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And as she demanded nervously, "Who is it?" it was Patten's disagreeable laugh which answered her. "So," he jeered at her, "this is the sort of thing you do when you are supposed to be out on a case all night!" Patten here! Had God sent him . . . or the devil? His insult she passed over. She was not thinking of herself right now, of convention, of wagging tongues.
Grace was the first to see and recognize Sylvia, and with a cry of delight ran to welcome her. The soldier had a note for Mrs. Fulton explaining that Sylvia, apparently on her way from school, had wandered down to the landing, and of Captain Carleton's forgetting her presence in the cabin, so that Sylvia was not questioned that night in regard to her disappearance from Miss Patten's.
The pen . . . it was Patten's . . . had evidently leaked and had been wiped carelessly upon the sheet of paper, left lying with the paper half wrapped around it. She had noted carelessly a few scrawled words in Patten's slovenly hand. And she knew that it had been removed while she turned her back, removed by a hand which, in its haste, had slipped the pen with it under the pillow.
Fulton had taught her little daughter at home; so this was her first term at Miss Patten's. Miss Patten always stood near the schoolroom door until all her pupils had arrived. As each girl entered the room she made a curtsey to the pretty teacher, and then said "good-morning" to the pupils who had already arrived, and took her seat.
How soon we may expect these things it is not our province to predict. It is too early to pass final judgment on Professor Patten's dictum that inter-racial coöperation is impossible without integration, and that races must therefore stand in hostile relations or finally unite. But it is perfectly apparent that we have a long way to travel before the path to integration is cleared.
The Widow Patten's was only an advanced settlement in this narrow valley on the mountain-side, but a little group of buildings, a fence, and a gate gave it the air of a place, and it had once been better cared for than it is now. Few travelers pass that way, and the art of entertaining, if it ever existed, is fallen into desuetude.
"I am not going to land at the big wharves," said Sylvia. "I am going to that wharf near Miss Patten's garden. And then we'll tell Uncle Peter where the Butterfly is." It was early in the afternoon when Estralla appeared at the cloor of her mammy's kitchen. "Whar on airth you been? An' whar's yo' missy?" demanded Aunt Connie. "Didn' I makes her a fine om'lit fer her dinner, an' it's ruinated."
Patten's decease was again thrown into the dim distance in her imagination, for Miss Janet Gibbs met her with the news that Mrs. Patten was much better, and led her, without any preliminary announcement, to the old lady's bedroom. Janet had scarcely reached the end of her circumstantial narrative how the attack came on and what were her aunt's sensations a narrative to which Mrs.
Probably the "little Yankee," as she called Sylvia even in her thoughts, had run home to tell her mother of the trouble. By the time Miss Patten's messenger had reached the Fulton house Sylvia was in the cabin of the little schooner. The girl gave her message to Mrs.
The descent was more uncomfortable than the ascent, and we were compelled a good deal of the way to lead the jaded horses down the slippery rocks. >From the peak to the Widow Patten's, where we proposed to pass the night, is twelve miles, a distance we rode or scrambled down, every step of the road bad, in five and a half hours.
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