Mr. Pat's Little Girl A Story of the Arden Foresters

Excerpt

CHAPTER FIRST.

THINGS BEGIN TO HAPPEN.

"A magician most profound in his art."

It was Sunday afternoon. The griffins on the doorstep stared straight before them with an expression of utter indifference; the feathery foliage of the white birch swayed gently back and forth; the peonies lifted their crimson heads airily; the snowball bush bent under the weight of its white blooms till it swept the grass; the fountain splashed softly.

"'By cool Siloam's shady rillHow fair the lily grows,'"

Rosalind chanted dreamily.

Grandmamma had given her the hymn book, telling her to choose a hymn and commit it to memory, and as she turned the pages this had caught her eye and pleased her fancy.

"It sounds like the Forest of Arden," she said, leaning back on the garden bench and shutting her eyes.

"'How sweet the breath beneath the hillOf Sharon's lovely rose.'"

She swung her foot in time to the rhythm. She was not sure whether a rill was a fountain or a stream, so she decided, as there was no dictionary convenient, to think of it as like the creek where it crossed the road at the foot of Red Hill.

Again she looked at the book; skipping a stanza, she read:—

"'By cool Siloam's shady rillThe lily must decay;The rose that blooms beneath the hillMust shortly pass away.'"

The melancholy of this was interesting; at the same time it reminded her that she was lonely. After repeating, "Must shortly pass away," her eyes unexpectedly filled with tears.

"Now I am not going to cry," she said sternly, and by way of carrying out this resolve she again closed her eyes tight. It was desperately hard work, and she could not have told whether two minutes or ten had passed when she was startled by an odd, guttural voice close to her asking, "What is the matter, little girl?"

If the voice was strange, the figure she saw when she looked up was stranger still. A gaunt old man in a suit of rusty black, with straggling gray hair and beard, stood holding his hat in his hand, gazing at her with eyes so bright they made her uneasy.

"Nothing," she answered, rising hastily.

But the visitor continued to stand there and smile at her, shaking his head and repeating, "Mustn't cry."

"I am not crying," Rosalind insisted, glancing over her shoulder to make sure of a way of escape.

With a long, thin finger this strange person now pointed toward the house, saying something she understood to be an inquiry for Miss Herbert.

Miss Herbert was the housekeeper, and Rosalind knew she was at church; but when she tried to explain, the old man shook his head, and taking from his pocket a tablet with a pencil attached, he held it out to her, touching his ear as he uttered the one word "Deaf."

Rosalind understood she was to write her answer, and somewhat flurried she sat down on the edge of the bench and with much deliberation and in large clear letters conveyed the information, "She is out."

The old man looked at the tablet and then at Rosalind, bowing and smiling as if well pleased. "You'll tell her I'm going to the city to-morrow?" he asked.

There was something very queer in the way he opened his mouth and used his tongue, Rosalind thought, as she nodded emphatically, feeling that this singular individual had her at an unfair advantage. At least she would find out who he was, and so, as she still held the tablet, she wrote, "What is your name?"

He laughed as if this were a joke, and searching in his pocket, produced a card which he presented with a bow. On it was printed "C.J. Morgan, Cabinet Work."

"What is your name?" he asked.

Rosalind hesitated. She was not sure it at all concerned this stranger to know her name, but as he stood smiling and waiting, she did not know how to refuse; so she bent over the tablet, her yellow braid falling over her shoulder, as she wrote, "Rosalind Patterson Whittredge."

"Mr....