m had spoiled the plans for tennis and other outdoor
affairs. Though it was late November, it was early for such a
tempestuous snowstorm, and the weather-wise ones opined that it was a
mere swift and sudden flurry.

Patty, with her usual adaptability to circumstances, didn't care much,
and felt pretty sure the storm would depart as quickly as it had
gathered. She was quite willing to stay indoors a day or two if need
be, and could easily amuse herself in many ways. Not so Elise. She
was impatient and impetuous, and was always greatly put out if her
plans went awry. But the diversion of an unexpected guest roused her
to animation and she poked the logs to a brighter blaze by way of
welcome.

After the sound of stamping and whisking off snow in the hall, a young
man came into the pleasant sun-parlour where the girls were.

It was with difficulty that Patty concealed her amazement as she looked
at him. He was of a type that she had heard of, but had never before
chanced to meet.

Mechanically, she went through the formalities of the introduction, and
sat staring at him, without realising that she was doing so.

"Well," said Sam Blaney, at last, "what about it? Do I get a blue
ribbon?"

"Oh, I beg your pardon!" and Patty blushed at her rudeness. "You see,
you er--you reminded me of somebody I have met----"

"No, you mean I remind you of somebody you never have met, but are glad
to discover at last."

Patty laughed outright, for the words so definitely expressed her state
of mind. Thus encouraged, she continued to look at him.

Blaney was not so extraordinary of appearance, but he presented the
effects of the class known as artistic. His thick, fair hair, while it
could scarcely be called long, was a trifle longer than the
conventional cut. His collar, while not Byronic, was low, and he wore
a Windsor tie, of a sickly, pale green. He was a big man, but
loose-jointed and ungainly of build. His manners were careless, and
his voice was low and soft. He had big grey eyes, which seemed
especially noticeable by reason of enormous tortoise-rimmed glasses,
whose long, thick bows hooked over his ears.

"You are a poet," Patty said, decisively, after a smiling survey; "and
you are right, I have always wanted to know a live poet."

"I hope," said Blaney, in a mournful way, "that you don't agree with
those wiseacres who think the only good poet is a dead poet."

"Oh, goodness, no!" said Patty, quickly. "But