It was on the afternoon of New Year’s Day that Mr. Hepworth came to call on Patty. She was at home again, having returned from her visit to Elise a few days after Christmas.

“You know I am old-fashioned,” he said, as he greeted the Fairfield family, and joined their circle round the library fire. “But I don’t suppose you thought I was quite so old-fashioned as to make calls on New Year’s Day. However, I’m not quite doing that, as this is the only call I shall make to-day.”

“We’re glad to see you any day in the year,” said Nan, cordially, and Patty added:

“Indeed we are. I’ve been wondering why you didn’t come round.”

“Busy,” said Mr. Hepworth, smiling at her. “An artist’s life is not a leisure one.”

“Is anybody’s now-a-days?” asked Mr. Fairfield. “The tendency of the age is to rush and hurry all the time. What a contrast to a hundred years ago!”

“And a good contrast, too,” declared Nan. “If the world still jogged along at a hundred years ago rate, we would have no motor-cars, no aËroplanes, no——”

“No North Pole,” suggested her husband. “True enough, Nan, to accomplish things we must be busy.”

“I want to get busy,” said Patty. “No, I don’t mean that for slang,”—as her father looked at her reprovingly,—“but I want to do something that is really worth while.”

“The usual ambition of extreme youth,” said Mr. Hepworth, looking at her kindly, if quizzically. “Do you want to reform the world, and in what way?”

“Not exactly reform it,” said Patty, smiling back at him; “reform has such a serious sound. But I do want to make it brighter and better.”

“That’s a good phrase, too,” observed Mr. Hepworth, still teasingly. “But, Patty, you do make the world brighter and better, just by being in it.”

“That’s too easy; and, anyway, I expect to remain in it for some several years yet; and I want to do something beside just be.”

“Ah, well, you can doubtless find some outlet for your enthusiasms.”

“What she really wants,” said her father, “is to be an operatic star.”

“And sing into phonographs,” added Nan, mischievously.

“Yes,” smiled Patty, “and have my picture in the backs of magazines!”

“That’s right,” said Mr. Hepworth, “aim high, while you’re about it.”

“I can aim high enough,” returned Patty, “but I’m not sure I can sing high enough.”

“Oh, you only need to come high enough, to be an operatic star,” said Mr. Hepworth, who was in merry mood to-day.

“But, seriously,” said Patty, who was in earnest mood, “I do want to do good. I don’t mean in a public way, but in a charity way.”

“Oh, soup-kitchens and bread-lines?”

“No; not exactly. I mean to help people who have no sweetness and light in their lives.”

“Oh, Patty,” groaned Nan, “if you’re on that tack, you’re hopeless. What have you been reading? ‘The Young Maiden’s Own Ruskin,’ or ‘Look Up and Not Down’?”

“And lend a ten,” supplemented Mr. Fairfield.

“You needn’t laugh,” began Patty, pouting a little. Then she laughed herself, and went on: “Yes, you may laugh if you want to,—I know I sound ridiculous. But I tell you, people, I’m going to make good!”

“You may make good,” said her father, “but you’ll never be good until you stop using slang. How often, my daughter, have I told you——”

“Oh, cut it out, daddy,” said Patty, dimpling with laughter, for she knew her occasional slang phrases amused her father, even though they annoyed him. “If you’ll help me ‘do noble things, not dream them all day long,’ I’ll promise to talk only in purest English undefiled.”

“Goodness, Patty!” said Nan, “you’re a walking cyclopÆdia of poetical quotations to-day.”

“And you’re a running commentary on them,” returned Patty, promptly, which remark sent Mr. Hepworth off in peals of laughter.

“Oh, Patty!” he exclaimed, “I’m afraid you’re going to grow up clever! That would be fatal to your ambition! Be good, sweet child, and let who will be clever. Nobody can be both.”

“I can,” declared Patty; “I’ll show you Missouri people yet!”

Mr. Fairfield groaned at this new burst of slang, but Mr. Hepworth only laughed.

“She’ll get over it,” he said. “A few years of these ‘noble aims’ of hers will make her so serious-minded that she won’t even see the meaning of a slang phrase. Though, I must admit, I think some of them very apt, myself.”

“They sure are!” said irrepressible Patty, giggling at her father’s frown.

“But I’ll tell you one thing,” went on Mr. Hepworth: “Whatever line you decide upon, let it be something that needs no training. I mean, if you choose to go in for organised charity or settlement work, well and good. But don’t attempt Red Cross nursing or kindergarten teaching, or anything that requires technical knowledge. For in these days, only trained labour succeeds, and only expert, at that.”

“Oh, pshaw,” said Patty; “I don’t mean to earn money. Though if I wanted to, I’m sure I could. Why, if I had to earn my own living, I could do it as easy as anything!”

“I’m not so sure of that,” said Mr. Hepworth, gravely. “It isn’t so easy for a young woman to earn her living without a technical education in some line.”

“Well, Patty, you’ll never have to earn your own living,” said her father, smiling; “so don’t worry about that. But I agree with our friend, that you couldn’t do it, if you did have to.”

“That sounds so Irish, daddy, that I think it’s as bad as slang. However, I see you are all of unsympathetic nature, so I won’t confide in you further as to my aims or ambitions.”

“I haven’t noticed any confidences yet,” murmured Nan; “only appeals for help.”

Patty gave her a withering glance.

“The subject is dropped,” she said; “let us now talk about the weather.”

“No,” said Hepworth; “let me tell you a story. Let me tell you of a girl I met down South, who, if she only had Patty’s determination and force of character, might achieve success, and even renown.”

“Do tell us about her,” said Nan, for Mr. Hepworth was always an interesting talker.

“She lives in Virginia, and her name is Christine Farley. A friend of mine, down there, asked me to look at some of her drawings, and I saw at once that the girl has real talent, if not genius.”

“Of course you would know,” said Nan, for Mr. Hepworth himself was a portrait painter of high repute.

“Yes, she really has done some remarkable work. But she is poor and lives in a small country town. She has already learned all the local teachers can give her, and needs the technical training of a good art school. With a year of such training she could easily become, I am sure, a successful illustrator. At least, after a year’s study, I know she could get good work to do, and then she would rapidly become known.”

“Can’t she manage to do this, in some way?” asked Mr. Fairfield.

“No; she is ambitious in her work, but in no other way. She is shy and timid; a country girl, inexperienced in the ways of the world, ignorant of city life, and desperately afraid of New York, which to her is a name for all unknown terrors.”

“Goose!” said Patty. “Oh, I’m sorry for her, of course; but as an American girl, she ought to have more spunk.”

“Southern girls don’t have spunk, Patty,” said her father, with a merry twinkle in his eye.

“Don’t they! Well, I guess I ought to know! I’m a Southern girl, myself. At least, I was until I was fourteen.”

“Perhaps you’ve achieved your spunk since you came North, then,” said Hepworth; “for I agree with your father, Southern girls do not have much energy of character. At least, Miss Farley hasn’t. She’s about nineteen or twenty, but she’s as childish as a girl of fourteen,—except in her work; there she excels any one of her age I’ve ever known.”

“Can nothing be done in the matter?” asked Nan.

“I don’t know. I’m told they’re very proud people, and would not accept charity. Of course she never can earn anything by her work if she stays at home; and as she can’t get away, it seems to be a deadlock.”

“I’d like to help her,” said Patty, slowly. “I do think she ought to have ingenuity enough to help herself, but if she hasn’t, I’d like to help her.”

“How can you?” asked Nan.

“I don’t know. But the way to find out how to do things is to do them.”

“Oh, dear,” moaned Mr. Hepworth, in mock despair. “I said I feared you were clever. Don’t say those things, Patty, you’ll ruin your reputation as a beauty.”

“Pooh!” said Patty, who sometimes didn’t know whether Mr. Hepworth was teasing her or not, “that isn’t a clever thing to say.”

“Well, if you don’t mean it for an epigram, I’ll forgive you,—but don’t let it happen again. Now, as to Christine Farley. I’ll let you be clever for once, if you’ll turn your cleverness to devising some way to aid her to an art education. Can you think of any way?”

“I can think of dozens,” returned Patty, “but the only thing to do is for her to come to New York, get a scholarship at the Art School, and then board in a hall bedroom,—art students always do that,—and they have jolly good times with chafing dishes and palette knives, and such things. I’ve read about ’em.”

“Yes,” said Mr. Hepworth, “but how is she to pay the board for the hall bedroom? They are really quite poor, I’m told.”

“Well!” said Patty, scornfully, “anybody,—the merest infant,—could earn enough money outside class hours to pay a small sum like that, I should hope! Why, how much would such board cost?”

“Patty, child,” said her father, “you don’t know much of social economics, do you? I fancy the young woman could board properly for about twelve or fifteen dollars a week; eh, Hepworth?”

“Yes; I daresay fifteen dollars a week would cover her expenses, including her art materials. Of course this would mean literally the ‘hall bedroom’ in a very modest boarding-house.”

“Well!” went on Patty, “and do you mean to say that this girl couldn’t earn fifteen dollars a week, and attend her classes, too?”

“I mean to say just that,” said Mr. Hepworth, seriously.

“I agree with you,” said Nan. “Why, I couldn’t earn fifteen dollars a week, and stay at home from the classes.”

“Oh, Nan!” cried Patty, “you could! I’m sure you could! Why, I’ll bet I could earn fifteen dollars a week, and have plenty of time left for my practising, my club meetings, motoring, skating, and all the things I want to do beside. Fifteen dollars a week is nothing!”

“Gently, gently, my girl,” said her father, for Patty’s cheeks were pink with the earnestness of her argument. “Fifteen dollars a week seems nothing to you, because you have all the money you want. But where is your sense of proportion? Your idea of relative values? The value of fifteen dollars handed out to you willingly by a loving father, or the value of fifteen dollars earned from a grudging employer, are totally different matters.”

“I don’t care,” said Patty. “I know I could earn that much a week, and I believe this other girl could do so, if she had somebody to make her think she could.”

“There’s a good deal in that,” said Hepworth, thoughtfully. “Miss Farley does need somebody to make her think she can do things. But the life of an art student is a busy one, and I’m sure she couldn’t earn much money while she’s studying.”

“But fifteen dollars a week isn’t much,” persisted Patty. “Anybody could earn that.”

“Look here, Puss,” said her father: “sometimes you show a bravery of assertion that ought to be put to the test. Now I’ll make a proposition to you in the presence of these two witnesses. If you’ll earn fifteen dollars in one week,—any week,—I’ll agree to pay the board of this Miss Farley in New York, for a year, while she pursues her art studies.”

“Oh, father, will you?” cried Patty. “What a duck you are! Of course I can earn the money, easily.”

“Wait a moment; there are conditions, or rather stipulations. You must not do anything unbecoming a quiet, refined girl,—but I know you wouldn’t do that, anyway. You must not engage in any pursuit that keeps you away from your home after five o’clock in the afternoon——”

“Oh,” interrupted Patty, “I don’t propose to go out washing! I shall do light work of some sort at home. But never you mind what I do,—of course it will be nothing you could possibly object to,—I’ll earn fifteen dollars in less than a week.”

“A week, though, is the proposition. When you bring me fifteen dollars, earned by yourself, unassisted, in the space of seven days, I’ll carry out my part of the bargain.”

“But the girl won’t accept it,” said Patty, regretfully.

“I’m trusting to your tact, and Nan’s, to offer the opportunity to her in such a way that she will accept it. Couldn’t that be done, Hepworth?”

“Why, yes; I daresay it could be managed. And you are very generous, Mr. Fairfield, but I can’t say I have much hope of Patty’s success.”

“‘Patty’s success’ is always a foregone conclusion,” said that young woman, saucily; “and now, at last, I have an aim in life! I shall begin to-morrow,—and we’ll see!”

The others laughed, for no one could take pretty Patty very seriously, except herself.

“But don’t tell anybody,” she added, as the doorbell rang.

They all promised they wouldn’t, and then Elise and Roger came in to bring New Year’s greetings, and the conversation took a lighter and merrier turn.