Life at Cromarty Manor was very pleasant indeed.

Although Patty had not definitely realised it, she was thoroughly tired out by her London gaieties, and the peaceful quiet of the country brought her a rest that she truly needed.

Also, the Hartleys were a delightful family to visit. There is quite as much hospitality in knowing when to leave guests to themselves as there is in continually entertaining them.

And while the Hartleys planned many pleasures for Patty, yet there were also hours in the morning or early afternoon, when she was free to follow her own sweet will.

Sometimes she would roam around the historic old house, pausing here and there in some of the silent, unused rooms, to imagine romances of days gone by.

Sometimes she would stroll out-of-doors, through the orchards and woods, by ravines and brooks, always discovering some new and beautiful vista or bit of scenery.

And often she would spend a morning, lying in a hammock beneath the old trees, reading a book, or merely day-dreaming, as she watched the sunlight play hide-and-seek among the leaves above her head.

One morning, after she had been at Cromarty Manor for about a week, Patty betook herself to her favourite hammock, carrying with her a book of Fairy Tales, for which she had never outgrown her childish fondness.

But the book remained unopened, for Patty’s mind was full of busy thoughts.

She looked around at the beautiful landscape which, as far as the eye could reach included only the land belonging to the Cromarty estate. There were more than a thousand acres in all, much of which was cultivated ground, and the rest woodland or rolling meadows. Patty looked at the dark woods in the distance; the orchards nearer by; and, in her immediate vicinity, the beautiful gardens and terraces.

The latter, of which there were two, known as the Upper and Lower Terrace, were two hundred feet long and were separated by a sloping bank of green lawn, dotted with round flower beds.

Above the terraces rose the old house itself. The Manor was built of a grayish stone, and was of Elizabethan architecture.

More than two hundred years old, it had been remodelled and added to by its various successive owners, but much of its fine old, original plan was left.

Ivy clung to its walls, and birds fluttered in and out continually.

There was a tower on either side the great entrance, and Patty loved to fancy that awful and mysterious deeds had been committed within those frowning walls.

But there was no legend or tradition attached to the mansion, and all its history seemed to be peaceful and pleasant.

Even the quaint old yew-tree walk, with its strangely misshapen shrubbery, was bright and cheerful in the morning sunlight, and the lake rippled like silver, and gave no hint of dark or gloomy depths.

And yet, Patty couldn’t help feeling that there was some shadow hanging over the Hartley family. They were never sad or low-spirited, but sometimes Mrs. Hartley would sigh, or Grandma Cromarty would look anxious, as if at some unrelievable sorrow.

The boys were always light-hearted and gay, but Mabel often had moods of despondency, which, while they never made her cross or irritable, were so pathetic that it worried Patty’s loving heart.

And so she lay in her hammock, gazing at the beauty all about her, and wondering what was the secret grief that harassed her dear friends. It never occurred to her that it was none of her affair, for Patty was possessed of a healthy curiosity, and moreover she was innately of a helpful nature, and longed to know what the trouble was, in a vague hope that she might be of some assistance.

“I know they’re not rich,” she said to herself, “for the whole place shows neglect and shabbiness; but there’s something besides lack of money that makes Madam Cromarty sad.”

The place was indeed in a state of unrepair. Though there were many servants, there were not enough to do all that should have been done. The two gardeners did their best to keep the flowers in order, but the elaborate conventional gardens, laid out in geometric designs, and intricate paths, called for a complete staff of trained workers, and in the absence of these, became overgrown at their borders and untidy in appearance.

It was the same indoors. The handsome old furniture, covered with silk brocades and tapestries, was worn and sometimes ragged in appearance. Some of the decorations showed need of regilding, and though the magnificent old carved woodwork, and tessellated floors could not be marred by time, yet many of the lesser appointments called for renovation or renewal. The Great Hall, as it was called, had best withstood the ravages of time, as it was wainscoted and ceiled in massive old oak.

It was a noble apartment, with recessed windows and panelled walls, and across one end was a raised platform from the back of which rose a wonderfully carved chimney-piece.

This apartment, in the palmier days of the Manor House, had been the Banqueting Hall, but as there was a smaller and more appropriate dining-room, the Hartleys used the Great Hall as a living room, and had gathered in it their dearest treasures and belongings. Grandma Cromarty had her own corner, with her knitting basket. In another corner was a grand piano, and many other musical instruments. In one north bay window was Mabel’s painting outfit, and so large was the recess that it formed a good-sized studio. On the walls, hobnobbing with the ancient antlers and deers’ heads, trophies of the chase, were the boys’ tennis rackets, and in the outstretched arm of a tall figure in armour, a lot of golfsticks rested against the quartered shield.

“I suppose,” Mabel had said, when they first showed this room to Patty, “a great many people would consider it desecration to fill up this fine old place with all our modern stuff. But we’re modern, and so we make the carving and tapestries give way to us.”

“They like it,” Patty had replied. “They feel sorry for other houses where the carvings and tapestries have to stay back in their own old times. Now hear these old rafters ring to modern music,” and seating herself at the piano, Patty began some rollicking songs that were of decidedly later date than the old rafters.

Opening from the old Banqueting Hall was the library. This had been left just as it was, and the shelves full of old books were a never-failing delight to Patty’s browsing nature. A gallery ran round all four sides, which was reached by spiral iron staircases, and the deep-seated windows, with their old leather cushions, made delightful nooks in which to pore over the old volumes. There were many unused rooms in the Manor House. Many unexpected alcoves and corridors, and in these the old furniture was worn and decayed. The rooms that were lived in were kept in comfortable order, but Patty knew, had there been more house-servants, these other apartments would have been thrown open to light and air.

Surely, Patty decided, the Hartleys were pinched for money, but just as surely, she thought, that could not have the effect of casting that indefinite gloom over them which was now and then observable. And as she idly swung in her hammock, she made up her mind to ask about it.

“If they don’t want to tell me, they needn’t,” she said to herself, “but they surely know me well enough now to know that I’m honestly interested in their life, and not merely trying to pry into their secrets.”

But she could not quite decide which one of the family to ask about it. She would have preferred to ask Grandma Cromarty, but the old lady had a certain reserve, which, at times, was forbidding, and Patty stood a little in awe of her.

Mrs. Hartley was kindly and responsive, but Patty rarely saw her except when the whole family was present. In the morning Mrs. Hartley was busy with household duties, and afternoons Patty and Mabel were usually together. Patty felt sure she could never ask Mabel, for though the two girls were confidential friends, there was a sensitiveness in Mabel’s disposition that made Patty shrink from touching on what she felt might be a painful subject. Then there were the boys. Bob, at home on his vacation from college was Patty’s chum and merry comrade, but she imagined he would cleverly evade a serious question. He was always chaffing, and while Patty was always glad to meet him on this ground, she almost knew he wouldn’t talk seriously on family subjects. This left only Sinclair. Patty really liked Sinclair Hartley. A young man of about twenty, he was studying law in a nearby town, where he went every morning, returning in mid-afternoon.

He was kindly and courteous, and though often grave, was always appreciative of a joke, and quite ready to join in any fun. But he had a serious side, and Patty had enjoyed many long talks with him on subjects that never would interest Mabel or Bob.

And so she concluded that at the first opportunity, she would ask Sinclair what was the nature of the mystery that seemed to hang over the House of Hartley.

“Ah, there, Pitty-Pat!” called a gay voice, and looking around, Patty saw Bob strolling toward her across the lawn. “Want to go out on the lake and fish for pond-lilies?”

“Yes, indeed,” said Patty, twisting herself out of the hammock. “What are you going to do with them?”

“Oh, just for the lunch table. Mabel’s so everlastingly fond of them, you know.”

Patty thought it was nice of Bob to remember his sister’s tastes, and she willingly went with him toward the lake.

“How beautiful it all is!” she said as they went down the terrace steps and along the lake path which led through a pergola and around a curved corner called “The Alcove.”

This delightful nook was a small open court of marble, adorned with pillars and statues, and partly surrounding a fountain.

“Yes, isn’t it?” exclaimed Bob, enthusiastically. “You know, Patty, this old place is my joy and my despair. I love every stick and stone of it, but I wish we could keep it up in decent order. Heigh-ho! Just wait until I’m out of college. I’ll do something then to turn an honest shilling, and every penny of it shall go to fix up the dear old place.”

“What are you going to be, Bob?”

“An engineer. There’s more chance for a fellow in that than in any other profession. Old Sinclair’s for being a lawyer, and he’ll be a good one, too, but it’s slow work.”

“You ought to go to America, Bob, if you want to get rich.”

“I would, like a shot, if I could take the old house with me. But I’m afraid it’s too big to uproot.”

“I’m afraid it is. I suppose you wouldn’t like to live in a brown-stone front on Fifth Avenue?”

“Never having seen your brown-stone Avenue, ma’am, I can’t say; but I suppose a deer park and lake and several thousand acres of meadow land are not included with each house.”

“No; not unless you take the whole of Manhattan Island.”

“Even that wouldn’t do; unless I had taken it a few hundred years ago, and started the trees growing then.”

“No, America wouldn’t suit you,” said Patty, thoughtfully, “any more than English country life would suit most of our American boys.”

“But you like this life of ours?”

“I love it; for a time. And just now I am enjoying it immensely. Oh, what gorgeous lilies!”

They had reached the lake, and the quiet, well-behaved water was placidly rippling against the stone coping.

Bob untied the boat.

“It’s an old thing,” he said, regretfully; “but it’s water-tight, so don’t be afraid.”

Patty went down the broad marble steps, and seated herself in the stern of the boat, while Bob took the rowing seat.

A few of his strong pulls, and they were out among the lily pads.

“Row around a bit before we gather them,” suggested Patty, and Bob with long, slow strokes sent the boat softly and steadily along.

“Isn’t it perfect?” said Patty, dreamily. “It seems as if nothing could stir me up on a day like this.”

“Is that so?” said Bob, and with mischief in his eyes, he began to rock the boat from side to side.

“You villain!” cried Patty, rudely stirred from her calm enjoyment; “take that!”

She dashed light sprays of water at him from over the side of the boat, and he returned by cleverly sprinkling a few drops on her from the blade of his oar.

“Why did you want to kick up a bobbery, when everything was so nice and peaceful?” she said, reproachfully.

“I shall always kick up a bobbery,” he returned, calmly, “when you put on that romantic, sentimental air.”

“I didn’t put on any sentimental air! I was just enjoying the dreamy spirit of the lake.”

“Thank you! That’s the same as saying my society makes you sleepy.”

“Nothing of the sort. And anyway, the dreamy mood has passed.”

“Yes, I intended it should. Now, let’s sing.”

“All right; what?”

“The ‘Little Kibosh,’ I think. That’s a good song to row by.”

The young people at Cromarty Manor had already composed several songs which seemed to them choicest gems of musical composition.

As a rule Patty and Bob made up the words, while Mabel and Sinclair arranged the tunes.

Sometimes the airs were adapted from well-known songs, and sometimes they were entirely original.

“The Little Kibosh” was one of their favourite nonsense songs, and now Patty and Bob sang it in unison as they rowed slowly about on the lake.