LITMIR.BIZ

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and then accept his invitations. If you only knew what she said about you!"

      But Toxteth, in spite of the slip he had made, was a gentleman, and couldn't be brought to ask what Patty had said about him; so that, as Miss Purdy hardly thought it best to offer the information unsolicited, he remained forever in ignorance of the careless remark about his foppishness, which would have been envenomed by the tongue of the mischief-maker who longed to repeat it.

      "I ought not to have told what Patty Sanford said," he remarked. "She didn't mean it. Indeed, I am not sure but I said it, and she only assented. Of course it should never have been repeated. I beg you'll forget it."

      "I never forget any thing," laughed Emily; "but I never should mention what was told me in confidence."

      In the first carriage of the three, the lawyer and his companion rode for some time in silence. Each was endeavoring to imagine the thoughts of the other, and each at the same time carrying on an earnest train of reflections. With people in love, silence is often no less eloquent than speech, and perhaps is more often truly interpreted.

      Mr. Putnam was the first to speak.

      "You are twenty-one," he said, with no apparent connection.

      "I am twenty-one," she answered, not failing to remark that the words showed that his thoughts had been of her.

      "A girl at twenty-one," he continued, "is old enough to know her own mind."

      "This girl at twenty-one certainly knows her own mind."

      "Humph! I suppose so – or thinks she does."

      Another long silence followed, more intense than before. Both were conscious of a secret excitement, – an electric condition of the mental atmosphere. At last Putnam, as if the question of ages was of the most vital interest, spoke again.

      "I am thirty-two," he said.

      "You are thirty-two," she echoed.

      "Do you think that so old?"

      "That depends" —

      "Well, too old for marrying, say?"

      "That depends too," she answered, her color heightening, in spite of her determination not to look conscious.

      "To marry," he continued, "say, – for the sake of example merely, – say a girl of twenty-one. You ought to know what a lady of twenty-one would think."

      "I know a great deal that I should never think of telling."

      "But I am in earnest. You see this is an important question."

      "You had better ask the lady herself."

      "The lady? I said a lady. Besides, as I said this morning (pardon my repeating it), 'the little god of love won't turn the spit – spit – spit.'"

      "Of course you are not too old," Patty said with a sudden flash of the eyes, "to marry a girl of twenty – if she would accept you."

      "I said twenty-one," he returned; "but the difference isn't material. You've evaded the question. What I want to get at is, wouldn't she think I was too old to accept?"

      "Not if she loved you."

      "But if she didn't?"

      "Why, then she wouldn't marry you, if you were young as Hazard, as big as Burleigh, and as gorgeously arrayed as Clarence Toxteth. You had best not let any woman know, however, that you think her love meaner than your own."

      "I do not understand."

      "A woman, if she loved a man at all, would find it hard to forgive him for believing her unwilling to share his bitter things as well as his sweet."

      "Um! But suppose he thought it selfish to ask her to share the bitter things?"

      "That is like a man!" Patty said impatiently. "But what nonsense we are talking! Won't it be funny to hear Bathalina condole with me? She'll quote 'Watts and Select' by the quantity, and sing the most doleful minors about the house to cheer me up. For every one of mother's signs she'll have a verse of Scripture, or a hymn."

      "There is as much variety in love," Mr. Putnam said, returning to the subject they had been discussing, "there is as much variety in love as in candy."

      "And as much difference in taste," she retorted. "For my part, I should hate a love that was half chalk or flour. But I don't wish to talk of love. I hope my friends will come and see me, now I am lame, or I shall die of loneliness."

      "I'll send the Breck boys over," the lawyer said. "Hazard is very good company."

      "Of course their uncle," she said demurely, "would come to look after them."

      "Perhaps," he replied. "But who would look after their uncle?"

      CHAPTER VII

      A BUSINESS INTERVIEW

      Whatever else Flora Sturtevant might or might not be, she at least was energetic, and what she had to do she did at once and with her might. Although she returned from the picnic at Mackerel Cove very weary, she did not rest until she had written a dainty missive to Jacob Wentworth, the brother of her late step-father. The answer came on the evening of the following day in this telegram: —

      "Will be in Boston Saturday. Come to office at twelve.

      "Jacob Wentworth."

      It was to meet this appointment that Miss Sturtevant passed leisurely down Milk Street about noon Saturday. The signal-ball upon the Equitable Building fell just as she passed the Old South Church; but she seemed not disposed to quicken her steps.

      "Uncle Jacob will be cross if he has to wait; but I think I like him best a little cross. I wonder how he'll act. I must make my cards tell: I never shall hold a better hand, and the stake is worth playing for. How tremendously hot it is! How do people live in the city in August! Next summer I'll be at the seashore, if this goes through all straight. I shall be independent of everybody then."

      Musing in this agreeable fashion, Miss Flora turned the corner of Congress Street, and walked on until she entered one of those noble buildings which have sprung up since the great fire, making Boston's business streets among the finest in the world. Miss Sturtevant adjusted her dress a little in the elevator, looked to the buttons of her gloves, and glanced over her general trigness, as might an admiral about to go into action. An inward smile softened her lips without disturbing their firmness, as she entered an office upon the glass of whose door was inscribed her uncle's name.

      "Good-morning, uncle Jacob," she said brightly.

      A white-haired man, with small, shrewd eyes which twinkled beneath bushy brows, looked up from the letter he was writing. His forehead was high and retreating, his nose suggestive of good dinners; and his whole bearing had that firmness only obtained by the use as a tonic of the elixir of gold. Flora had been from childhood forbidden to address him as uncle, and he understood at once that she felt sure of her ground to-day, or she would not have ventured upon the term. The lawyer paused almost perceptibly before he answered her salutation.

      "Good-morning," he said. "Sit down."

      "Thanks," answered the visitor, leisurely seating herself. "This office is so much nicer than your old one! I hope you are well, uncle."

      "I am well enough," he returned gruffly. "What is this wonderful business which brings you to Boston?"

      "You know I always do you a good turn when I can," remarked Miss Sturtevant by way of introduction.

      "Yes," he assented. "You find it pays."

      "You may or may not remember," she went on with great deliberation, "that you once requested me to discover for you – or for a client, you said – what became of certain papers which you drew up for Mr. Mullen of Montfield."

      "I remember," the other said, his eyes twinkling more than ever.

      "I had hard work enough," Flora continued, "to trace them as far as I did, and little gratitude I got for my pains."

      "You did not discover where the papers were?"

      "I found that they had been in the possession of Mrs. Smithers."

      "Her

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