know."

Miss Drayton reasoned, coaxed, entreated. "Think of your mother, Pat,"
she said gently. "How you would grieve her!"

"I do think of her," returned Pat. "She would never have acted so. And
she would never have let father send Anne away."

Miss Drayton sighed. Was it not sad and pitiful enough to have that poor
little orphan lost? Must her dead sister's husband be estranged from his
only son?

Pat stood silent while Miss Drayton told his father the story of their
journey. Mr. Patterson listened--surprised at first, then vexed. Now and
then, he interrupted with brief, pointed questions. The answers left him
anxious, distressed. Presently he took off his eyeglasses and put his
hand up as if to shade his eyes from the light. When the tale was
finished, there was a brief silence. A gentle breeze rustled the
elm-tree at the window. A carriage clattered past. A newsboy shouting
"Papers!" ran down the quiet street.

Mr. Patterson dropped his hand. His lashes were wet with tears. "Lord!"
he said in a broken voice. "Can I ever forgive myself?"

Pat started forward with tears in his eyes. "Father!" he cried.
"Dear--old--dad! We'll find her yet."

Mr. Patterson seized the outstretched hand and held it close. "God grant
it," he said. "My son, my son!"

CHAPTER XXI

Meanwhile, where was Anne? Was she as forlorn and miserable in reality
as her friends fancied? Let us see.

After she slipped unobserved from the railway coach, she followed the
familiar footpath in its leisurely windings across meadow and up-hill.
It led her to a tumble-down fence, surrounding a spacious, deep-turfed
lawn, with native forest trees--oak, elm, and chestnut--growing where
nature had set them. On the crest of the hill, rose a square,
old-fashioned house, dear and familiar. Home, home at last!

Anne pushed through the gate, hanging ajar on one hinge, and hurried
across the lawn. Even in the twilight, she could see that the microfila
roses by the front porch were still blooming--they had been in bloom
when she went away--and the Cherokee rose on the summer-house was
starred with cream-white blossoms. From the windows of the old
sitting-room, a light was shining and Anne hastened toward the latticed
side-porch which opened into the room. As she approached the steps, a
lank, clay-colored dog came snarling toward her. Two or three puppies
ran out, barking furiously. Anne stopped, too frightened to cry out.

The sitting-room door ope