnam place adjoined that of Dr. Sanford. A brook flowed between, crossed by a rustic bridge, and fringed with a tangled thicket of elder, roses, wild clevis, and ground-nut vines, with here and there a tall clump of alders wading knee-deep into the water. Not far from the bridge, in the field behind the Putnam mansion, stood a monster elm in the branches of which Mr. Putnam had had an arbor constructed by the placing of a flooring upon two nearly horizontal branches, and surrounding this with a railing. The arbor was reached by means of ladders, and was so completely hidden by the boughs as to be invisible from below.

The wild asters blooming by the brook attracted Patty's steps; and she stood for some moments leaning upon the railing of the bridge, looking down into the water, or out over the lovely scene about her.

It was one of those soft days of early September which are like a memory or a dream. The sky was cloudless, the grass and foliage yet untouched by frost, but beginning to show russet tints of ripeness. The only sound which came to the maiden's ears was the soft purling of the brook beneath her feet as it flowed among the sedges and alders. Now and then a dragon-fly flitted like a flash across; and occasionally a minnow, with the gleam of a dark back or red-tipped fin, darted through the dusky water.

Patty was out of sympathy with the peaceful scene. Such a restless mood had seized her as she seldom experienced. She was dissatisfied with every thing, most of all with Tom Putnam. Since the night of the thunder-storm, she had scarcely seen her lover. The day following he had called while she was riding with Burleigh Blood. The next day he had seen her, indeed, but in a room full of people. For a moment they were alone together one morning soon after, but the interview had been unsatisfactory. Women demand from the men they love their utmost. A man having in some passionate moment shown his capability for utter devotion, his lady feels a vague terror when he falls below this high-wrought mood, as he inevitably must. Perhaps it is the hereditary instinct of a sex that has found men too apt to reach a crisis of passion, only to fall away from it fatally and forever. It is difficult for women to understand a love which flows silently in an underground channel. The lawyer had been too much like his ordinary self, and too little like the ardent lover who had kissed Patty's hand so hotly that August night. He seemed to assume in addressing her that they were betrothed, and she resented this as presumption.

"I am not engaged to you," she said pettishly. "Goodness knows where you got that idea!"

"I dreamed it," he returned; "and the dream was so pleasant, that I chose to believe it."

"It could only have been a nightmare," she retorted.

Immediately after, he had been called from home on business, returning only in time to make arrangements for the fishing expedition; and, as Patty was out when he called, she had not seen him since his return.

"Heigh-ho!" sighed Patty, lifting her eyes from the water to glance toward the Putnam house half-buried in trees. "Heigh-ho! I am getting as stupid as an owl. Now that good fortune has come, I suppose Tom will repair the house. How aunt Pamela will cackle over it! She is always sighing over the departed grandeur of the place."

Aunt Pamela Gilfether was the widowed sister of Tom Putnam's father. She moaned over the fallen fortunes of her race as the autumn wind wails over the departed summer. Her great desire had been that her nephew should marry, and build up the family; and the worthy lady had a standing grievance against Miss Sturtevant for presuming to attempt to insnare Tom by her fascinations. Whenever Miss Sturtevant was mentioned, aunt Pamela was wont to remark contemptuously upon her "blue chany eyes," by which she was understood to indicate that Flora had eyes like those of a china doll.

At the moment Patty's thoughts recurred to aunt Pamela, that lady was seated upon the piazza, talking with Hazard Breck.

"I know he'd have asked Patty long ago," Mrs. Gilfether said, "if only he'd been easy in his affairs. Your father was no kind of a provider, nor no kind of a getting-ahead man, as you know. And what with having you boys on his hands, and me too,—though, to be sure, I'm a Putnam,—it's been a hard pull on Tom."

"I know it, aunt Pamela," Hazard answered in a low tone.

The pain he felt at discovering his uncle's fondness for Patty made him oblivious to the little stings with which aunt Pamela was accustomed to give piquancy to her conversation.

"There he is, up there in that tree now," the lady went on pathetically, "and moping and mooning for that girl, I've no manner of doubt. Not that he ever said a word, or that she's half good enough for him; but he's been crazy over her this ten years, and nothing was just exactly right but what Patience Sanford did."

The idea of his uncle's "moping and mooning" from any cause struck Hazard as ludicrous enough; and he smiled, even while his young heart was full of pain. He rose, and went into the house for his hat, setting out immediately after for a walk.

Whether there was any unconscious influence of the mind of aunt Pamela upon the consciousness of Patty, standing on the bridge, is a question psychologists may consider, if they please. Certain it is, that, while Mrs. Gilfether was commenting upon the love of her nephew for the doctor's daughter, the glance of the maiden was arrested by the ladders leading to Mr. Putnam's Castle in the Air, as he called his elm-tree-arbor; and her thoughts flew in that direction.

"I've a mind to go up there," she said to herself. "The men are all away, and it must be jolly."

She looked about her in all directions, but discerned no one. She hesitated a moment, then crossed the Rubicon by running lightly and rapidly across the field, and began to mount the ladders. At the top of the first ladder she looked about her again, but still discovered no one. She had been a bit of a romp in her younger days, and a feeling of tom-boyish joy came over her. Nimbly as a squirrel she ran up the second ladder. The third was very short, and shut about closely with leaves and branches. As she put her foot upon the lowest rung, the odor of a cigar greeted her nostrils.

"Good-afternoon," said the voice of Tom Putnam above her.

Her short-lived joy vanished in the twinkling of an eye.

"What right has he there?" was her first thought. "I will not go back!" was her second. She stepped up the ladder, disregarding the proffered hand of her lover, and stood upon the floor of the arbor.

"Welcome to the Castle in the Air," he said, extending his hand once more.

She took it with a pout.

"I thought you had gone fishing," said she petulantly.

"We started," he answered; "but we broke down between here and Samoset, so we gave it up."

Patty looked about her curiously. The arbor was half a dozen feet across, with wall and ceiling of green boughs. It was a grotto dug in a huge emerald. On one side an opening had been cut in the foliage, so as to afford a view of the river, and the mountains beyond, now blue and purple with autumn hazes. The castle was securely railed in, and furnished with three or four rustic seats, besides a small table, or rather shelf, supported by a living bough. Upon this lay an open book, in which the lawyer had apparently been reading.

"I trust my cigar does not trouble you," he said: "I'll drop it if it does."

"Not in the least."

Magnetism by induction is a phenomenon no less interesting in the intellectual than in the physical world. The restless mood of Patty, her defensive attitude, began to re-act upon her companion. She unconsciously was defending herself from herself, rather than from him; while he was at once puzzled and offended by her repellence. Patty was more affected by this meeting with her lover than she realized, and her nature instinctively guarded itself against any betrayal of emotion. She affected, as many another has done, to cover her concern by a mask of indifference, and began to banter gayly.

"I would on no account have come here, had I known you were at home," she said.

"Um,"—he returned. "You and truth have one thing in common."

"I am delighted to hear it. What may that be?"

"You are both very coy when sought, and yet will often show your faces unasked."

"Thanks! That is, then, our only resemblance?"

"Oh, no! You both can say extremely disagreeable things."

"And both are very unpleasant generally, I suppose you'd like to add."

"By no means. That would be impolite to my guest."

"I am glad if you keep a semblance even of good manners."

"Manners?" he said reflectively. "I dimly remember having had something of the kind in my youth, but I long since threw them aside. I thought them out of fashion."

"Is that the reason you have not asked me to sit down?"

"I did not know as you would stay long enough to make it an object."

"I can go, of course, if you wish it."

"Don't on my account, I beg," he said coolly. "I am charmed to have you here. I should have invited you, had I supposed you'd accept."

"You have, hundreds of times."

"Have I? We say so many of those things for politeness' sake, and forget them instantly."

She tossed her head, and took up the book he had been reading.

"'Thomas Putnam,'" she read upon the fly-leaf. "What an extremely homely name!" she commented.

"A matter of taste," he replied. "I confess that Patience Putnam would please me better."

"You are very rude!" she said, angry that she needs must blush.

"Am I? You may have an opportunity to polish my manners whenever you choose."

"They need it badly enough; but some materials are so coarse-grained, that they will take no polish. Will you please talk sensibly for a few moments?"

"Certainly. Any thing to please you. Your request is at once too reasonable and too polite to be disregarded. Have you any choice of subject?"

"What have you been reading?"

"Merely a foolish lovelorn ditty."

"Read it to me," she commanded.

"As you please; if you will give me the book. Sir John Suckling is responsible for it."

"'Out of the mouths of babes and sucklings,'" Patty quoted.

The lawyer smiled, and in his rich voice read the following poem:—

TRUE SIGNS OF LOVE.

He read better than he intended, or, indeed, than he knew. His voice had always a remarkable power over Patty,—a fascination which she loved to experience. As he read, she turned away from him, and gazed through the twig-set window toward the softly-outlined hills. As he concluded, she turned her face toward him like a flash of light.

"Do you believe it?" she asked in a voice which proved her melted mood.

But her companion was less facile in his mental changes, and did not respond to this quick transition from banter to sentiment.

"I believe," he replied, "that it is wholly and entirely—poetry. It is not a bad description of Burleigh Blood."

She sprang up impetuously from the seat into which she had sunk, and began to pace restlessly up and down.

"But there is some snap to that sort of love," she said: "one can believe in its earnestness."

"And in its unreasoning exaction," he returned. "It must be very uncomfortable."

"But I'd rather be hated than comfortably loved: it would amount to more. I hate placidity. I think love should be so strong that one surrenders one's whole being to it."

"You are like the rest of your sex," he began. But at that moment a paper fluttered out of the book whose leaves he had been turning carelessly as they talked. "Very apropos," he said, taking it up. "This is the work of a college-friend of mine. I trust you'll pardon my reading it:—

"That is simply abominable!" Patty exclaimed. "He had no idea what love is!"

"I understand that to imply that you do," Mr. Putnam said critically.

"Women know that by intuition."

"Oh!"

"Every woman desires the sort of love Suckling describes," she said insistently, standing at the window, with her back toward her companion.

"I beg your pardon," he said. "Taste in love is as different as taste in flavors."

"But every one must desire true love."

"True love is no more palatable to all than is honey."

She turned suddenly, and faced him. He was startled to see how pale she was.

"What is it?" he cried, springing up from his lounging position. "Are you dizzy?"

"Yes, yes," she said.

He made her sit down, and began to fan her with his hat. Every look and motion was full of solicitude, but the girl shrank from him.

"It is nothing. It has passed now," she said; by a strong effort recovering her composure.

"I am very sorry," he began; but she interrupted him.

"It is all passed," she said, laughing nervously. "I am very foolish. What do you think of the weather?"

"The moon last night entertained a select circle with one or two stars in it," he said slowly, while he watched her with keen eyes; "and that seems to promise rain."

"That is unfortunate," she answered, rising. "We have rehearsal in the afternoon at Selina Brown's, and it is so uncomfortable getting about in the rain!"

"You are not going home now?"

"I must. I am deeply grateful to you for your hospitality, and more for your frankness."

"My frankness?"

"Good-by."

"Wait. You will be dizzy on the ladders."

"Nonsense! I never was dizzy in my life."

"Not a moment ago?"

"Oh, yes! But I am clear-headed now. Don't come. I really mean it. I don't want you."

She slipped down the ladder, leaving him alone. He stood a moment looking at the branches which hid her from his sight, and then flung himself down upon a rustic seat in deep thought.

Meanwhile Patty went back towards the brook and her home. She stopped at the bridge as before, but now the vague unrest in her heart was changed to positive pain. It had not been giddiness which had made her white, but a sudden conviction, that, after all, her lover had no passion worth the name. She was very unhappy,—so unhappy, indeed, as to forget to be angry with herself for being so. She saw Hazard Breck coming down the brookside, and looked about for a means of escape from meeting him. At that moment he looked up, and saw her. He involuntarily made a motion, as if half minded to turn back; and instantly a desire arose in Patty to encounter him. Life, like dreams, goes often by contraries; and desires are oftener caught upon the rebound than directly.

"Good-afternoon," Patty called, with a fine assumption of gayety.

"Good-afternoon," he answered, coming up to her side, and leaning upon the railing of the bridge.

"Are you thinking of suicide?" she asked, as he continued to look, not at her, but intently into the water.

"No, indeed!"

"Then don't look so melancholy, please."

"How shall I look?"

"I don't much care; only don't have that dreadful dead-and-gone expression."

"Shall I grin?"

"Of course not!"

"Why may I not look melancholy, then?"

"Because it does not please me to have you," she said.

"Oh!" he retorted. "The trouble is not in me, then, but in your mood."

"I am not given to moods. I am semper idem."

"So is a post."

"Thank you!" Patty replied. "You are as complimentary as your uncle."

"Uncle Tom? Where did you see him?"

"At various places in Montfield all my life."

Hazard began to look at her curiously. He had at first noticed nothing strange in her manner, being too much occupied with his own disquietude, having left the house after aunt Pamela had confided to him his uncle's passion. He had been walking along the side of the brook, recalling the thousand signs of this love which he had seen, and yet accounted not at all; and he wondered, man-like, at his own obtuseness to what now seemed so clear. When he met Patty, he was absorbed in counterfeiting indifference; but something in her tone made him perceive at length that she was not her usual self. Perhaps the love in his own heart, whose fruition he had unquestioningly resigned at the words of aunt Pamela, made him clearer sighted. He longed to question her, to tell her of his uncle's love and of his own. His lip trembled with the impetuous words he could not speak, and his eyes were fixed upon her face with an intense gaze which was more than she could bear.

"Good-by," she said hastily, and went her way.

"Don't fail to be at rehearsal," she called, lest he should think her leave-taking abrupt.

But she would not look back, for her eyes were full of tears.

Hazard walked thoughtfully on towards the house, which he reached just as a woman drove to the front entrance. It was the woman who went under the name of Mrs. Smithers, and she had driven over from Samoset after Mr. Putnam.