rtly account for the
indescribable sweetness of that yellow. I can't liken it to anything but
primroses in a forest, seen in the level, secret light of sunrise.

My ecstasies cheered Patsey a little, and I emitted some of them in
French, for the benefit of Angele, who looked about as appreciative as a
Mexican horned toad.

We got into the house easily enough, by sacrificing a window-pane in the
kitchen and then undoing the catch. A sweet kitchen it was, or ought to
have been if the servants hadn't avenged their wrongs by leaving a lot
of dishes and dish towels unwashed. We wandered about, Patsey pretending
to remember this or that, and really half paralyzed with fright lest she
should find that Larry had committed suicide in one of the beautiful
shut-up rooms. No such horror awaited us, however, and greatly relieved
in our inmost minds, we came to rest in the dining-room, where Angele
was unpacking our luncheon with her hands and poisoning it with her
glances.

There were chicken salad and heavenly rolls, pickles which made me feel
a child again (a thoroughly American child), chocolate layer-cake, and
various other things that thrilled me with pride of the United States.
While Jack and I (starved) were trying not to eat too much for
sympathetic friendship, and Pat was trying to eat enough to please us,
we heard a door slam in the distance. We started like burglars caught at
a stolen feast. It couldn't be Angele, because she was darkening the
room with her presence. It couldn't be--but it _was_!

"Larry!" cried Pat, springing up, and making a dash for the door which
she happened to face. We others turned to face it also, and saw coming
in a delightful boy as happy as Pan--much happier than Pan would be in
modern clothes.

"She must be mistaken," I thought. "This can't be a grown girl's father.
It can't be a father of anything! Impossible it should be a ruined
bankrupt. It must be some younger brother of Larry's who looks like
him."

But no! "_Hello_, girlie!" the tall lad exclaimed, and held out his
arms. Patsey rushed into them, and was clasped. She buried her head on
the boy's shoulder, and he looked at us over the top of her head,
smiling. I assure you I never saw a more engaging smile, not even Pat's
own--or Peter Storm's. Theirs are quite different. Pat's is childlike
and winningly ignorant of life; the Stormy Petrel's is full of
unexpected gleams of humour, which lighten those mysterious eyes of an
Italian