As Patty was temporarily out of an “occupation,” she went skating the next day with the Farringtons and Kenneth. Indeed, the four were so often together that they began to call themselves the Quartette.

After a jolly skate, which made their cheeks rosy, they all went back to Patty’s, as they usually did after skating.

“I think you might come to my house, sometimes,” said Elise.

“Oh, I have to go to Patty’s to look after the goldfish,” said Kenneth. “I thought Darby swam lame, the last time I saw him. Does he, Patty?”

“No, not now. But Juliet has a cold, and I’m afraid of rheumatism setting in.”

“No,” said Kenneth; “she’s too young for rheumatism. But she may have ‘housemaid’s knee.’ You must be very careful about draughts.”

The goldfish were a never-failing source of fun for the Quartette. The fish themselves were quiet, inoffensive little creatures, but the ready imagination of the young people invested them with all sorts of strange qualities, both physical and mental.

“Juliet’s still sulky about that thimble,” said Roger, as they all looked into the fishes’ globe. “I gave her Patty’s thimble yesterday to wear for a hat, and it didn’t suit her at all.”

“I should say not!” cried Patty. “She thought it was a helmet. You must take her for Joan of Arc.”

“She didn’t wear a helmet,” said Elise, laughing.

“Well, she wore armour. They belong together. Anyway, Juliet doesn’t know but that Joan of Arc wore a helmet.”

“Oh, is that what made her so sulky?” said Roger. “Nice disposition, I must say.”

“She’s nervous,” put in Kenneth, “and a little morbid, poor thing. Patty, I think a little iron in the water would do her good.”

“Send for a flatiron, Patty,” said Roger. “I know it would help her, if you set it carefully on top of her.”

“I won’t do it!” said Patty. “Poor Juliet is flat enough now. She doesn’t eat enough to keep a bird alive. Let’s go away and leave her to sleep. That will fatten her, maybe.”

“Lullaby, Julie, in the fish-bowl,” sang Roger.

“When the wind blows, the billows will roll,” continued Elise, fanning the water in the globe with a newspaper.

“When the bowl breaks, the fishes will fall,” contributed Patty, and Ken wound up by singing:

“And the Cat will eat Juliet, Darby, and all!”

“Oh, horrible!” cried Patty. “Indeed she won’t! My beautiful pets shall never meet that cruel fate.”

Leaving Juliet to her much needed nap, they all strolled into the library.

“Let’s be a club,” said Elise. “Just us four, you know.”

“All right,” said Patty, who loved clubs. “What sort of a club?”

“Musical,” said Elise. “We all sing.”

“Musical clubs are foolish,” said Roger. “Let’s be a dramatic club.”

“Dramatic clubs are too much work,” said Patty; “and four isn’t enough for that, anyway. Let’s do good.”

“Oh, Patty,” groaned Kenneth, “you’re getting so eleemosynary there’s no fun in you!”

“Mercy, gracious!” cried Patty. “What was that fearful word you said, Ken? No! don’t say it over again! I can’t stand all of it at once!”

“Well, we have to stand you!” grumbled Kenneth, “and you’re that all the time, now. What foolishness are you going to fly at next, trying to earn a dishonest penny?”

“I’m thinking of going out as a cook,” said Patty, her eyes twinkling. “Cooking is the only thing I really know how to do. But I can do that.”

“You’ll be fine as cook,” said Roger. “May I come round Thursday afternoons and take you out?”

“I s’pose I’ll only have every other Thursday,” said Patty, demurely.

“And the other Thursday you won’t be there! But what about this club we’re organising?”

“Make it musical,” said Kenneth, “and then while one of us is playing or singing some classical selection, the others can indulge in merry conversation.”

“You may as well make it the Patty Club,” said Elise, “as I suppose it will always meet here.”

Though not really jealous of her friend’s popularity, Elise always resented the fact that the young people would rather be at Patty’s than at her own home.

The reason was, that the Fairfield house, though handsomely appointed, was not so formally grand as the Farringtons’, and there was always an atmosphere of cordiality and hospitality at Patty’s, while at Elise’s it was oppressively formal and dignified.

“Oh, pshaw,” said Patty, ignoring Elise’s unkind intent; “I won’t have you always here. We’ll take turns, of course.”

“All right,” said Elise; “every other week at my house and every other week here. But don’t you think we ought to have more than four members?”

“No, I don’t,” declared Kenneth, promptly. “And we don’t want any musical nonsense, or any dramatic foolishness, either. Let’s just have fun; if it’s pleasant weather, we’ll go skating, or sleighing, or motoring, or whatever you like; if it isn’t, we’ll stay indoors, or go to a matinÉe or concert, or something like that.”

“Lovely!” cried Elise. “But if we’re to go to matinÉes, we’ll have to meet Saturdays.”

“Or Wednesdays,” amended Patty. “Let’s meet Wednesdays. I ’most always have engagements on Saturdays.”

“All right; shall we call it the Wednesday Club, then?”

“No, Elise,” said Roger, gravely. “That’s too obvious; we will call it the Thursday Club, because we meet on Wednesday; see?”

“No, I don’t see,” said Elise, looking puzzled.

“Why,” explained Roger, “you see we’ll spend all day Thursday thinking over the good time we had on Wednesday!”

“But that isn’t the real reason,” said Patty, giggling. “The real reason we call it the Thursday Club is because it meets on Wednesday!”

“That’s it, Patsy!” said Ken, approvingly, for he and Patty had the same love for nonsense, though more practical Elise couldn’t always understand it.

“Well, then, the Thursday Club will meet here next Wednesday,” said Patty; “unless I am otherwise engaged.”

For she just happened to think, that on that day she might be again attempting to earn her fifteen dollars.

“What’s the Thursday Club? Mayn’t I belong?” said a pleasant voice, and Mr. Hepworth came in.

“Oh, how do you do?” cried Patty, jumping up, and offering both hands. “I’m so glad to see you. Do sit down.”

“I came round,” said Mr. Hepworth, after greeting the others, “in hopes I could corral a cup of tea. I thought you ran a five-o’clock tea-room.”

“We do,” said Patty, ringing a bell nearby. “That is, we always have tea when Nan is home; and we can just as well have it when she isn’t.”

“I suppose you young people don’t care for tea,” went on Mr. Hepworth, looking a little enviously at the merry group, who, indeed, didn’t care whether they had tea or not.

“Oh, yes, we do,” said Patty. “We love it. But we,—we just forgot it. We were so engrossed in organising a club.”

But the others did not follow up this conversational beginning, and even before the tea was brought, Elise said she must go.

“Nonsense!” said Patty; “don’t go yet.”

But Elise was decided, so away she went, and of course, Roger went too.

“And I’m going,” said Kenneth, as Patty, having followed Elise out into the hall, he joined them there.

“Oh; don’t you go, Ken,” said Patty.

“Yes, I’d rather. When Hepworth comes you get so grown-up all of a sudden. With your ‘Oh, how do you do?’ and your tea.”

Kenneth mimicked Patty’s voice, which did sound different when she spoke to Mr. Hepworth.

“Ken, you’re very unjust,” said Patty, her cheeks flushing; “of course I have to give Mr. Hepworth tea when he asks for it; and if I seem more ‘grown-up’ with him, it’s because he’s so much older than you are.”

“He is, indeed! About twelve years older! Too old to be your friend. He ought to be calling on Mrs. Fairfield.”

“He is. He calls on us both. I think you’re very silly!”

This conversation had been in undertones, while Elise was donning her hat and furs, and great was her curiosity when Patty turned from Kenneth, with an offended or hurt expression on her face.

“What’s the matter with you two?” she asked, bluntly.

“Nothing,” said Ken, looking humble. “Patty’s been begging me to be more polite to the goldfish.”

“Nonsense!” laughed Patty; “your manners are above reproach, Ken.”

“Thanks, fair lady,” he replied, with a Chesterfieldian bow, and then the three went away.

“Did I drive off your young friends, Patty?” said Mr. Hepworth, as she returned to the library, where Jane was already setting forth the tea things.

Patty was nonplussed. He certainly had driven them away, but she couldn’t exactly tell him so.

“You needn’t answer,” he said, laughing at her dismayed expression. “I am sorry they don’t like me, but until you show that you don’t, I shall continue to come here.”

“I hope you will,” said Patty, earnestly. “It isn’t that they don’t like you, Mr. Hepworth; it’s that they think you don’t like them.”

“What?”

“Oh, I don’t mean exactly that; but they think that you think they’re children,—almost, and you’re bored by them.”

“I’m not bored by you, and you’re a child,—almost.”

“Well, I don’t know how it is,” said Patty, throwing off all responsibility in the matter; “but I like them and I like you, and yet, I’d rather have you at different times.”

“Which do you like better?” asked Mr. Hepworth. He knew it was a foolish question, but it was uttered almost involuntarily.

“Them!” said Patty, but she gave him such a roguish smile as she said it, that he almost thought she meant the opposite.

“Still,” she went on, with what was palpably a mock regret, “I shall have to put up with you for the present; so be as young as you can. How many lumps, please?”

“Two; you see I can be very young.”

“Yes,” said Patty, approvingly; “it is young to take two lumps. But now tell me something about Miss Farley. Have you heard from her or of her lately?”

“Yes, I have,” said Mr. Hepworth, as he stirred his tea. “That is, I’ve heard of her. My friend, down in Virginia, who knows Miss Farley, has sent me another of her sketches, and it proves more positively than ever that the girl has real genius. But, Patty, I want you to give up this scheme of yours to help her. It was good of your father to make the offer he did, but I don’t want you racing around to these dreadful places looking for work. I’m going to get some other people interested in Miss Farley, and I’m sure her art education can be managed in some way. I’d willingly subscribe the whole sum needed, myself, but it would be impossible to arrange it that way. She’d never accept it, if she knew; and it’s difficult to deceive her.”

Patty looked serious.

“I don’t wonder you think I can’t do what I set out to do,” she said slowly, “for I’ve made so many ridiculous failures already. But please don’t lose faith in me, yet. Give me one or two more chances.”

Mr. Hepworth looked kindly into Patty’s earnest eyes.

“Don’t take this thing too seriously,” he said.

“But I want to take it seriously. You think I’m a child,—a butterfly. I assure you I am neither.”

“I think you’re adorable, whatever you are!” was on the tip of Gilbert Hepworth’s tongue; but he did not say it.

Though he cared more for Patty than for anything on earth, he had vowed to himself the girl should never know it. He was thirty-five, and Patty but eighteen, and he knew that was too great a discrepancy in years for him ever to hope to win her affections.

So he contented himself with an occasional evening call, or once in a while dropping in at tea time, resolved never to show to Patty herself the high regard he had for her.

She had told him of her various unsuccessful attempts at “earning her living,” and he deeply regretted that he had been the means of bringing about the situation.

He did not share Mr. Fairfield’s opinion that the experience was a good one for Patty, and would broaden her views of humanity in general, and teach her a few worth-while lessons.

“Please give up the notion,” he urged, after they had talked the matter over.

“Indeed I won’t,” returned Patty. “At least, not until I’ve proved to my own satisfaction that my theories are wrong. And I don’t think yet that they are. I still believe I can earn fifteen dollars a week, without having had special training for any work. Surely I ought to have time to prove myself right.”

“Yes, you ought to have time,” said Mr. Hepworth, gently, “but you ought not to do it at all. It’s an absurd proposition, the whole thing. And as I, unfortunately, brought it about, I want to ask you, please, to drop it.”

“No, sir!” said Patty, gravely, but wagging a roguish forefinger at him; “people can’t undo their mistakes so easily. If, as you say, you brought about this painful situation, then you must sit patiently by and watch me as I flounder about in the various sloughs of despond.”

“Oh, Patty, don’t! Please drop it all,—for my sake!”

Patty looked up in surprise at his earnest tones, but she only laughed gaily, and said:

“Nixy! Not I! Not by no means! But I’ll give in to this extent. I’ll agree not to make more than three more attempts. If I can’t succeed in three more efforts, I’ll give up the game, and confess myself a butterfly and an idiot.”

“The only symptoms of idiocy are shown in your making three more attempts,” said Mr. Hepworth, who was almost angry at Patty’s persistence.

“Oh, pooh! I probably shan’t make three more! I just somehow feel sure I’ll succeed the very next time.”

“A sanguine idiot is the most hopeless sort,” said Mr. Hepworth, with a resigned air. “May I ask what you intend to attempt next?”

“You may ask, but you can’t be answered, for I don’t yet know, myself. I’ve two or three tempting plans, but I don’t know which to choose. I’ve thought of taking a place as cook.”

“Patty! don’t you dare do such a thing! To think of you in a kitchen,—under orders! Oh, child, how can you?”

Patty laughed outright at Mr. Hepworth’s dismay.

“Cheer up!” she cried; “I didn’t mean it! But you think skilled labour is necessary, and truly, I’m skilled in cooking. I really am.”

“Yes, chafing-dish trifles; and fancy desserts.”

“Well, those are good things for a cook to know.”

“Patty, promise me you won’t take any sort of a servant’s position.”

“Oh, I can’t promise that. I fancy I’d make a rather good lady’s-maid or parlour-maid. But I promise you I won’t be a cook. Much as I like to fuss with a chafing-dish, I shouldn’t like to be kept in a kitchen and boil and roast things all the time.”

“I should say not! Well, since I can’t persuade you to give up your foolish notion, do go on, and get through with your three attempts as soon as possible. Remember, you’ve promised not more than three.”

“I promise,” said Patty, with much solemnity, and then Nan and Mr. Fairfield came in.

Mr. Hepworth appealed at once to Mr. Fairfield, telling him what he had already told Patty.

“Nonsense, Hepworth,” said Patty’s father, “I’m glad you started the ball rolling. It hasn’t done Patty a bit of harm, so far, and it will be an experience she’ll always remember. Let her go ahead; she can’t succeed, but she can have the satisfaction of knowing she tried.”

“I’m not so sure she can’t succeed,” said Nan, standing up for Patty, who looked a little crestfallen at the remarks of her father.

“Good for you, Nan!” cried Patty; “I’ll justify your faith in me yet. I know Mr. Hepworth thinks I’m good for nothing, but Daddy ought to know me better.”

Mr. Hepworth seemed not to notice this petulant outburst, and only said:

“Remember, you’ve promised to withdraw from the arena after three more conflicts.”

“They won’t be conflicts,” said Patty, “and there won’t be but one, anyway!”

“So much the better,” said Mr. Hepworth, calmly.