Some old residents, the Pattersons among the number, clung to
their homes.
Mr. Patterson had been little at home since his wife's death. Every
nook and corner of the house, her pictures on the walls, her books on
the shelves, her easy-chair beside the window, called her to mind. How
lonely and sad he was! His son was little comfort to him in his
loneliness. Except on their ocean voyage, Pat and his father had not
been together for three years and they had grown apart. Pat was no
longer just a merry little chap, ready for a romp with his father. He
was a tall, overgrown lad, absorbed in the sports and work of his
school-world, at a loss what to say to the silent, reserved business man
who made such an effort to talk to him.
One day, as they sat together at a rather silent dinner, a sudden
thought made Pat drop his salad fork and look up at his father. "When is
Anne coming, father?" he asked. "Where's her school? and when is it
out?"
"Anne? Anne who?" asked Mr. Patterson, blankly--for the moment
forgetful of the child who had been a brief episode in his busy life.
"Why, Anne Lewis, of course--our little Anne," said Pat.
"Oh, that child," answered Mr.
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