and no real, warm kiss of true love had
ever fallen on her little lips.

It all came about in this way: Mrs. Sarah Rutter, a lady living in
Philadelphia--exactly what relation she bore to Patty it is a little
difficult to determine--decided to send the little one to live with a
certain Mrs. Adams, at Quincy, in Massachusetts, and she particularly
desired that the child should go dressed in a style fitting an
inhabitant of the proud city of Philadelphia.

Now, at that time Philadelphia was very much elated because of several
things that had happened to her; but the biggest pride of all was,
that once upon a time the Continental Congress had met there, and--and
most wonderful thing--had made a Nation!

Well, to be sure, that _was_ something to be proud of; though Patty
didn't understand, a bit more than you do, what it meant. However, the
glory of it all was talked about so much that she couldn't help
knowing that, when this nation, with its fifty-six Fathers, and
thirteen Mothers, was born one day in July, 1776, at Philadelphia, all
the city rang with a sweet jangle, and called to all the people,
through the tongue of its Liberty bell, to come up and greet the
newcomer with a great shout of welcome.

But that had been long ago, before Mrs. Sarah Rutter was grown up, or
Patty Rutter began to be dressed for her trip to Quincy.

As I wrote, Mrs. Rutter wished that Patty should go attired in a
manner to do honor to the city of Philadelphia; therefore she was not
permitted to depart in her baby clothes, but her little figure was
arrayed in a long, prim gown of soft drab silk, while a kerchief of
purest mull was crossed upon her breast; and, depending from her
waist, like the fashion of to-day, were pincushion and watch. Upon her
youthful head was a bonnet, crowned and trimmed in true Quaker
fashion; and her infantile feet were securely tied within shapely
slippers of kid. Thus equipped, Miss Patty was sent forth upon her
journey.

Ah! that journey began a long time ago--fifty-eight, yes, fifty-nine
years have gone by, and Patty Rutter is quite an aged little lady now,
as she lies asleep, with her bonnet on.

"It is time," says somebody, "to close."

No one seems to take notice that Patty Rutter does not get up and
depart with the rest of the visitors, that she only stirs her eyelids
and turns her head on the silken "quilt" where she is lying.

The little woman who keeps house in the Hall locks it up and goes
away,