Patty Blossom

"Tell me more of it."

"No, I won't. I promised not to."

"You needn't. I'll tell you what comes next:

'–perhaps because her tresses beat
A froth of gold about her throat, and poured
In splendour to the feet that ever seemed
Afloat.'

Isn't that it?"

"Yes! How did you know?" Patty's startled eyes were wide in amazement.

"You dear little goose. I hate to give you a shock, Posy-girl, but those lines were written by a not altogether obscure poet,—one James Whitcomb Riley."

"What! It's no such thing! Mr. Blaney wrote them about me! They begin–"

"Wait! Don't break your promise of confidence. They begin:

"'I loved her.—Why? I never knew.' Don't they?"

"Yes, that's the poem Sam Blaney wrote for me–

"But he chanced to write it after Riley did—not before. Strange they were so similarly inspired, wasn't it?"

"William Farnsworth, do you mean to tell me that that is a poem of Riley's,—and Sam Blaney palmed it off on me as his own!"

"It looks that way, Patty. At any rate, those are Riley's lines. I've known the thing for years. It's a favourite of mine."

"But I've a book of Riley's,—it isn't in that."

"My child, you mustn't get annoyed with me, when I tell you you're not deeply versed in book-lore,—or deeply booked in verse-lore! For it's true. I admit that is not one of the poet's best known bits,—it's in 'Flying Islands of the Night,'—but it is so exquisite that it ought to be better known. And, by the way, Patty, if you thought Blaney did that gem, I don't wonder you admired him. But, dear little girl, do you see now that the man is capable of deception?"

Patty looked deeply troubled. "You're sure, Billee,—you're positive about this?"

"As sure as I am of my own name."

"Then I want nothing more to do with Sam Blaney or any of his crowd. I'll never forgive it. Why, he wrote the poem while I sat looking at him,—just as fast as he could scribble."

"Doesn't that seem to prove it? He knew Riley's lines, and wrote them down. I doubt if the greatest poet that ever lived scribbled lines like that, offhand."

"Of course they couldn't! You've done it, Little Billee. You've smashed my idols, blown up my air castles, knocked the pedestals from under my heroes–"

"I'm sorry, dear,—but when they are unworthy idols and heroes–"

"And they are! I see it all now. I banked on Mr. Blaney's genius mostly on account of that poem. But, as you say, the very fact that he made me promise not to show it to anybody—but I don't need to prove it. You tell me it's Riley's, and there's no further question about it."

"I'll send you the book, Patty. You'll enjoy it all."

Patty smiled. "I don't want it in corroboration of your assertion, but I'd love to have it. I'd like to know more poetry, Billee. As you so delicately hinted, my education on such matters is a little lacking."

"That's your own fault," said Farnsworth, bluntly. "Poetry isn't a thing to learn at school,—but alone, and at odd times and moments."

"It seems queer," and the earnest little face gazed into his, "for you to know such a lot about poetry. You're so–"

"Go on; don't mind hurting me. So uncouth, awkward, clumsy, lacking in—er—understanding, wasn't it?"

Farnsworth spoke bitterly, and his deep blue eyes were clouded.

"No," Patty returned, gently, "no, I didn't mean all those horrid things, and you know it! I meant, you're so busy with your mines and things, and so wrapped up in your business that it's surprising to know you have time for poetry."

"It's my theory that one can always find time for anything he really wants to do?"

"Can he? Do you suppose, then, you could find time to teach me a little bit about poetry, and how to study it,—or, don't you really want to do this?"

Farnsworth looked at her, and a great and tender light came into his eyes. Then, with a quick smile, he said, lightly, "Yes, indeed; I'll make out a list of books for you tomorrow. May I send them to you?"

Patty was aware of a sudden lack of enthusiasm in Farnsworth's manner, and with equal coolness, she said, "Thank you, that won't be necessary. Just send the list, and I can get them. And, now I think I must begin to commence to think about considering going home."

"Yes, it's late. Who's taking you?"

"I'm going with Mr. and Mrs. Morrison. They kindly asked me."

"Very well. Will you go now?"

"Yes, please. And, I—I want to thank you for setting me straight about the Blaneys."

"Don't include Alla. I doubt if she'd do a deceptive thing. But all the same, Patty, she's no friend for you. You don't care for her, do you?"

"No; I did at first, she interested me–"

"I know; 'interested you strangely,' as the novelists say."

"Yes, just that. She is so queer and unusual and–"

"Well, not to put too fine a point upon it, freakish."

"I suppose so. But I liked it all, at first. I don't mind owning up I was getting a little tired of it. It didn't–"

"It didn't make good, did it? But you're through with it now. How will you break it all off, without unpleasantness—for you?"

"Oh, I can manage that by my tactful nature. I mean, with Alla. I shan't bother to be specially tactful with Sam. Need I be?"

"No. When a man has practised a fraud like that on you, he deserves no consideration whatever."

"And tell me, Little Billee, tell me quickly, for I must really be going, how did you walk in there and kidnap me so easily?"

"I had a sort of notion that you ought to be looked after. Channing was here, laughing over some of the details of the Blaney party that he had heard of, and when he told about your dance,—well, Patty, I'll be honest with you. I wanted to see that dance. You know how I love your dancing. Also, I wanted to know just what the dance was,—for I know Grantham."