In this way it came about that Patty started alone for the afternoon rehearsal. The rain was still falling, although less heavily than in the earlier part of the day. The wet leaves which the wind had torn from the trees lay thick upon the walks, crushing soddenly under her feet. The dreariness of autumn seemed suddenly to have fallen upon the land, and nature to have yielded to it without a struggle. The weeds by the roadside were beaten down and broken; the streets were full of pools of turbid water, which reflected dismally the dark sky. The bright glow of the autumnal foliage had been apparently washed away by the torrents of rain, leaving the landscape gray and drear.

Patty was out of sorts, and even the walk in the rain failed to restore her spirits. She did not at all understand the way in which Tom Putnam kept himself aloof. That a man should make a declaration of love, and then treat its object with quiet neglect, was incomprehensible enough. She recalled that night when he had found her on the doorstep, and contrasted it with his manner on Sunday afternoon in the Castle in the Air. She was unable to understand how Tom, if indeed he loved her, could meet her with calmness; and it was but a step further to conclude that she did not possess his heart. She secretly resolved to meet the lawyer with an indifference to which his should be as nothing; to be colder than ice, as unconcerned as a statue, and as firm as the Pyramids. Raising her eyes at this point of her revery, she saw her lover coming towards her down the village street. She felt a glow of pleasure in spite of herself. With a girl like Patty, no method of wooing could have been more effectual than that which circumstances had forced upon the lawyer, although he had felt keenly the loss of her society.

"I am so glad I have met you!" he said. "I was going to your house, but now I will walk on with you."

Patty was steadying her nerves, and sending back the rebellious blood, which would bound at sight of his tall figure, as he turned and walked at her side.

"I have been so occupied!" he continued. "The executors of Mrs. Sutcliff's estate have been at me night and day. First it is a telegram, and then a letter; and, as I've had Judge Hopcroft's business on my hands since he has been ill, it has kept me very much occupied. I am glad it is about done with. I think I have earned all the money I shall get twice over."

"You are very grateful," Patty said, with an exasperating desire to say something disagreeable.

"Grateful! Of course, I am; but I do not like to be kept always away from you."

"Indeed! You have always yourself for company; and, being a man, according to your theory that ought to suffice."

"But I pity you," he returned lightly. "The other half of my theory is, that you need company."

"Thank you, I've had all I wanted."

He made no reply. He perceived easily that something vexed her, but he could not understand her annoyance. He had been desirous of being near Patty, but, deeply occupied, had not been unhappy away from her. Desire and hope will make a man happy, though separated from the object of his passion, where a woman will pine painfully for his presence. A man may be, for a time, content with love; while woman is happy only with the lover.

Tom Putnam did not doubt that Patty loved him; and he was unable to understand why the knowledge of his love did not make her content, as this assurance did him. He was too old and too stable to follow the changes of her mental atmosphere, or to appreciate the hungry longing which made her desire to annihilate her being in his, to have him utterly her own. His love was as yet half impersonal, almost dormant from the effect of long years of self-repression. A man, too, must learn those secrets of affection which the other sex know by instinct; and, if the knowledge be not gained before the flush of youth is passed, even a passionate nature may prove a slow pupil.

The two friends walked on without speaking for several moments, until, for Patty, the silence became intolerable.

"You have been too much taken up with your own affairs, I suppose," she said, "to trouble yourself about grandmother's pension."

"No," he answered. "I was coming to see about that this afternoon."

"Then it wasn't to see me at all," she returned.

"Come," he said, smiling. "That is better. You really do care, then, whether I come to see you, or not."

"I do not care a straw," she retorted, vexed more and more, both with herself and him. "Only I do not like to have people sail under false colors."

"I don't see the application."

"No matter. What is it about the pension?"

"There is a little trouble."

"Of course. I knew you'd be too much taken up with your own affairs. The money's a trifle; but grandmother is an old lady, and will be so disappointed."

"I think the matter may be arranged," he said gravely, ignoring her taunt. "I am very sorry for the delay."

"What is the trouble?"

"I find it hard to prove your grandmother's marriage."

"What!" she cried.

"I have not been able to find proof of your grandmother's marriage."

"Tom Putnam!"

"I have examined the town-records in vain," he continued; "and she told me in the first place that she had no certificate."

"And you dare to think she was never married!"

"Who said I thought that?" he returned, smiling at her vehemence. "I have to look at things in a legal light; and for this business she is to be considered single until there's proof of her marriage produced."

"You insult her and all the family," Patty said hotly, all her Sanford blood rising in wrath. "I had, at least, believed you a gentleman."

They had reached the Shanklands's gate; and she left him without a word further, entering the house with her head carried like that of an offended goddess. As she came into the parlor, she encountered a perfect whirlwind of voices in question, exclamation, and remonstrance.

"Where have you been?"

"What made you so late?"

"O Patty! do you think we ought to have green lights for the death-scene? It makes everybody look so horridly ghastly."

"We've been waiting an age for you."

"There, there!" exclaimed Patty. "Please don't all speak at once. I'm as cross as an Arab," she added, forcing a smile; "and my name is a misnomer."

"I hope you haven't been quarrelling with Mr. Putnam," Miss Sturtevant said maliciously from her seat by the window. "I thought you left him rather unceremoniously."

"At least I've not been prying into other people's affairs," Patty retorted sweetly. "Come, let's begin."

Every thing went wrong that afternoon. Patty could not prevent her mind's dwelling on her interview with the lawyer, instead of upon the work in hand. The direction of the rehearsals had been put into her care as a matter of course; and her experience in amateur theatricals was large enough to enable her to get through her work half mechanically. She was usually very careful; but to-day every one felt that her mind was elsewhere, and each did what was right in his own eyes.

They rehearsed first "The Faithful Jewess," a remarkable tragedy selected by Miss Sturtevant, who played in it the part of a weird prophetess, and got herself up to look like the Witch of Endor. In choosing the play, Miss Flora had had in mind the including of Mr. Putnam in the cast,—a hope which had been doomed to disappointment. That Miss Flora has been absent so long from these pages results from no want of activity upon the part of that energetic young lady. She had waged constant warfare against the heart of Tom Putnam; but so entirely fruitless had thus far been her efforts, that they scarcely seemed worth chronicling. The lawyer was too entirely engrossed by his passion for Patty Sanford to amuse himself, even had he been given to gallant trifling; and never was sweetness more utterly wasted than that which Flora lavished upon the unresponsive bachelor.

Nor had she been more successful in her attempts to obtain possession of the papers which both Jacob Wentworth and Frank Breck desired. She had indeed made some efforts in that direction, being fully alive to the advantages of herself holding so valuable documents, and thus being in a position to dictate terms, or dispose of her booty to the highest bidder. On the whole, her unscrupulousness, her quick wit and practised skill, had brought her nothing in her summer's campaign but the now valuable bonds of the Samoset and Brookfield Railroad.