"I don't like it at all, somehow, and yet I can't exactly tell you why." Captain Meade shuffled the books and magazines on the sitting-room table, rearranging them precisely and absent-mindedly. On his forehead was an anxious frown.

"But, Daddy," cried Patricia, "what possible objection can there be to my being friends with that lovely girl? She is so lonely and so sad! I just love her already. Think what she has suffered—and is still suffering! It seems as if it would be simply cruel not to be friends with her now, after what she has told me."

"But the very things you've told me about her and your conversations with her make me feel there's something strange about the whole affair. She's not as candid and open in manner as I should like. She seems to be hiding something all the time. And her relationship to that Madame Vanderpoel appears singular. She says the woman is her aunt, by marriage, yet she doesn't seem to care to call her so. I am deeply sorry for the girl, if her story is true, as it probably is, but I feel as if there is much that she is concealing. And I frankly confess that I do not like this Madame Vanderpoel. Why should she have told you that the girl was ill with a severe headache, and then you go in and find her in the best of health, apparently? Things don't hang together, somehow."

"Well, what am I going to do?" demanded Patricia, almost in tears. "Madame Vanderpoel has invited me to go with them on a trip to Creston Beach to-morrow and spend the day with them there. I suppose she wants to do something in return for my looking after Virginie to-day. She spoke to me about it as we passed her table to-night. You had gone on ahead to speak to Mrs. Quale. I told her I'd ask you about it. Are you going to say I mustn't go?"

The captain tugged at the end of his short mustache and strode up and down the room perplexedly. At length he spoke. "You simply must trust me in this matter, honey, and remember that I'm not an old tyrant, but just a cautious Daddy, striving to do what is best for us all. You will have an engagement with Mrs. Quale to-morrow. Fortunately she suggested to me this evening that perhaps you would care to spend the morning with her and help her select some wall-papers for her house that is being rebuilt and decorated. And let me offer just this wee bit of advice. See as much as you want of this little Virginie when you can be with her alone. She is a poor, forlorn child who is suffering greatly—of that I feel certain. And I believe there is no harm in her. But avoid, if you can, any engagement or invitation which includes the older woman."

"Father, what do you suspect her of? What are your suspicions about her?"

"I suspect her of nothing. I do not care for her on general principles. Sometimes we have only instinct to trust, and mine tells me, just now, simply to be careful. That's all. Now call her up on the 'phone and say you will not be able to accompany them, and thank her, of course, for so kindly thinking of you."

Patricia did as she was bid, and was answered by Virginie, who said Madame Vanderpoel was not there. "I'm so sorry that I'll not be able to go, but Father had made another engagement for me," Patricia assured her, and there was a murmured reply over the instrument that the captain could not catch. But when Patricia hung up the receiver, her face was a study in perplexity.

"What do you think she said, Daddy? 'I am not sorry. I enjoy seeing you more by ourselves.' That was all, but isn't it singular? I don't believe she cares for that aunt of hers. And yet, I can't understand why. Madame Vanderpoel seems lovely, to me, and she appears to be so fond of Virginie. I'll take the hint, however. And it fits in very nicely with what you advised me to do, too. Oh, by the way, Daddy, I nearly forgot to tell you what happened this afternoon. And if you don't think that Peter Stoger is spying, after you hear it, I give up." And she described to him the strange incident in the hall.

This time the captain did not laugh at her fears. Instead, he frowned and looked worried. "That does certainly seem suspicious. I'll have to look into the matter," he vouchsafed, and refused to discuss the incident further.

In the two weeks that elapsed after the foregoing incident, the friendship between the girls increased, after a fashion, but Patricia was at times sorely puzzled and perplexed by the strange moods and whims and actions of her new companion. On one day they would be in each other's company for several hours, visiting in the Meades' attractive sitting-room, where they read or sewed, or taking long walks or trolley-rides into the country. On these occasions Virginie would be almost clinging in her confidence in, and affection for, Patricia. Not the tiniest flaw would mar their intercourse, and Patricia would acknowledge herself more deeply interested than ever in this attractive girl. Then on the next day, perhaps for several days following, Virginie would seem distant, reserved, morose, sometimes almost disagreeable. She would pass Patricia with the coldest nod, refuse to make any engagement to be with her, and almost seem to resent any advances toward the furtherance of their friendship. Patricia worried and grieved about it in secret, though she would not openly acknowledge, even to her father, that Virginie's singular conduct hurt her.

Madame Vanderpoel, on the contrary, always seemed most cordial and friendly, and while she never commented on her ward's conduct to Patricia, would often cast at her a deprecatory and apologetic glance when Virginie was more than usually disagreeable in manner. Plainly, the girl's strange conduct tried her sorely, though she was always very sweet about it and ignored it whenever possible. Never again, since the first occasion, had she attempted to induce Patricia to accompany them anywhere or spend any time in their united company. Altogether, so thoughtful and agreeable was she, that Patricia, more fascinated by her than ever, often found herself wishing that she were at liberty to see more of this pleasant Madame Vanderpoel.

One rainy afternoon, Captain Meade having gone out, to be away till a late hour that night on a lecture engagement, Patricia called up her friend on the house telephone to ask her to come across the hall and spend the rest of the day with her. She did this in considerable trepidation, for Virginie had been more than usually morose and disagreeable and distant for a number of days past. As it happened, it was Madame Vanderpoel who answered the 'phone.

"Why certainly, my dear! Virginie will come over at once," she replied cordially. "She has been quite lonely this afternoon, and wishing for something to do. You are very kind."

Patricia had just begun to frame an answer, when, somewhat to her surprise, the receiver at the other end was suddenly hung up and the connection cut. The action was very abrupt. And though she told herself she certainly must have been mistaken, she thought she had heard, before being cut off, a voice in the room with Madame Vanderpoel declaring, "I will not go!" It was all very puzzling.

Virginie did not come in for some time, and in the interval Patricia framed a resolution. She would fathom this girl's singular conduct to-day or never, even if she had to ask the most personal questions to do so.

When the little Belgian at last arrived, she was polite, but distant, in manner, and distinctly unhappy. To Patricia's cordial remarks she returned only monosyllabic answers, was restless and ill at ease. They were sitting together on the couch, each pretending to be deeply engrossed in her fancy-work, when Patricia with wildly beating heart, suddenly determined that the time had come to put her resolve into effect.

"Virginie," she began, abruptly turning to the girl, "won't you tell me what is the trouble? What have I done to offend or annoy you? You are often so strange in your actions toward me. I cannot understand it. I—"

But she got no farther. To her intense amazement and dismay, Virginie suddenly threw herself across the couch in a passion of wild and violent weeping. It was several moments before Patricia could soothe her back to a state where she was able even to speak.

"Oh, I knew you would think this! I knew it. I knew it!" she sobbed. "I knew the time would come when I must explain—or lose your friendship. If you only could trust me. If you only knew—"

Patricia, at a loss for words, could only squeeze her hand in silent assurance.

"But you never will know—and I never can tell you!" she went on wildly. "I love you—I love you—as I love no one else on earth now—beside my father. Do you believe that?"

"I believe it if you say so," Patricia assured her quietly. "I feel sure you are telling me the truth." Her calm, soothing manner was having its effect on the girl's hysterical condition. Virginie herself suddenly became calmer.

"I wish you would make a promise," she continued. "If you knew my life and all that I have to endure,—all the puzzling, bewildering things that are pulling me this way and that—things that I perhaps can never tell you, because they would concern others,—I know that you would promise me this, never to care whether my manner seems cold toward you; never to think unkind thoughts of me, no matter how I may act—to say to yourself always, when I seem the worst, 'Virginie loves me; she does not mean this mood for me!' Could you make me that promise, Patricia? Some day, if God wills, I may be able to explain."

"Indeed, Virginie," cried her companion, sincerely touched, "I trust you every way and always! I'll never be annoyed any more, no matter how you act. I'll understand that it's something quite outside of myself that is causing it. Will that make you feel any better?"

Virginie did not answer in words, but the grateful pressure of her hands was sufficient response. The atmosphere having thus been cleared, Patricia abandoned the subject and plunged gaily into something quite different.

"You told me once, Virginie," she began, "that you had done a good deal of work in water-colors at various times, but you have never shown me any of your sketches. Have you any here with you, and if so, could I see them? I'm awfully interested in that sort of thing, though I don't do much of the kind myself."

"Ah, yes!" cried Virginie, brightening at once. "I have a whole portfolio in my room. I will go to fetch it. I love the work, and I turn to it whenever I have an opportunity." She ran out of the room and hurried back with a batch of color sketches that she spread out on the couch. They were really exceedingly clever, as Patricia recognized at once.

"Why, this is wonderful. You are a real, out-and-out artist, and I never realized it before!" she exclaimed enthusiastically. "I dabble a little in that sort of thing myself once in a while, but I'm not a great success. I do wish I had inherited some of father's artistic ability. He can do beautiful work, but I only just love it and admire it."

"Ah, your father is also an artist?" demanded Virginie, interested afresh.

"Well, I don't know that I'd call him exactly an artist," qualified Patricia. "He can draw and paint 'most everything fairly well, but he does excel in one thing. He's crazy about it,—it's a regular hobby with him,—entomology, you know, the study of bugs and moths and caterpillars and butterflies, and all that sort of thing. And he can make the most beautiful sketches of them. Many's the day I've gone on a long butterfly hunt with him, and then have come home and watched him make sketches of the specimens we've caught. Just let me show you some of the things he's done. I think he has a number of his pet sketches in his trunk. He never travels without them." Patricia brought her father's sketches and placed them in Virginie's hands.

And now it was Virginie's turn to exclaim over the really beautiful work of Captain Meade. There were caterpillars and moths and butterflies, executed with consummate skill and exquisitely colored; each labeled with its own name and species. Virginie marveled over their curious titles.

"Ah, but see here, what singular names—'The Silver Spot,' 'The Red Admiral,' 'The Painted Lady'! Why are they so called?"

"I think it's mainly because of the different marking on the wings," answered Patricia. "You see, each one—but what's that? Some one knocking?" She ran to the door and opened it. Madame Vanderpoel stood outside.

"Do pardon me," she began hesitatingly. "I am making this little blouse for Virginie and have just come to a place where I can go no farther till I try it on. May I come in?"

"Why, surely!" returned Patricia, courteously, and Madame Vanderpoel entered. As Patricia had feared, however, there was an immediate chilling of the atmosphere as far as Virginie was concerned. The girl said not a word, but obediently, if ungraciously, slipped the pretty blouse over her head and stood in silence while Madame Vanderpoel made some necessary alterations. The lady herself strove to appear quite unobservant of the change and chatted on brightly while she completed her work. Patricia, bewildered and uncomfortable, also tried to appear as though nothing unusual was the matter. But she found the task difficult. At length, Madame Vanderpoel, declaring herself satisfied with the result, rose to go. While passing the table, however, she noticed Captain Meade's sketches, and, laying down her sewing, stopped to examine them.

"Ah, what beautiful, what unusual work!" she murmured, taking them up, one by one, and asking Patricia some questions about them. But at last she took her departure.

"Oh, by the way, may Virginie stay and have dinner with me here in our rooms?" questioned Patricia, before she left. Madame Vanderpoel gave her consent and was gone.

It was some time before Virginie recovered her spirits after this interruption, but when she was herself again, the two girls resumed their now wholly delightful intercourse.

"Let's send down for some sarsaparilla and fancy cakes!" suddenly cried Patricia. "I'm hungry and thirsty, too, and it's a good while till dinner-time." She telephoned her wish to the office, and Chester Jackson presently knocked at the door with the order.

"Golly!" he cried suddenly, catching sight of the mass of sketches on the table, "but them's purty things! You'd think they was the real article lit all over the place. Can I look at them?" Patricia laughingly gave her consent, and he turned them over, chuckling at their names. But he, too, at length departed, and the girls were not interrupted further till dinner-time, when Patricia asked to have the meal served in the room.

It was Peter Stoger who entered later with a heavily laden tray, approached the table, glanced about helplessly a moment, then planted the tray directly on top of all the sketches littered over its surface.

"Oh, be careful!" cried Patricia, in dismay. "Don't you see what you're doing? Hold the tray until I remove those things." Peter indifferently lifted the tray while she hastily collected the sketches and put them aside. Then he stolidly resumed his work of arranging the meal, and withdrew.

It was late when Captain Meade returned. Patricia had been telling how she had spent her day, and had just come to the part where she had showed his sketches to Virginie.

"Great Jupiter! You did?" he cried distractedly. "Why on earth didn't I warn you not to! I never dreamed you'd be tempted to do such a thing. Where are they—quick?"

Patricia watched him in a mystified daze as he nervously shuffled them over. What could it all mean? Had she done wrong?

"It's just as I feared!" he groaned. "The Crimson Patch is gone!"