she was Miss Patty's
personal servant and spent her days in his aunt's upper rooms or on the
gallery; but he never saw her that he did not want to speak with her, to
see the light come to her questioning face. She seemed to him in every
way a lady. What was she doing living in a black woman's home?

The mid-day meal at the great house was stirred from its usual quiet by
a discussion of the visitor who was expected by the evening boat. The
Merryvales had never taken boarders, but from time to time they had
staying with them what the English call "paying guests." Every winter,
two or three northerners, visitors from the year before or carefully
introduced by former visitors, came to Merryvale and made a substantial
payment for the privilege of living in the old house. Usually these
guests were elderly ladies, either unmarried or with busy husbands who
could not take the time to accompany them, and they lived quietly on the
place; taking little walks, knitting, playing cards, and occasionally
going by boat to the city for a day's shopping. Miss Patty depended on
them for her entertainment more, perhaps, than she was ready to admit.
They taught her a new game of solitaire or a new way of making a baby's
sack, and they listened, with every appearance of attention, to her
innumerable tales about her family. To-day's arrival was a Miss
Witherspoon, a friend of one of their pleasantest Boston guests, and
everything was being planned for her comfort.

"Put my best linen on the bed, Hertha," Miss Patty said as she came
upstairs after her mid-day meal, "and you can take your sewing to the
gallery while I have my nap."

Hertha did as she was bidden, and, the guest-room in perfect order, went
out upon the shady corner of the upper porch. A wind was blowing from
the river, tossing the gray moss of the live-oaks, and brushing against
her fingers the thin lace she was trying to sew upon a dress. It called
her to play, pushed the little curls in her eyes, and spilled the spool
of thread upon the floor. She laughed to herself as she picked it up,
and then sat, her work in her lap, looking wistfully out into the
swaying moss and the green leaves.

So the gods and goddesses played at ball. Which god was he? Apollo, of
course, the god of the sunlight, the gold gleaming in his ruddy hair.
What good times they must have had in those old days when no one seemed
to be busy, when you might run through the meadows singing as you went,
when n