current that would finally bear her away. Her idea
had always been that she could play with fire without burning her own
fingers, and that the flames she kindled were so innocent and mild that
no one could be harmed by them. She had fancied, up to now, that she
could control, urge on, or cool down a man's feeling forever and a day,
if she chose, and remain mistress of the situation. Now, after some
weeks of weighing and balancing her two swains, she found herself
confronting a choice, once and for all. Each of them seemed to be
approaching the state of mind where he was likely to say, somewhat
violently: "Take me or leave me, one or the other!" But she did not wish
to take them, and still less did she wish to leave them, with no other
lover in sight but Cephas Cole, who was almost, though not quite, worse
than none.

If matters, by lack of masculine patience and self-control, did come to
a crisis, what should she say definitely to either of her suitors? Her
father despised Mark Wilson a trifle more than any young man on the
river, and while he could have no objection to Phil Perry's character
or position in the world, his hatred of old Dr. Perry amounted to a
disease. When the doctor had closed the eyes of the third Mrs. Baxter,
he had made some plain and unwelcome statements that would rankle in
the Deacon's breast as long as he lived. Patty knew, therefore, that the
chance of her father's blessing falling upon her union with either
of her present lovers was more than uncertain, and of what use was an
engagement, if there could not be a marriage?

If Patty's mind inclined to a somewhat speedy departure from her
father's household, she can hardly be blamed, but she felt that she
could not carry any of her indecisions and fears to her sister for
settlement. Who could look in Waitstill's clear, steadfast eyes and
say: "I can't make up my mind which to marry"? Not Patty. She felt,
instinctively, that Waitstill's heart, if it moved at all, would rush
out like a great river to lose itself in the ocean, and losing itself
forget the narrow banks through which it had flowed before. Patty knew
that her own love was at the moment nothing more than the note of a
child's penny flute, and that Waitstill was perhaps vibrating secretly
with a deeper, richer music than could ever come to her. Still, music
of some sort she meant to feel. "Even if they make me decide one way or
another before I am ready," she said to herself, "I'll neve