"Excuse me," said Patty, sorry that she had smiled, and she turned away.

She caught a red-headed boy, as he passed, whistling, and said:

"Do you know where Department G is?"

"Sure!" said the boy, grinning at her. "Sashay straight acrost de room. Pipe de guy wit' de goggles?"

"Thank you," said Patty, restraining her desire to smile at the funny little chap.

She went over to the desk indicated. The man seated there looked at her over his glasses, and said:

"To embroider?"

"Yes," said Patty.

"Take a chair. Wait a few moments. I'm busy."

Relieved at having reached her goal, Patty sat down in the chair indicated and waited. She waited five minutes and then ten, and then fifteen.

The man was busy; there was no doubt of that. He dashed off memoranda, gave them to messengers, telephoned, whisked drawers open and shut, and seemed to be in a very whirl of business.

As there was no indication of a cessation, Patty grew impatient, at last, and said:

"Can you attend to my business soon? If not, I'll call some other day."

"Yes," said the man, passing his hand across his brow a little wearily. He looked tired, and overworked, and Patty felt sorry for him.

But he whirled round in his office chair and asked her quite civilly what she wanted.

"You advertised for embroiderers," began Patty, feeling rather small and worthless, "so I came——"

"Yes, yes," said the man, as she paused. "Can you embroider? We use only the best. Have you samples of your work?"

"I have," said Patty, beginning to untie her box.

But her fingers trembled, and she couldn't unknot the cord.

The man took it from her, not rudely, but as if every moment were precious. Deftly he opened the parcel, and gave a quick glance at Patty's exquisite needlework on the doilies and centrepieces she had brought.

"Do it yourself?" he asked, already closing the box again.

"Yes, of course," said Patty, indignant at the implication.

"No offence; that's all right. Your work goes. Report at Department B. Good-day."

He handed her the box, whirled round to his desk, and was immediately at his work again.

Patty realised she was dismissed, and, taking her box, she started for the stairs.

She passed the red-headed boy again, and feeling almost as if she were meeting an old friend in a strange land, she said: "Where is Department B?"

"Caught on, didjer?" he grinned. "Good fer youse! B, first floor,—that way."

He pointed a grimy finger in the direction she should take, and went on, whistling. Down the three flights of stairs went Patty, and thanks to the clarity of the red-headed one's direction, she soon found Department B.

This was in charge of a sharp-faced woman, rather past middle age.

"Sent by Mr. Myers?" she inquired, looking at Patty coldly.

"I was sent by the man in Department G," returned Patty. "He said my work would do, and that I was to report to you."

"All right; how much do you want?" said the woman.

"How much do you pay?" returned Patty.

"Don't be impertinent, miss! I mean how much work do you want?"

"Oh," said Patty, who was quite innocent of any intent to offend. "Why, I want enough to last a week."

"Well, that depends on how fast you work," said the woman, speaking with some asperity. "Come now, do you want a dozen, or two dozen, or what?"

Patty was strongly tempted to say: "What, thank you!" but she refrained, knowing it was no occasion for foolery.

"I don't know till I see them," she replied. "Are they elaborate pieces?"

"Here they are," said the woman, taking some pieces of work from a box. Her tone seemed to imply that she was conferring an enormous favour on Patty by showing them.

They were rather large centrepieces, all of the same pattern, which was stamped, but not embroidered.

"There's a lot of work on those," remarked Patty.

"Oh, you are green!" said the woman. She jerked out another similar centrepiece, on which a small section, perhaps one-eighth of the whole, was worked in silks.

"This is what you're to do," she explained, in a tired, cross voice. "You work this corner, and that's all."

"Who works the rest?" asked Patty, amazed at this plan.

"Why, the buyer. We sell these to the shops; they sell them to people who use this finished corner as a guide to do the rest of the piece. Can't you understand?"

"Yes, I can, now that you explain it," returned Patty. "Then if I take a dozen, I'm to work just that little corner on each one; is that it?"

"That's it," said the woman, wearily, as if she were making the explanation for the thousandth time,—as she probably was.

"You can take this as a guide for yourself," she went on, a little more kindly, "and here's the silks. Did you say a dozen?"

"Wait a minute," said Patty; "how much do you pay?"

"Five dollars."

"Apiece, I suppose. Yes, I'll take a dozen." The woman gave a hard little laugh.

"Five dollars apiece!" she said. "Not much! We pay five dollars a dozen."

"A dozen? Five dollars for all that work! Why, each of those corners is as much work as a whole doily."

"Yes, just about; do you work fast?"

"Yes; pretty fast."

Patty was doing some mental calculation. Three dozen of those pieces meant an interminable lot of work. But it also meant fifteen dollars, and Patty's spirit was now fully roused.

"I'll take three dozen," she said, decidedly; "and I'll bring them back, finished, a week from to-day."

"My, you must be a swift worker," said the woman, in a disinterested voice.

She was already sorting out silks, as with a practised hand, and making all into a parcel.

Patty was about to offer her a visiting card, as she assumed she must give her address, when the woman said:

"Eighteen dollars, please."

"What?" said Patty. "What for?"

"Security. You don't suppose we let everybody walk off with our materials, and never come back, do you?"

"Do you doubt my honesty?" said Patty, haughtily.

"Don't doubt anybody's honesty," was the reply. "Some folks don't have any to doubt. But it's the rule of the house. Six dollars a dozen is the deposit price for that pattern."

"But eighteen dollars is more than you're going to pay me for the work," said Patty.

"Yes," said the woman, "but can't you understand? This is a deposit to protect ourselves if you never return, or if you spoil the work. If you bring it back in satisfactory condition, at the appointed time, we return your deposit, and pay you the price agreed upon for the work."

"Oh, I see," said Patty, taking out her purse. "And it does seem fair. But isn't it hard for poor girls to put up that deposit?"

"Yes, it is." The woman's face softened a little. "But they get it back,—if they do the work right."

"And suppose I bring it back unfinished, or only part done?"

"If what you do is done right, you'll get paid. And if the pieces you don't do are unsoiled and in good condition, we redeem them. But if you care for steady work here, you'd better not take more'n you can accomplish."

"Thank you," said Patty, slowly. "I'll keep the three dozen. Good-morning."

"Good-day," said the woman, curtly, and turned away with a tired sigh.

Patty went out to the street, and found Miller looking exceedingly anxious about the prolonged absence of his young mistress.

A look of relief overspread his face as she appeared, and when she got into the car and said: "Home, Miller," he started with an air of decided satisfaction.



CHAPTER VIII

EMBROIDERED BLOSSOMS

It was after twelve o'clock when Patty reached home, and she found Nan, with her wraps on, rather anxiously awaiting her.

"Patty! Wherever have you been all this time?" she cried, as Patty came in with her big bundle.

"Laying the foundations of my great career; and, oh, Nan, it was pretty awful! I'm in for it, I can tell you!"

"What a goose you are!" But Nan smiled affectionately at the rosy, excited face of her stepdaughter.

"Well, I'm going out on a short errand, Patty. I'll be home to luncheon at one, and then you must tell me all about it."

Patty ran up to her own room, and, flinging off her hat and coat, sat down to open her bundle of work.

It was appalling. The portion to be embroidered looked larger than it had done in the shop, and the pattern was one of the most intricate and elaborate she had ever seen.

"Thank goodness, they're all alike," thought poor Patty. "After I do one, the others will be easier."

She flew for her embroidery hoops and work-basket, and began at once on one of the centrepieces.

The pattern was a floral design, tied with bow-knots and interlaced with a conventional lattice-work. The shading of the blossoms was complicated, and showed many shades of each colour. The bow-knots were of a solid colour, but required close, fine stitches of a tedious nature, while the lattice-work part seemed to present an interminable task.

Patty was a skilful embroiderer, and realised at her first glance that she had a fearful amount of work before her.

But as yet she was undismayed, and cheerfully started in on the flowers.

She selected the right silks, cut the skeins neatly, and put them in thread papers.

"For," she thought, "if I allow my silks to get tangled or mixed up, it will delay me, of course."

At one o'clock, Nan came to her room.

"Didn't you hear the luncheon gong?" she said.

"No," replied Patty, looking up. "Is it one o'clock already?"

"For goodness', gracious' sake, Patty! What are you doing? Is that your 'occupation'?"

"Yes," said Patty, proudly displaying a wild rose, beautifully worked, and carefully tinted. "Don't I do it nicely?"

"Indeed you do! Your embroidery is always exquisite. But are you going to work that whole centrepiece?"

"No, only a section,—see, just this much."

Patty indicated the portion she was to work, but she didn't say that she had thirty-five more, carefully laid away in a box, to do within the week.

"Well," agreed Nan, "that's not such a terrific task. But will they give you fifteen dollars for that piece?"

"No," said Patty, smiling a little grimly; "but there are others."

"Oho! A lot of them! A dozen, I suppose. They always give out work by dozens. Well, girlie, I don't want to be discouraging, but you can't do a dozen in a week. Come on down to luncheon."

At the table, Patty gave Nan a graphic description of her morning's experiences.

Though more or less shocked at the whole performance, Nan couldn't help laughing at Patty's dramatic recital, and the way in which she mimicked the various people.

"And yet, Nan," she said, "it's really pathetic; they all seemed so busy and so tired. The woman who gave me the work was like a machine,—as if she just fed out centrepieces to people who came for them. I'm sure she hasn't smiled for fourteen years. The only gay one in the place was the red-headed boy; and he talked such fearful slang it cured me of ever using it again! Father will be glad of that, anyway. Hereafter I shall converse in Henry James diction. Why, Nan, he said, 'Pipe de guy wit' de goggles'!"

"What did he mean?" asked Nan, puzzled.

"Oh, he meant, 'observe the gentleman wearing spectacles.'"

"How did you know?"

"Intuition, I suppose. And then, he pointed to the man in question."

"Patty, you'll get more slangy still, if you go among such people."

"No, I won't. There's no cure like an awful example. Watch the elegance of my conversation from now on. And besides, Nan, you mustn't act as if I associated with them socially. I assure you I was quite the haughty lady. But that slangy boy was an angel unawares. I'd probably be there yet but for his kindly aid."

"Well, I suppose you'll have to carry this absurd scheme through. And, Patty, I'll help you in any way I can. Don't you want me to wind silks, or something?"

"No, ducky stepmother of mine. The only way you can help is to head off callers. I can do the work if I can keep at it. But if the girls come bothering round, I'll never get it done. Now, this afternoon, I want to do a lot, so if any one asks for me, won't you gently but firmly refuse to let them see me? Make yourself so entertaining that they'll forget my existence."

"I'll try," said Nan, dubiously; "but if it's Elise or Clementine, they'll insist on seeing you."

"Let 'em insist. Tell 'em I have a sick headache,—for I feel sure I shall before the afternoon's over."

"Now, Patty, I won't have that sort of thing! You may work an hour or so, then you must rest, or go for a drive, or chat with the girls, or something."

"I will, other days, Nan. But to-day I want to put in the solid afternoon working, so I'll know how much I can accomplish."

"Have you really a dozen of those things to do, Patty?"

"Yes, I have." Patty didn't dare say she had three dozen. "And if I do well this afternoon, I can calculate how long the work will take. Oh, Nan, I do want to succeed. It isn't only the work, you know, it's the principle. I hate to be baffled; and I won't be!"

A stubborn look came into Patty's pretty eyes,—a look which Nan knew well. A look which meant that the indomitable will might be broken but not bent, and that Patty would persevere in her chosen course until she conquered or was herself defeated.

So, after luncheon, she returned to her task, a little less certain of success than she had been, but no less persevering.

The work was agreeable to her. She loved to embroider, and the dainty design and exquisite colouring appealed to her aesthetic sense.

Had it been only one centrepiece, and had she not felt hurried, it would have been a happy outlook.

But as she carefully matched the shades of silk to the sample piece, she found that it took a great deal of time to get the tints exactly right.

"But that's only for the first one," she thought hopefully; "for all the others, I shall know just which silks to use. I'll lay them in order, so there'll be no doubt about it."

Her habits of method and system stood her in good stead now, and her skeins, carefully marked, were laid in order on her little work-table.

But though her fingers fairly flew, the pattern progressed slowly. She even allowed herself to leave long stitches on the wrong side,—a thing she never did in her own embroidery. She tried to do all the petals of one tint at once, to avoid delay of changing the silks. She used every effort to make "her head save her hands," but the result was that both head and hands became heated and nervous.

"This won't do," she said to herself, as the silk frazzled between her trembling fingers. "If I get nervous, I'll never accomplish anything!"

She forced herself to be calm, and to move more slowly, but the mental strain of hurry, and the physical strain of eyes and muscles, made her jerky, and the stitches began to be less true and correct.

"I'll be sensible," she thought; "I'll take ten minutes off and relax."

She went downstairs, singing, and trying to assume a careless demeanour.

Going into Nan's sitting-room, she said:

"Work's going on finely. I came down for a glass of water, and to rest a minute. Any one been here?"

"No," said Nan, pleasantly, pretending not to notice Patty's flushed cheeks and tired eyes. Really, she had several times stolen on tiptoe to Patty's door, and anxiously looked at her bending over her work. But Patty didn't know this, and wise Nan concluded the time to speak was not yet.

"No, no one came in to disturb you, which is fortunate. You're sensible, dear, to rest a bit. Jane will bring you some water. Polly want a cracker?"

"No, thank you; I'm not hungry. Nan, that's awfully fine work."

"Yes, I know it, Patsy. But remember, you don't have to do it. Give the thing a fair trial, and if it doesn't go easily, give it up and try something else."

"It goes easily enough; it isn't that. But you know yourself, you can't do really good embroidery if you do it too rapidly."

"'Deed you can't! But you do such wonderfully perfect work, that I should think you could afford to slight it a little, and still have it better than other people's."

"Nan, you're such a comfort!" cried Patty, jumping up to embrace her stepmother. "You always say just the very right thing. Now, I'm going back to work. I feel all rested now, and I'm sure I can finish a lot to-day. Why, Nan Fairfield! for goodness' sake! Is it really four o'clock?"

Patty had just noticed the time, and was aghast! Two solid hours she had worked, and only a small portion of one piece was done! She hadn't dreamed the time had flown so, and thought it about three o'clock.

Slightly disheartened at this discovery, she went back to work. At first, the silks went smoothly enough, then hurry and close application brought on the fidgets again.

Before five o'clock, she had to turn on the electric lights, and then, to her dismay, the tints of the silks changed, and she couldn't tell yellow from pink; or green from gray.

"Well," she thought, "I'll work the bow-knots. They're of one solid colour, and it's straight sailing."

Straight sailing it was,—but very tedious. An untrue stitch spoiled the smooth continuance of the embroidery that was to represent tied ribbon bows. An untrue stitch—and she made several—had to be picked out and done over, and this often meant frayed silk, or an unsightly needle hole in the linen.

Long before Patty thought it was time, the dressing-gong for dinner sounded.

She jumped, greatly surprised at the flight of time, but also relieved, that now she must lay aside her work. She longed to throw herself down on her couch and rest, but there was no time for that.

However, after she bathed and dressed, she felt refreshed, and it was a bright, merry-faced Patty who danced downstairs to greet her father.

If he thought her cheeks unusually pink, or her eyes nervously bright, he made no allusion to it.

"Well, Puss, how goes the 'occupation'?" he said, patting her shoulder.

"It's progressing, father," she replied, "but if you'd just as leave, we won't talk about it to-night. I'll tell you all about it, after I finish it."

"All right, Pattykins; we business people never like to 'talk shop.'"

And then Mr. Fairfield, who had been somewhat enlightened by Nan as to how matters stood, chatted gaily of other things, and Patty forgot her troublesome work, and was quite her own gay, saucy self again.

Kenneth dropped in in the evening, to bring a song which he had promised Patty. They tried it over together, and then Patty said:

"Would you mind, Ken, if I ask you not to stay any longer, to-night? I've something I want to do, and——"

"Mind? Of course not. I rather fancy we're good enough friends not to misunderstand each other. If you'll let me come and make up my time some other night, I'll skip out now, so quick you can't see me fly!"

"All right," said Patty, smiling at his hearty, chummy manner. "I do wish you would. I'm not often busy, as you know."

"'Course I know it. Good-night, lady, I'm going to leave you now," and with a hearty handshake and a merry smile, Kenneth went away, and Patty went to her own room.

"I can work on that bow-knot part, to-night," she said to herself; "and then to-morrow, I'll get up early and do the rest of the flowers before breakfast."

Her task had begun to look hopeless, but she was not yet ready to admit it, and she assured herself that, of course, the others would go much more rapidly than the first.

She took down her hair and braided it into a long pigtail; then she put on a comfortable kimono and sat down to work.

She stitched, and she stitched, and she stitched, at the monotonous over and over bow-knots. Doggedly she kept on, though her shoulders ached, her eyes smarted, and her fingers trembled.

With a kind of whimsical pathos, she repeated to herself Hood's "Song of the Shirt," and said, under her breath, "'Stitch, stitch, stitch, till the cock is crowing aloof,' or whatever it is!"

Then she saw by her watch that it was eleven o'clock.

"I'll just finish this bow," she thought, "and then, I'll stop."

But before the bow was finished, there was a tap at her door.

"Who's there?" said Patty, in a voice which carried no invitation to enter.

"It's us," said Nan, firmly, if ungrammatically, "and we're coming in!"

Mr. and Mrs. Fairfield entered, and Patty, trying to make the best of it, looked up and smiled.

"How do you do?" she said. "Take seats, won't you? I'm just amusing myself, you see."

But the tired voice had a quiver in it, for all at once Patty saw that she had failed. She had worked hard all the afternoon and evening, and had not finished one of her thirty-six pieces! It was this discovery that upset her, rather than the unexpected visit from her parents.

"Girlie, this won't do," began her father, in his kindest tones.

"I know it!" cried Patty, throwing down her work, and flinging herself into her father's arms. "I can't do it, daddy, I can't! I haven't done one yet, and I never can do thirty-six!"

"Thirty-six!" exclaimed Nan. "Patty, are you crazy?"

"I think I must have been," said Patty, laughing a little hysterically, as she took the great pile of centrepieces from a wardrobe, and threw them into Nan's lap.

"But,—but you said a dozen!" said Nan, bewildered.

"Oh, no, I didn't," returned Patty. "You said, did I bring a dozen, and I said yes. Also, I brought two dozen more."

"To do in a week!" said Nan, in an awe struck voice.

"Yes, to do in a week!" said Patty, mimicking Nan's tones; and then they both laughed.

But Mr. Fairfield didn't laugh. His limited knowledge of embroidery made him ignorant of how much work "three dozen" might mean, but he knew the effect it had already had on Patty, and he knew it was time to interfere.

"My child——" he began, but Patty interrupted him.

"Don't waste words, daddy, dear," she said. "It's all over. I've tried and failed; but remember, this is only my first attempt."

The fact that she realised her failure was in a way a relief, for the strain of effort was over, and she could now see the absurdity of the task she had undertaken.

She had reached what some one has called "the peace of defeat," and her spirits reacted as after an escape from peril.

"I must have been crazy, Nan," she said, sitting down beside her on the couch. "Just think; I've worked about six hours, and I've done about half of one piece. And I brought thirty-six!"

This statement of the case gave Mr. Fairfield a clearer idea, and he laughed, too.

"No, Patty; I think I need say nothing more. I see you know when you're beaten, and I fancy you won't touch needle to that pile of work again! I hope you can settle matters with your 'employer'; if not, I'll help you out. But I want to congratulate you on your pluck and perseverance, even if,—well, even if they were——"

"Crazy," supplemented Patty.



CHAPTER IX

SLIPS AND SLEEVES

The next morning Nan went with Patty to take the centrepieces back to the embroidery company.

"I shall really like to see that woman," said Nan, as they reached the shop.

"I'm sorry for her," said Patty; "she's so pathetically weary and hopeless-looking."

So she was, and when Nan saw her, she felt sorry for her, too.

"Couldn't work as fast as you thought?" she said to Patty, not unkindly, but with the hard smile that seemed to be permanently fastened to her face.

"No, I couldn't," confessed Patty. "I only worked part of one piece. I've brought all the rest back, in good order, and I want you to redeem them."

In her mechanical way, the woman took the untouched centrepieces, looked at them critically, and laid them aside. Then she took up the piece Patty had worked on.

"I'll have to deduct for this," she said; "a dollar and a half."

"What do you mean?" asked Nan, angry at what she considered gross injustice. "Miss Fairfield does not ask payment; she is giving you all that work."

"She has spoiled this piece for our use. She works nicely enough, but no two people work exactly alike, so no one else could now take this and complete the corner. So, you see the piece is valueless, and we must charge for it. Moreover, I should have to deduct fifty cents if it had been finished, because long stitches show on the wrong side."

"And you don't allow that?" said Nan.

"Never. We deduct for that, or for soiling the work, or for using wrong colours."

"Well," said Patty, "return me as much of my deposit as is due me, and we'll consider the incident closed."

Stolidly, the woman opened a drawer, counted out sixteen dollars and a half, and gave it to Patty, who said good-day, and stalked out of the shop.

Nan followed, and when they were seated in the motor-car, both broke into peals of laughter.

"Oh, Patty," cried Nan, "what a financier you are! You nearly killed yourself working yesterday, and now you've paid a dollar and a half for the privilege!"

"Pooh!" said Patty. "Nothing of the sort. I paid a dollar and a half for some valuable experience, and I think I got it cheap enough!"

"Yes, I suppose you did. Well, what are you going to do next? For I know you well enough to know you're not going to give up your scheme entirely."

"Indeed I'm not! But to-day I'm going to frivol. I worked hard enough yesterday to deserve a rest, and I'm going to take it. Come on, let's go somewhere nice to luncheon, and then go to a matinee; it's Wednesday."

"Very well; I think you do need recreation. I'll take you to Cherry's for luncheon, and then we'll go to see a comic opera, or some light comedy."

"You're a great comfort, Nan," said Patty. "You always do just the right thing. But you needn't think you can divert my mind to the extent of making me give up this plan of mine. For I won't do that."

"I know you won't. But next time do try something easier."

"I shall. I've already made up my mind what it's to be; and truly, it's dead easy."

"I thought your red-headed friend cured you of using slang," said Nan, smiling.

"I thought so, too," said Patty, with an air of innocent surprise. "Isn't it queer how one can be mistaken?"

True to her determination, Patty started out again the following morning to get an "occupation," as they all termed it.

Again Miller was amazed at the address given him, but he said nothing, and proceeded to drive Patty to it.

It was even less attractive than the former shop, being nothing more or less than an establishment where "white work" was given out.

"How many?" asked the woman in charge, and, profiting by past experience, Patty said:

"One dozen."

The woman took her name and address, in a quick, business-like way.

"One dollar a dozen," she said. "Must be returned within the week. Deductions made for all imperfections."

She handed Patty a large bundle done up in newspaper, and, with flaming cheeks, Patty walked out of the shop.

"Home, Miller," she said, and though the man was too well trained to look surprised, he couldn't keep an expression of astonishment out of his eyes when he saw Patty's burden.

On the way home she opened the parcel.

There were in it twelve infants' slips, of rather coarse muslin. They were cut out, but not basted.

Patty looked a little doubtful, then she thought:

"Oh, pshaw! It's very different from that fine embroidery. I can swish these through the sewing-machine in no time at all."

Reaching home, she threw the lap-robe over her bundle, and hurried into the house with it.

"Patty," called Nan, as she whisked upstairs to her own room, "come here, won't you?"

"Yes, in a minute," Patty called back, flying on upstairs, and depositing the bundle in a wardrobe.

She locked the door, and hid the key, then went demurely downstairs.

"Occupation all right?" asked Nan, smiling.

"Yes," said Patty, jauntily. "Good work this time; not so fine and fussy."

"Well; I only wanted to tell you that Elise telephoned, and wants you to go to a concert with her this afternoon. I forget where it is; she said for you to call her up as soon as you came home."

"All right, I will," said Patty, and she went to the telephone at once.

"It's a lovely concert, Nan," she said, as she returned. "Jigamarigski is going to sing, and afterward I'm to go home with Elise to dinner, and they'll bring me home. What shall I wear?"

"Wear your light green cloth suit, and your furs," said Nan, after a moment's consideration. "And your big white beaver hat. It's too dressy an affair for your black hat."

Apparently the "occupation" was forgotten, for during luncheon time, Patty chatted about the concert and other matters, and at two o'clock she went away.

"You look lovely," said Nan, as, in her pretty cloth suit, and white hat and furs, Patty came to say good-by.

The concert proved most enjoyable. Dinner at the Farringtons' was equally so, and when Patty reached home at about nine o'clock, she had much to tell Nan and her father, who were always glad to hear of her social pleasures.

"And the occupation?" asked Mr. Fairfield. "How is it progressing?"

"Nicely, thank you," returned Patty. "I've picked an easy one this time. One has to learn, you know."

Smiling, she went to her room that night, determined to attack the work next morning and hurry it through.

But next morning came a note from Clementine, asking Patty to go to the photographer's with her at ten, and as Patty had promised to do this when called on, she didn't like to refuse.

"And, anyway," she thought, "a week is a week. Whatever day I begin this new work, I shall have a week from that day to earn the fifteen dollars in."

Then, that afternoon was so fine, she went for a motor-ride with Nan.

And the next day, some guests came to luncheon, and naturally, Patty couldn't absent herself without explanation.

And then came Sunday. And so it was Monday morning before Patty began her new work.

"Excuse me to any one who comes, Nan," she said, as she left the breakfast table. "I have to work to-day, and I mustn't be interrupted."

"Very well," said Nan. "I think, myself, it's time you began, if you're going to accomplish anything."

Armed with her pile of work, and her basket of sewing materials, Patty went up to the fourth floor, where a small room was set apart as a sewing-room. It was rarely used, save by the maids, for Nan was not fond of sewing; but there was a good sewing-machine there, and ample light and space.

Full of enthusiasm, Patty seated herself at the sewing-machine, and picked up the cut-out work.

"I'll be very systematic," she thought. "I'll do all the side seams first; then all the hems; then I'll stitch up all the little sleeves at once."

The plan worked well. The simple little garments had but two seams, and setting the machine stitch rather long, Patty whizzed the little white slips through, one after the other, singing in time to her treadle.

"Oh, it's too easy!" she thought, as in a short time the twenty-four seams were neatly stitched.

"Now, for the hems."

These were a little more troublesome, as they had to be folded and basted; but still, it was an easy task, and Patty worked away like a busy bee.

"Now for the babykins' sleeves," she said, but just then the luncheon gong sounded.

"Not really!" cried Patty, aloud, as she glanced at her watch.

But in very truth it was one o'clock, and it was a thoughtful Patty who walked slowly downstairs.

"Nan," she exclaimed, "the trouble with an occupation is, that there's not time enough in a day, or a half-day, to do anything."

Nan nodded her head sagaciously.

"I've always noticed that," she said. "It's only when you're playing, that there's any time. If you try to work, there's no time at all."

"Not a bit!" echoed Patty, "and what there is, glides through your fingers before you know it."

She hurried through her luncheon, and returned to the sewing-room. She was not tired, but there was a great deal yet to do.

The tiny sleeves she put through the machine, one after another, until she had twenty-four in a long chain, linked by a single stitch.

"Oh, method and system accomplish wonders," she thought, as she snipped the sleeves apart, and rapidly folded hems round the little wrists.

But even with method and system, twenty-four is a large number, and as Patty turned the last hem, twilight fell, and she turned on the lights.

"Goodness, gracious!" she thought. "I've yet all these sleeves to set, and stitch in, and the fronts to finish off; and a buttonhole to work in each neckband."

But it was only half-past four, and by half-past six they were all finished but the buttonholes.

And Patty was nearly finished, too!

She had not realised how physically tired she was. Running the sewing-machine all day was an unusual exertion, and when she reached her own room, with her arms full of the little white garments, she threw them on the bed, and threw herself on the couch, weary in every bone and muscle.

"Well, what luck?" said Nan, appearing at Patty's doorway, herself all dressed for dinner.

"Oh, Nan," cried Patty, laughing, "me legs is broke; and me arms is broke; and me back is broke. But I'm not nervous or worried, and I'm going to win out this time! But, Nan, I just can't go down to dinner. Send Jane up with a tray,—there's a dear. And tell father I'm all right, but I don't care to mingle in society to-night."

"Well, I'm glad you're in good spirits," said Nan, half annoyed, half laughing, as she saw the pile of white work on the bed.

"Run along, Nan, there's a good lady," said Patty, jumping up, and urging Nan out the door. "Skippy-skip, before father comes up to learn the latest news from the seat of war. Tell him everything is all right, and I'm earning my living with neatness and despatch, only working girls simply can't get into chiffons and dine with the 'quality.'"

Reassured by Patty's gay air, Nan went downstairs, laughing, and told her husband that she believed Patty would yet accomplish her project.

"These experiences will do her no harm," said Mr. Fairfield, after hearing Nan's story. "So long as she doesn't get nervous or mentally upset, we'll let her go on with her experiment. She's a peculiar nature, and has a wonderful amount of will-power for one so young."

"I've always heard you were called stubborn," said Nan, smiling, "though I've never seen it specially exemplified in your case."

"One doesn't need to be stubborn with such an angelic disposition as yours in the house," he returned, and Nan smiled happily, for she knew the words were lovingly in earnest.

Meantime, Patty was sitting luxuriously in a big easy-chair, eating her dinner from the tray Jane had brought her.

"This is rather fun," she thought; "and my, but running a sewing-machine does give one an appetite! I could eat two trays-full, I verily believe. Thank goodness, I've no more stitching to do."

Having despatched her dinner, perhaps a trifle hastily, Patty reluctantly left her big easy-chair for a small rocker by the drop-light.

She wearily picked up a little gown, cut a buttonhole at the throat, and proceeded to work it. As she was so skilful at embroidery, of course this was easy work; but Patty was tired, and her fingers almost refused to push the needle through the cloth. About ten o'clock Nan came upstairs.

Patty was just sewing on the last button, the buttonholes being all done.

This fact made her jubilant.

"Nan!" she cried; "what do you think! I've made a whole dozen of these baby-slips to-day!"

"Patty! You don't mean it! Why, my dear child, how could you?"

"On the machine. And they're done neatly, aren't they?"

"Yes, they are, indeed. But Patty——"

"What?"

"I hate to tell you,—but——"

"Oh, what is it, Nan? Is the material wrong side out?"

"No, you goosie, there's no right or wrong side to cotton cloth, but——"

"Well, tell me!"

"Every one of these little sleeves is made upside down!"

"Oh, Nan! It can't be!"

"Yes, they are, dearie. See, this wider part should have been at the top."

"Oh, Nan, what shall I do? I thought they were sort of flowing sleeves, you know. Kimono-shaped ones, I mean."

"No; they're set wrong. Oh, Patty, why didn't you let me help you? But you told me to keep away."

"Yes, I know I did. Now, I've spoiled the whole dozen! I like them just as well that way, myself, but I know they'll 'deduct' for it."

"Patty, I don't think you ought to do 'white work' anyway. How much are they going to pay you?"

"A dollar a dozen."

"And you've done a dozen in a day. That won't bring you fifteen dollars in a week."

"Well, I thought the second dozen would go faster, and it probably will. And, of course, I shan't make that mistake with the sleeves again. Truly, Nan, it's a heap easier than embroidery."

"Well, don't worry over it to-night," said Nan, kissing her. "Take a hot bath and hop into bed. Perhaps you have found the right work after all."

Nan didn't really think she had, but Patty had begun to look worried, and Nan feared she wouldn't be able to sleep.

But sleep she did, from sheer physical exhaustion.

And woke next morning, almost unable to move! Every muscle in her body was lame from her strenuous machine work. She couldn't rise from her bed, and could scarcely raise her head from the pillow.

When Catherine, Nan's maid, came to her room, Patty said, faintly:

"Ask Mrs. Fairfield to come up, please."

Nan came, and Patty looked at her comically, as she said:

"Nan, I'm vanquished, but not subdued. I'm just one mass of lameness and ache, but if you think I've given up my plan, you're greatly mistaken. However, I'm through with 'white work,' and I've sewed my last sew on a machine."

"Why, Patty girl, you're really ill," said Nan, sympathetically.

"No, I'm not! I'm perfectly well. Just a trifle lame from over-exercise yesterday. I'll stay in bed to-day, and Nan, dear, if you love me, take those slips back to the kind lady who let me have them to play with. Make her pay you a dollar for the dozen, and don't let her deduct more than a dollar for the upside-downness of the sleeves. Tell her they're prettier that way, anyway. And, Catharine, do please rub me with some healing lotion or something,—for I'm as lame as a jelly-fish!"

"Patty," said Nan, solemnly, "the occasion requires strong language. So I will remark in all seriousness, that, you do beat all!"



CHAPTER X

THE CLEVER GOLDFISH

FINANCIALLY, Patty came out just even on her 'white work,' for though the woman paid Nan the dollar for the dozen finished garments, she deducted the same amount for the wrongly placed sleeves.

She also grumbled at the long machine stitch Patty had used, but Nan's patience was exhausted, and giving the woman a calm stare, she walked out of the shop.

"It's perfectly awful," she said to Patty, when relating her adventure, "to think of the poor girls who are really trying to earn their living by white work. It's all very well for you, who are only experimenting, but suppose a real worker gets all her pay deducted!"

"There's hardly enough pay to pay for deducting it, anyway," said Patty. "Oh, Nan, it is dreadful! I suppose lots of poor girls who feel as tired and lame as I do this morning, have to go straight back to their sewing-machine and run it all day."

"Of course they do; and often they're of delicate constitutions, and insufficiently nourished."

"It makes me feel awful. Things are unevenly divided in this world, aren't they, Nan?"

"They are, my dear; but as that problem has baffled wiser heads than yours, it's useless for you to worry over it. You can't reform the world."

"No; and I don't intend to try. But I can do something to help. I know I can. That's where people show their lack of a sense of proportion. I know I can't do anything for the world, as a world, but if I can help in a few individual cases, that will be my share. For instance, if I can help this Christine Farley to an art education, and so to a successful career, why that's so much to the good. And though father has set me a hard task to bring it about, I'm going to do it yet."

"Your father wouldn't have set you such a task if you hadn't declared it was no task at all! You said you could earn your living easily in a dozen different ways. Already you've discarded two."

"That leaves me ten!" said Patty, airily. "Ten ways of earning a living is a fair show. I can discard nine more and still have a chance."

"All right, Patsy. I'm glad you're not disheartened. And I suppose you are learning something of the conditions of our social economy."

"Gracious, Nan! How you do talk! Are you quite sure you know what you mean?"

"No, but I thought you would," said Nan, and with that parting shot, she left the room.

It was late in the afternoon before Patty dawdled downstairs.

Her shoulders and the back of her neck still ached, but otherwise she felt all right again, and her spirits had risen proportionately.

About four o'clock Kenneth called, bringing a mysterious burden, which he carried with great care.

He knew of Patty's scheme, and though he appreciated the nobility of her endeavour, he could not feel very sanguine hopes of her success.

"You're not cut out for a wage-earner, Patty," he had said to her; "it's like a butterfly making bread."

"But I don't want to be a butterfly," Patty had pouted.

"Oh, I don't mean butterfly,—as so many people do,—to represent a frivolous, useless person. I have a great respect for butterflies, myself. And you radiate the same effect of joy, happiness, gladness, and beauty, as a butterfly does when hovering around in the golden sunshine of a summer day."

"Why, Ken, I didn't know you were a poet. But you haven't proved your case."

"Yes, I have. It's your mission in life to be happy, and so to make others happy. This you can do without definite effort, so stick to your calling, and let the more prosaic people, the plodders,—earn wages."

"Let me earn the wages of my country, and I care not who makes it smile," Patty had rejoined, and there the subject had dropped.

To-day, when he arrived, carrying what was evidently something fragile, Patty greeted him gaily.

"I'm not working to-day," she said; "so you can stay 'most an hour if you like."

"Well, I will; and if you'll wait till I set down this precious burden, I'll shake hands with you. I come, like the Greeks, bearing gifts."

"A gift? Oh, what is it? I'm crazy to see it."

"Well, it's a gift; but, incidentally, it's a plan for wage-earning. If you really want to wage-earn, you may as well do it in an interesting way."

"Yes," said Patty, demurely, for she well knew he was up to some sort of foolery. "My attempts so far, though absorbing, were not really interesting."

"Well, this is!" declared Kenneth, who was carefully taking the tissue papers from his gift, which proved to be a glass globe, containing two goldfish.

"They are Darby and Juliet," he remarked, as he looked anxiously into the bowl. "I am so tired of hackneyed pairs of names, that I've varied these. But, won't you send for some more water? I had to bring them with only a little, for fear I'd spill it, and they seem to have drunk it nearly all up."

"Nonsense! they don't drink the water; they only swim in it."

"That's the trouble. There isn't enough for them to swim in. And yet there's too much for them to drink."

Patty rang for Jane, who then brought them a pitcher of ice water.

Kenneth poured it in, but at the sudden cold deluge, Darby and Juliet began to behave in an extraordinary manner. They flew madly round and round the bowl, hitting each other, and breathing in gasps.

"The water's too cold," cried Patty.

"Of course it is," said Kenneth; "get some hot water, won't you?"

Patty ran herself for the hot water, and returned with a pitcher full.

"Don't you want a little mustard?" she said, giggling. "I know they've taken cold. A hot mustard foot-bath is fine for colds."

"And that is very odd, because they haven't any feet," quoted Kenneth, as he poured the hot water in very slowly.

"Do you want a bath thermometer?" went on Patty.

"No; when they stop wriggling it's warm enough. There, now they're all right."

Kenneth set down the hot water pitcher and looked with pride on the two fish, who had certainly stopped wriggling.

"They're awful quiet," said Patty. "Are you sure they're all right? I think you've boiled them."

"Nothing of the sort. They like warmth, only it makes them sort of——"

"Dormant," suggested Patty.

"Yes, clever child, dormant. And now while they sleep, I'll tell you my plan. You see, these are extra intelligent goldfish,—especially Juliet, the one with a black spot on her shoulder. Well, you've only to train them a bit, and then give exhibitions of your trained goldfish! You've no idea what a hit it will make."

"Kenneth, you're a genius!" cried Patty, meeting his fun halfway. "It's lots easier than white work. Come on, help me train them, won't you? How do we begin?"

"They're still sleepy," said Kenneth, looking at the inert fish. "They need stirring up."

"I'll get a spoon," said Patty, promptly.

"No, just waggle the water with your finger. They'll come up."

Patty waggled the water with her finger, but Darby only blinked at her, while Juliet flounced petulantly.

"She's high-strung," observed Kenneth, "and a trifle bad-tempered. But she won't stand scolding. Let's take her out and pet her a little."

"How do you get her out? With a hook and line?"

"No, silly! You must be kind to them. Here, puss, puss, puss! Come, Jooly-ooly-et! Come!"

But Juliet haughtily ignored the invitation and huddled in the bottom of the bowl.

"Try this," said Patty, running to the dining-room, and returning with a silver fish server.

This worked beautifully, and Kenneth scooped up Juliet, who lay quietly on the broad silver blade, blinking at them reproachfully.

"She's hungry, Ken; see how she opens and shuts her mouth."

"No; she's trying to talk. I told you she was clever. I daresay you can teach her to sing. She looks just as you do when you take a high note."

"You horrid boy! But she does, really. Anyway, let's feed them. What do they eat?"

"I brought their food with me; it's some patent stuff, very well advertised. Here, Julie!"

Gently slipping Juliet back into the water, Ken scattered some food on the surface.

Both fish rose to the occasion and greedily ate the floating particles.

"That's the trouble," said Ken. "They have no judgment. They overeat, and then they die of apoplexy. And, too, if they eat too much, you can't train them to stand on their tails and beg."

"Oh, will they learn to do that? And what else can we teach them?"

"Oh, anything acrobatic; trapeze work and that. But they're sleepy now; you fed them too much for just an afternoon tea. Let's leave them to their nap, and train them after they wake up."

"All right; let's sit down and talk seriously."

"Patty, you're always ready to talk seriously of late. That's why I brought you some Nonsense Fish, to lighten your mood a little."

"Don't you worry about my mood, Ken; it's light enough. But I want you to help me earn my living for a week. Will you?"

"That I will not! I'll be no party to your foolishness."

"Now, Ken," went on Patty, for she knew his "bark was worse than his bite," "I don't want you to do anything much. But, in your law office, where you're studying, aren't there some papers I can copy, or something like that?"

"Patty, you're a back number. That 'copying' that you mean is all out of date. In these days of typewriters and manifold thigamajigs, we lawyers don't have much copying done by hand. Except, perhaps, engrossing. Can you do that?"

"How prettily you say 'we lawyers,'" teased Patty.

"Of course I do. I'm getting in practice against the time it'll be true. But if you really want to copy, buy a nice Spencerian Copy-book, and fill up its pages. It'll be about as valuable as any other work of the sort."

"Ken, you're horrid. So unsympathetic."

"I'm crool only to be kind! You must know, Patty, that copying is out of the question."

"Well, never mind then; let's talk of something else."

"'Let's sit upon the ground and tell strange stories of the death of kings.'"

"Oh, Ken, that reminds me. You know my crystal ball?"

"I do indeed; I selected it with utmost care."

"Yes, it's a gem. Perfectly flawless. Well, I'll get it, and see if we can see things in it."

Patty ran for her crystal, and returning to the library held it up to the fading sunlight, and tried to look into it.

"That isn't the way, Patty; you have to lay it on black velvet, or something dark."

"Oh, do you? Well, here's a dark mat on this table. Try that."

They gazed intently into the ball, and though they could see nothing, Patty felt a weird sense of uncanniness.

Ken laughed when she declared this, and said:

"Nothing in the world but suggestion. You think a Japanese crystal ought to make you feel supernatural, and so you imagine it does. But it doesn't any such nonsense. Now, I'll tell you why I like them. Only because they're so flawlessly perfect. In shape, colour, texture,—if you can call it texture,—but I mean material or substance. There isn't an attribute that they possess, except in perfection. That's a great thing, Patty; and you can't say it of anything else."

"The stars," said Patty, trying to look wise.

"Oh, pshaw! I mean things made by man."

"Great pictures," she suggested.

"Their perfection is a matter of opinion. One man deems a picture perfect, another man does not. But a crystal ball is indubitably perfect."

"Indubitably is an awful big word," said Patty. "I'm afraid of it."

"Never mind," said Kenneth, kindly, "I won't let it hurt you."

Then the doorbell rang, and in a moment in came Elise and Roger.

"Hello, Ken," said Elise. "We came for Patty to go skating. Will you go, too?"

"I can't go to-day," said Patty, "I'm too tired. And it's too late, anyway. You stay here, and we'll have tea."

"All right, I don't care," said Elise, taking off her furs.

The quartette gathered round the library fire, and Jane brought in the tea things.

Patty made tea very prettily, for she excelled in domestic accomplishments, and as she handed Kenneth his cup, she said, roguishly, "There's a perfect cup of tea, I can assure you."

"Perfect tea, all right," returned Ken, sipping it, "but a cup of tea can't be a perfect thing, as it hasn't complete symmetry of form."

"What are you two talking about?" demanded Elise, who didn't want Ken and Patty to have secrets from which she was excluded.

"Speaking of crystal balls," said Patty, "I'll show you one, Elise; a big one, too! Get Darby and Juliet, won't you please, Ken?"

Kenneth obligingly brought the glass globe in from the dining-room, where they had left the goldfish to be by themselves.

"How jolly!" cried Elise. "And what lovely goldfish! These are the real Japanese ones, aren't they?"

"Yes," said Patty, smiling at Ken. "Being Japanese, they're perfect of their kind. Make them stand on their tails and beg, Kenneth."

"Oh, will they do that?" said Elise.

"Only on Wednesdays and Saturdays," said Kenneth, gravely. "And on Fridays they sing. To-day is their rest day."

"They look morbid," said Roger. "Shall I jolly them up a bit?"

"Let's give them tea," said Elise, tilting her spoon until a few drops fell into the water.

"You'll make them nervous," warned Patty, "and Juliet is high-strung, anyway."

Then Nan came in from her afternoon's round of calls, and then Mr. Fairfield arrived, and they too were called upon to make friends with Darby and Juliet.

"Goldfish always make me think of a story about Whistler," said Mr. Fairfield. "It seems, Whistler once had a room in a house in Florence, directly over a person who had some pet goldfish in a bowl. Every pleasant day the bowl was set out on the balcony, which was exactly beneath Whistler's balcony. For days he resisted the temptation to fish for them with a bent pin and a string; but at last he succumbed to his angling instincts, and caught them all. Then, remorseful at what he had done, he fried them to a fine golden brown, and returned them to their owner on a platter."

"Ugh!" cried Nan, "what a horrid story! Why do they always tack unpleasant stories on poor old Whistler? Now, I know a lovely story about a goldfish, which I will relate. It is said to be the composition of a small Boston schoolchild.

"'Oh, Robin, lovely goldfish! Who teached you how to fly? Who sticked the fur upon your breast? 'Twas God, 'twas God what done it.'

Isn't that lovely?"

"It is, indeed," agreed Kenneth. "If that's Boston precocity, it's more attractive than I thought."

"But it doesn't rhyme," said Elise.

"No," said Patty; "that's the beauty of it. It's blank verse, as the greatest poetry often is. Don't go yet, Elise. Stay to dinner, can't you?"

"No, I can't stay to-night, Patty, dear. Will you go skating to-morrow?"

Patty hesitated. She wanted to go, but also she wanted to get at that "occupation" of hers, for she had a new one in view.

She was about to say she would go skating, however, when she saw a twinkle in her father's eye that made her change her mind.

"Can't, Elise," she said. "I've an engagement to-morrow. Will telephone you some day when I can go."

"Well, don't wait too long; the ice will be all gone."

Then the young people went away, and Patty went thoughtfully upstairs to her room to dress for dinner.



CHAPTER XI

A BUSY MORNING

The next morning, Patty came down to breakfast, wearing a plain street costume, a small, but very well made hat, and a look of determination.

"Fresh start?" said her father, smiling kindly at her.

"Yes," she replied; "and this time I conquer. I see success already perching on my banners."

"Well, I don't then!" declared Nan. "I see you coming home, not with your shield, but on it."

"Now, don't be a wet blanket and throw cold water on my plans," said Patty, a little mixed in her metaphor, but smiling placidly at her stepmother. "This time it's really a most sensible undertaking that I'm going to undertake."

"Sounds as if you were going into the undertaking business," said her father, "but I assume you don't mean that."

"No, I go into a pleasanter atmosphere than that suggests, and one in which I feel sure I can accomplish good work."

"Well, Patty," said Mr. Fairfield, "it's lucky you're of a sanguine temperament. I'm glad to see you're not disheartened by failure."

"Not I! To me a failure only means a more vigorous attempt next time. Now, Nan, I shall be away all day,—until about five o'clock. Won't you play with Darby and Juliet a little, so they won't get lonesome?"

"Oh, yes; I'll amuse them. But, Patty, where are you going?"

"Never mind, pretty stepmothery; don't ask questions, for they won't be answered. If all goes well, I'll tell you on my return."

Mr. Fairfield looked serious.

"Patty," he said, "you know you're not to do anything unbecoming or ridiculous. Don't you go and sell goods behind a counter, or anything extreme like that."

"No, sir; I won't. I promise not to put myself in the public eye in any such fashion. And you may trust me, father, not to do anything of which you'd disapprove, if you knew all about it."

"That's a good Patty-girl! Well, go ahead in your mad career, and if you keep your part of the bargain, I'll keep mine."

Patty started off, and this time she gave Miller an address not so far away as before. When he brought the motor-car to a standstill, before a fashionable millinery shop, he felt none of the surprise that he had when he took Patty to what he considered inappropriate places.

"Now, Miller," said Patty, as she got out of the car, "you are not to wait for me, but I want you to return here for me at five o'clock."

"Here, Miss Fairfield?"

"Yes; right here. Come exactly at five, and wait for me to come out."

"Yes, Miss Fairfield," said Miller, and Patty turned and entered the shop.

"I'm 'most sorry I sent him away," she thought to herself, "for I may not want to stay. Well, I can go home in a street-car."

Though Patty's costume was plain and inconspicuous, it bore so evidently the stamp of taste and refinement, that the saleswoman who met her assumed she had come to buy a hat.

But it was early for fashionable ladies to be out shopping, so the rather supercilious young woman greeted Patty with a cautious air of reserve. It was so different from the effusive manner usually shown to Nan and Patty when they really went shopping, that Patty was secretly much amused. But as she was also secretly greatly embarrassed, it was with an uncertain air that she said:

"I am not shopping; I wish to see Madame Villard."

"Madame is not here. What can I do for you?"

"I have come in answer to her advertisement for an assistant milliner."

"Oh," said the young woman, raising her eyebrows, and at once showing an air of haughty condescension. "You should have asked for the forewoman, not Madame."

Patty's sense of humour got the better of her resentment, and it was with difficulty she repressed a smile, as she answered:

"Indeed? Well, it is not yet too late to correct my error. Will you show me to the forewoman?"

Patty's inflections were not in the least sarcastic, in fact her whole manner was gentle and gracious, but something in her tone, perhaps the note of amusement, made the saleswoman look at her suddenly and sharply.

But Patty's face was demure and showed only a desire to be conducted to the right person.

"Come this way," said the young woman, shortly, and she led Patty, between some heavy curtains, to a back room.

"This is our forewoman, Miss O'Flynn," she said, as she ushered Patty into her presence.

Miss O'Flynn was an important looking woman who took in every detail of Patty's appearance in a series of careful and systematic glances.

She seemed puzzled at what she saw, and said, inquiringly:

"Miss——?"

"Miss Fairfield," said Patty, pleasantly, "and I have come in answer to your advertisement."

"For assistant milliner? You."

Miss O'Flynn was surprised out of her usual calm by the amazing proposition of the young stranger.

"Yes," said Patty, quite calm herself. "I can trim hats very prettily."

"Did you trim the one you have on?"

"Well, no," admitted Patty. "I brought this from Paris. But I am sure I can trim hats to suit you. May I try?"

"What experience have you had?"

"Well,—not any professional experience. You see, it is only recently that I have desired to earn my own living."

"Oh,—sudden reverses," murmured Miss O'Flynn, thinking she had solved the problem. "Well, my dear, you have evidently been brought up a lady, so it will be hard for you to find work. I am sorry to say I cannot employ you, as I engage only skilled workwomen."

"But trimming hats doesn't require professional skill," said Patty. "Only good taste and a,—a sort of knack at bows and things."

Miss O'Flynn laughed.

"Everything requires professional skill," she returned. "A course of training is necessary for any position."

"But if you'd try me," said Patty, quite unconscious that her tone was pleading. "Just give me a day's trial, and if I don't make good, you needn't pay me anything."

Miss O'Flynn was more puzzled than ever. Insistent though Patty was, it didn't seem to her the insistence of a poor girl wanting to earn her bread; it was more like the determination of a wilful child to attain its desire.

So, moved rather by curiosity to see how it would turn out, than a belief in Patty's ability, she said, coldly:

"I will do as you ask. You may go to the workroom for to-day; but on the understanding that unless you show unusual skill or aptitude to learn, you are not to be paid anything, nor are you to come to-morrow."

"All right," said Patty, smiling jubilantly at having received her opportunity, at least.

Miss O'Flynn took her to a workroom, where several girls were busily engaged in various sorts of millinery work.

"Sit here, Miss Fairfield," and Miss O'Flynn indicated a chair at one end of a long table. "You may line this hat."

Then she gave Patty an elaborate velvet hat, trimmed with feathers, and materials for sewing. She also gave her white silk for the lining of the hat, and a piece stamped with gilt letters, which Patty knew must be placed inside the crown.

It all seemed easy,—too easy, in fact, for Patty aspired to making velvet rosettes, and placing ostrich plumes.

But she knew she was being tested, and she set to work at her task with energy.

Though she had never lined a hat before, she knew in a general way how it should be done, and she tried to go about it with an air of experience. The other girls at the table cast furtive glances at her.

Though they were not rude, they showed that air of hostile criticism, so often shown by habitues to a newcomer, though based on nothing but prejudiced curiosity.

But as Patty began to cut the lining, she saw involuntary smiles spring to their faces. She knew that she must be cutting it wrongly, but it seemed to her the only way to cut it, so she went on.

The girls began to nudge each other, and to smile more openly, and, to her own chagrin, Patty felt her cheeks growing red with embarrassment.

She was tempted to speak pleasantly to them, and ask what her mistake was, but a strange notion of honesty forbade this.

She had said at home that she believed it would be possible for her to earn her living without special instruction, and it seemed to her, that if she now asked for advice it would be like getting special training, though in a small degree.

So she went calmly on with her work; cut and fitted the hat lining, and carefully sewed it in the hat.

Remembering that the stitch she used on her "white work" had been criticised as too long, she now was careful to take very short stitches, and she used her utmost endeavour to make her work neat and dainty.

Miss O'Flynn passed her chair two or three times while the work was in progress, but she made no comment of any sort.

It was perhaps eleven o'clock when Patty completed the task. Next time Miss O'Flynn came by her she handed her the hat with an unmistakable air of triumph.

"I've done it," Patty thought to herself, exultantly. "I've lined that hat, and, if I do say it that shouldn't, it's done perfectly; neat, smooth, and correct in every particular."

While Patty was indulging in these self-congratulatory thoughts, Miss O'Flynn took the hat from her hand. She gave it a quick glance, then she looked at Patty.

Had Patty looked more meek, had she seemed to await Miss O'Flynn's opinion of her work, the result might have been different.

But Patty's expression was so plainly that of a conquering hero, she showed so palpably her pride in her own achievement, that Miss O'Flynn's eyes narrowed, and her face hardened. Without a word to Patty, she handed the hat to a sad-eyed young woman at another table, and said:

"Line this hat, Miss Harrigan."

"Yes, ma'am," said the girl; and even as Patty watched her, she began to snip deftly at Patty's small, careful stitches, and in a few moments the lining was out, and the girl was shaping and cutting a new one, with a quick, sure touch, and with not so much as a glance in Patty's direction.

The other girls,—the ones at Patty's table,—looked horrified, but they did not look openly at Patty. Furtively, they darted glances at her from beneath half-closed lids, and then as furtively glanced at each other.

It all struck Patty humorously. To have her careful work discarded and snipped out, to be replaced by "skilled labour," seemed so funny that she wanted to laugh aloud.

But she was also deeply chagrined at her failure, and so it was an uncertain attitude of mind that showed upon her face as Miss O'Flynn again approached her.

Without making any reference to the work she had already done, Miss O'Flynn gave Patty a hat frame and some thick, soft satin.

"Cover the frame neatly, Miss Fairfield," was all she said, and walked away.

Patty understood.

It was her own independent and assured attitude that had led Miss O'Flynn to pursue this course. She didn't for a moment think that all beginners were treated like this. But she had asked to be given a fair trial—and she was getting it.

Moreover, she half suspected that Miss O'Flynn knew she was not really under the necessity of earning her own living.

Though wearing her plainest clothes, all the details of her costume betokened an affluence that couldn't be concealed.

Astute Patty began to think that Miss O'Flynn saw through her, and that she was cleverly getting even with her.

However, she took the hat frame and the satin, and set to work in thorough earnest. Though not poor, she could not have tried any harder to succeed had she been in direst want.

But as to her work, she was very much at sea.

She knew she had to get the satin on to the frame, without crease or wrinkle. She knew exactly how it ought to look when done, for she had a hat of that sort herself, and the material covered the foundation as creaselessly as paint.

"I'm sure it only needs gumption," thought Patty, hopefully. "Here's my real chance to prove that it doesn't need a series of lessons to get some satin smoothly on a crinoline frame. If I do it neatly, she won't ask some other girl to do it over."

Paying no attention to the covert glances of her companions, Patty set to work. She cut carefully, she fitted neatly; she pinned and she basted; she smoothed and she patted; and finally she sewed, with tiny, close stitches, placed evenly and with great precision.

So absorbed did she become in her task that she failed to notice the departure of the others at noon. Alone she sat there at the table, snipping, sewing, pinning, and patting the somewhat refractory satin.

It was almost one o'clock when she finished, and looked up suddenly to see Miss O'Flynn standing watching her.

"Why are you doing this?" she said to Patty, as she took the hat from the girl's hands.

Patty sat up, all at once, conscious of great pain in the back of her neck, from her continued cramped position at work.

"Because I want to earn money," replied Patty, not pertly, but in a tone of obstinate intent. "Is it done right?"

Miss O'Flynn looked at Patty, with an air of kindliness and willingness to help her.

"Tell me all about it," she said.

But Patty was in no mood for confidences, and with a shade of hauteur in her manner, she said again: "Is it done right? Does it suit you?"

At Patty's rejection of her advances, Miss O'Flynn also became reserved again, and said, simply: "I cannot use it."

"Why not?" demanded Patty. "It is covered smoothly and neatly. It shows no crease nor fold."

"It is not right," said Miss O'Flynn. "It is not done right, because you do not know how to do it. You have never been taught how to cover hats or how to line them; consequently you cannot do them right."

The other girls had gone to luncheon, so the two were alone in the room. Patty knew that Miss O'Flynn was telling her the truth, and yet she resented it. A red spot burned in each cheek as she answered:

"But the hat is covered perfectly. What matter, then, whether I have been taught or not?"

"Excuse me, it is not covered perfectly. The stitches are too small——"

"Too small!" exclaimed Patty. "Why, I didn't know stitches could be too small!"

The other smiled. "That is my argument," she said. "You don't know. Of course stitches should be small for ordinary sewing, and for many sorts of work. But not for millinery. Here long stitches are wanted, but they must be rightly set,—not careless long stitches."

"Why?" said Patty, somewhat subdued now.

"Because a better effect can be produced with long stitches. You see, your stitches are small and true, but every one shows. With a skilful long stitch, no stitch is seen at all. It is what we call a blind stitch, and can only be successfully done by skilled workers, who have been taught, and who have also had practice."

Patty was silent a moment, then she said:

"Miss O'Flynn, we agreed that I was to have a day's trial."

"Yes, Miss Fairfield; I will stand by my word."

"Then may I select my own work for the afternoon?"

"Yes," said Miss O'Flynn, wondering whether, after all, this pretty, young girl could be a harmless lunatic.

"Then I want to trim hats. Make bows, you know; sew on flowers or feathers; or adjust lace. May I do such things as that?"

Miss O'Flynn hesitated.

"Yes," she said, finally; "if you will be careful not to injure the materials. You see, if your work should have to be done over, I don't want the materials spoiled."

"I promise," said Patty, slowly.

"But, first, will you not go out for your lunch?"

"No, thank you; I'm not hungry. Please bring me my work at once."



CHAPTER XII

THREE HATS

But Miss O'Flynn sent Patty a cup of hot bouillon, and some biscuit, which she ate right there at her work-table.

And it was a kindly act, for, though Patty didn't realise it, she was really faint for want of food and also for fresh air.

The room, though large, had many occupants, and now the girls began to come back from their luncheon, and their chatter made Patty's head ache.

But she was doing some deep thinking. Her theories about unskilled labour had received a hard blow; and she was beginning to think her millinery efforts were not going to be successful.

"But I've a chance yet," she thought, as Miss O'Flynn came, bringing two hats, and a large box of handsome trimmings.

The other girls stared at this, for they knew that Patty's morning efforts had been far from successful.

But Patty only smiled at them in a pleasant, but impersonal manner, as she took up her new work.

Her confidence returned. She knew she could do what she was now about to attempt, for, added to her natural taste and love of colour, she had been critically interested in hats while in Paris, and while visiting her friend, Lady Kitty, who was especially extravagant in her millinery purchases.

After a period of thought, Patty decided on her scheme of trimming for the two hats before her, and then set blithely to work.

One was to be a simple style of decoration, the other, much more complicated. Taking up the elaborate one first, Patty went at it with energy, and with an assured touch, for she had the effect definitely pictured in her imagination and was sure she could materialise it.

And she did. After about two hours' hard work, Patty achieved a triumph. She held up the finished hat, and every girl at the table uttered an "ah!" of admiration at the beautiful sight.

Without response, other than a quiet smile, Patty took up the second hat. This was simple, but daring in its very simplicity. A black velvet Gainsborough, with broad, rolling brim. Patty turned it smartly up, at one side, and fastened it with a rosette of dull blue velvet and a silver buckle. Just then, Miss O'Flynn came in.

"Where did that hat come from?" she said, pointing to Patty's finished confection.

"I trimmed it," said Patty, nonchalantly. "Have you some silver hatpins, Miss O'Flynn?"

"You trimmed it!" exclaimed the forewoman, ignoring Patty's question, and taking up the trimmed hat.

"Yes; do you like it?"

"It's a marvel! It looks like a French hat. How did you know enough to trim it like this?"

"I thought it would look well that way."

"But these twists of velvet; they have a touch!"

"Yes?" said Patty, inwardly exultant, but outwardly calm.

"And now," she went on, "this hat is of another type."

"It's not finished?" asked Miss O'Flynn, eyeing the hat in uncertainty, "and yet,—any other trimming would spoil its lines."

"Just so," said Patty, placidly. "You see, all it needs now, is two large silver hatpins, like this,—see."

Patty pulled two hatpins from her own hat, which she still had on, and placed them carefully in the hat she held in her hand.

"These pins are too small,—but you see what I mean."

Miss O'Flynn did see. She saw that two larger pins would finish the hat with just the right touch, while any other decoration would spoil it.

She looked at Patty curiously.

"You're a genius, Miss Fairfield," she said. "Will you trim another hat?"

"Yes," said Patty, looking at her watch. "It's only four o'clock. May I have an evening hat, please?"

"You may have whatever you like. Come and select for yourself."

Patty went to the cases, and chose a large white beaver, with soft, broad brim.

"I will make you a picture hat, to put in your window," she said, smiling.

She selected some trimmings and returned to her seat at the table.

It was rather more than half an hour later when she showed Miss O'Flynn her work.

"There's not much work on it," Patty said, slowly. "I spent the time thinking it out."

There was not much work on it, to be sure; and yet it was a hat of great distinction.

The white brim rolled slightly back, and where it touched the low crown it met two immense roses, one black and one of palest pink. Two slight sprays of foliage, made of black velvet leaves, nestled between the roses, and completed the trimming.

The roses were of abnormal size and great beauty, but it was the mode of their adjustment that secured the extremely chic effect.

Miss O'Flynn's eyes sparkled.

"It's a masterpiece," she said, clasping her hands in admiration. "You have trimmed hats before, Miss Fairfield?"

"No," said Patty, "but I always knew I could do it."

"Yes, you can," said Miss O'Flynn. "Will you come now, and talk to Madame?"

Ushered into the presence of Madame Villard, Patty suddenly experienced a revulsion of feeling.

Her triumph over Miss O'Flynn seemed small and petty. She was conscious of a revolt against the whole atmosphere of the place. The suavity of Miss O'Flynn's manner, the artificial grandeur of Madame Villard, filled her with aversion, and she wanted only to get away, and get back to her own home.

Not for any amount per week would she come again to this dreadful place.

She knew it was unreasonable; she knew that if she were to earn her living it could not be in a sheltered, luxurious home, but must, perforce, be in some unattractive workroom.

"But rather a department store," thought poor Patty, "than in this place, with these overdressed, overmannered women, who ape fine ladies' manners."

Patty was overwrought and nervous. Her long, hard day had worn her out, and it was no wonder she felt a distaste for the whole thing.

"You are certainly clever," said Madame Villard, patronisingly, as she looked at the hats Miss O'Flynn held up for her inspection. "I am glad to offer you a permanent position here. You will have to learn the rudiments of the work, as the most gifted genius should always be familiar with the foundations of his own art. Will you agree to come to me every day?"

Patty hesitated. She hated the thought of coming every day, even if but for a week. And yet, here was the opportunity she was in search of. Trimming hats was easy enough work; probably they wouldn't make her learn lining and covering at once.

Then the thought occurred to her that it wouldn't be honest to pretend she was coming regularly, when she meant to do so only for a week.

"Suppose I try it for a week," she suggested. "Then if either of us wishes to do so, we can terminate the contract."

"Very well," said Madame, who thought to herself she could make this young genius trim a great many hats in a week. "Do you agree to that?"

"At what salary?" asked Patty, faintly, for she felt as if she were condemning herself to a week of torture.

"Well," said Madame Villard, "as you are so ignorant of the work, I ought not to give you any recompense at all; but as you evince such an aptitude for trimming I am willing to say, five dollars a week."

"Five dollars a week," repeated Patty, slowly. "You ought to be ashamed of yourself!"

Patty did not mean to be rude or impertinent. Indeed, for the moment she was not even thinking of herself. She was thinking how a poor girl, who had her living to earn, would feel at an offer of five dollars for six long days of work in that dreadful atmosphere.

"I beg your pardon," she said, mechanically, and she said it more because of Madame Villard's look of amazement, than because of any regret at her own blunt speech. "I shouldn't have spoken so frankly. But the compensation you offer is utterly inadequate."

Patty glanced at her watch, and then began drawing on her gloves with an air of finality.

"But wait,—wait, Miss Fairfield," exclaimed the Madame, who had no wish to let her new-found genius thus slip away from her. "I like your work. I may say I think it shows touches of real talent. Also, you have unusually good taste. In view of these things, I will overlook still further your ignorance of the details of the work, and I will give you seven dollars a week."

"Madame," said Patty, "I am inexperienced in the matter of wages, but I feel sure that you either employ inferior workwomen or that you underpay them. I don't know which, but I assure you that I could not think of accepting your offer of seven dollars a week."

"Would you come for ten?" asked Madame Villard, eagerly.

"No," said Patty, shortly.

"For twelve, then? This is my ultimate offer, and you would do well to consider it carefully. I have never paid so much to any workwoman, and I offer it to you only because I chance to like your style of work."

"And that is your ultimate offer?" said Patty, looking at her squarely.

"Yes, and I am foolish to offer that; but, as we agreed, it is only for one week, and so——"

"Spare your arguments, madame; I do not accept your proposal. Twelve dollars a week is not enough. And now, I will bid you good-afternoon. Am I entitled to pay for my day's work?"

With Patty's final refusal, the manner of Madame Villard had changed. No longer placating and bland, she frowned angrily as she said:

"Pay, indeed! You should be charged for the materials you spoiled in your morning's work."

"But in the afternoon," said Patty, "I trimmed three hats that will bring you big profits."

"Nothing of the sort," snapped Madame. "The hats you trimmed are nothing of any moment. Any of my girls could have done as well."

"Then why don't you pay them twelve dollars a week?" cried Patty, whose harassed nerves were making her irritable. "I will call our financial account even, but if any of your workwomen can trim hats that you like as well as those that I trimmed, I trust you will give them the salary you offered me. Good-afternoon."

Patty bowed politely, and then, with a more kindly bow and smile to Miss O'Flynn, she went through the draperies, through the front salesroom, and out at the front door. The milliner and her forewoman followed her with a dignified slowness, but reached the window in time to see Patty get into an elaborately-appointed motor-car which rolled rapidly away.

"She's one of those society women who spy out what wages we pay," said Madame Villard, with conviction.

"She's not old enough for that," returned Miss O'Flynn, "but she's not looking for real work, either. I can't make her out."

"Well, we have three stunning hats, anyway. Put them in the window to-morrow. And you may as well put Paris labels inside; they have an air of the real thing."

That evening Patty regaled her parents with a truthful account of her day.

"I'm 'foiled again'!" she said, laughing. "But the whole performance was so funny I must tell you about it."

"Couldn't you have coaxed fifteen dollars a week out of her?" asked Mr. Fairfield, after Patty had told how Madame Villard's price had gradually increased.

"Oh, father, I was so afraid she would say fifteen! Then I should have felt that I ought to go to her for a week; for I may not get another such chance. But I couldn't live in that place a week, I know I couldn't!"

"Why?" asked Nan, curiously.

"I don't know exactly why," returned Patty, thoughtfully. "But it's mostly because it's all so artificial and untrue. Miss O'Flynn talks as if she were a superior being; Madame Villard talks as if she were a Royal personage. They talk about their customers and each other in a sort of make-believe grandiose way, that is as sickening as it is absurd. I don't know how to express it, but I'd rather work in a place where everybody is real, and claims only such honour and glory as absolutely belong to them. I hate pretence!"

"Good little Patty!" said her father, heartily; "I'm glad you do. Oh, I tell you, my girl, you'll learn some valuable lessons, even if you don't achieve your fifteen dollars."

"But I shall do that, too, father. You needn't think I'm conquered yet. Pooh! What's three failures to a determined nature like mine?"

"What, indeed!" laughed Mr. Fairfield. "Go ahead, my plucky little heroine; you'll strike it right yet."

"I'm sure I shall," declared Patty, with such a self-satisfied air of complacency that both her hearers laughed.



CHAPTER XIII

THE THURSDAY CLUB

As Patty was temporarily out of an "occupation," she went skating the next day with the Farringtons and Kenneth. Indeed, the four were so often together that they began to call themselves the Quartette.

After a jolly skate, which made their cheeks rosy, they all went back to Patty's, as they usually did after skating.

"I think you might come to my house, sometimes," said Elise.

"Oh, I have to go to Patty's to look after the goldfish," said Kenneth. "I thought Darby swam lame, the last time I saw him. Does he, Patty?"

"No, not now. But Juliet has a cold, and I'm afraid of rheumatism setting in."

"No," said Kenneth; "she's too young for rheumatism. But she may have 'housemaid's knee.' You must be very careful about draughts."

The goldfish were a never-failing source of fun for the Quartette. The fish themselves were quiet, inoffensive little creatures, but the ready imagination of the young people invested them with all sorts of strange qualities, both physical and mental.

"Juliet's still sulky about that thimble," said Roger, as they all looked into the fishes' globe. "I gave her Patty's thimble yesterday to wear for a hat, and it didn't suit her at all."

"I should say not!" cried Patty. "She thought it was a helmet. You must take her for Joan of Arc."

"She didn't wear a helmet," said Elise, laughing.

"Well, she wore armour. They belong together. Anyway, Juliet doesn't know but that Joan of Arc wore a helmet."

"Oh, is that what made her so sulky?" said Roger. "Nice disposition, I must say."

"She's nervous," put in Kenneth, "and a little morbid, poor thing. Patty, I think a little iron in the water would do her good."

"Send for a flatiron, Patty," said Roger. "I know it would help her, if you set it carefully on top of her."

"I won't do it!" said Patty. "Poor Juliet is flat enough now. She doesn't eat enough to keep a bird alive. Let's go away and leave her to sleep. That will fatten her, maybe."

"Lullaby, Julie, in the fish-bowl," sang Roger.

"When the wind blows, the billows will roll," continued Elise, fanning the water in the globe with a newspaper.

"When the bowl breaks, the fishes will fall," contributed Patty, and Ken wound up by singing:

"And the Cat will eat Juliet, Darby, and all!"

"Oh, horrible!" cried Patty. "Indeed she won't! My beautiful pets shall never meet that cruel fate."

Leaving Juliet to her much needed nap, they all strolled into the library.

"Let's be a club," said Elise. "Just us four, you know."

"All right," said Patty, who loved clubs. "What sort of a club?"

"Musical," said Elise. "We all sing."

"Musical clubs are foolish," said Roger. "Let's be a dramatic club."

"Dramatic clubs are too much work," said Patty; "and four isn't enough for that, anyway. Let's do good."

"Oh, Patty," groaned Kenneth, "you're getting so eleemosynary there's no fun in you!"

"Mercy, gracious!" cried Patty. "What was that fearful word you said, Ken? No! don't say it over again! I can't stand all of it at once!"

"Well, we have to stand you!" grumbled Kenneth, "and you're that all the time, now. What foolishness are you going to fly at next, trying to earn a dishonest penny?"

"I'm thinking of going out as a cook," said Patty, her eyes twinkling. "Cooking is the only thing I really know how to do. But I can do that."

"You'll be fine as cook," said Roger. "May I come round Thursday afternoons and take you out?"

"I s'pose I'll only have every other Thursday," said Patty, demurely.

"And the other Thursday you won't be there! But what about this club we're organising?"

"Make it musical," said Kenneth, "and then while one of us is playing or singing some classical selection, the others can indulge in merry conversation."