He
had begun a letter telling about a big baseball game but he had blotted
it; it was in his portfolio still, unfinished. Poor little Anne! The
tears came afresh. He could see his mother stroking Anne's fair hair, as
she had done one day when he was teasing about Honey-Sweet.
"My son," the gentle voice had said, "you must be good to our little
girl. Remember, she has no one in the world but us."
Dear little Anne! What a jolly playmate she was,--brave, good-tempered,
affectionate! and what a generous little soul! How she always insisted
on dividing her fruit and candies with him when he devoured his share
first.
An hour passed. Mr. Patterson came up-stairs, went from his room into
Pat's, and then walked down the hall.
"Pat!" he called. "Patrick!" The voice sounded stern but really its
undertone was anxiety.
Pat did not speak. He scrambled to his feet and descended the stairs.
With set mouth and downcast eyes, he stood before his father.
"Did I not tell you to go to your room, Pat?"
"Yes, father." Pat paused in the doorway. "I want to know where Anne
is," he said.
"Patrick!" Mr. Patterson spoke sternly now. "You forget yourself
strangely to address me in this way.
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