Just Patty | Page 9

with hot-water bottles and cologne; but later, she whispered to her
room-mate that that was the house where he was born.

Violets continued to arrive each Saturday, and Mae became more and
more distrait. The annual basket-ball game with Highland Hall, a
near-by school for girls, was imminent. St. Ursula's had been beaten the
year before; it would mean everlasting disgrace if defeat met them a
second time, for Highland Hall was a third their size. The captain
harangued and scolded an apathetic team.
"It's Mae Mertelle and her beastly violets!" she disgustedly grumbled to
Patty. "She's taken all the fight out of them."
The teachers, meanwhile, were uneasily aware that the atmosphere was
overcharged. The girls stood about in groups, thrilling visibly when
Mae Mertelle passed by. There was a moonlight atmosphere about the
school that was not conducive to high marks in Latin prose
composition. The matter finally became the subject of an anxious
faculty meeting. There was no actual data at hand; it was all surmise,
but the source of the trouble was evident. The school had been swept
before by a wave of sentiment; it was as catching as the measles. The
Dowager was inclined to think that the simplest method of clearing the
atmosphere would be to pack Mae Mertelle and her four trunks back to
the paternal fireside, and let her foolish mother deal with the case. Miss
Lord was characteristically bent upon fighting it out. She would stop
the nonsense by force. Mademoiselle, who was inclined to sentiment,
feared that the poor child was really suffering. She thought sympathy
and tact--But Miss Sallie's bluff common-sense won the day. If the
sanity of Saint Ursula's demanded it, Mae Mertelle must go; but she
thought, by the use of a little diplomacy, both St. Ursula's sanity and
Mae Mertelle might be preserved. Leave the matter to her. She would
use her own methods.
Miss Sallie was the Dowager's daughter. She managed the practical end
of the establishment--provided for the table, ruled the servants, and ran
off, with the utmost ease, the two hundred acres of the school farm.
Between the details of horseshoeing and haying and butter-making, she
lent her abilities wherever they were needed. She never taught; but she
disciplined. The school was noted for unusual punishments, and most
of them originated in Miss Sallie's brain. Her title of "Dragonette" was

bestowed in respectful admiration of her mental qualities.
The next day was Tuesday, Miss Sallie's regular time for inspecting the
farm. As she came downstairs after luncheon drawing on her driving
gloves, she just escaped stepping on Conny Wilder and Patty Wyatt
who, flat on their stomachs, were trying to poke out a golf ball from
under the hat-rack.
"Hello, girls!" was her cheerful greeting. "Wouldn't you like a little
drive to the farm? Run and tell Miss Wadsworth that you are excused
from afternoon study. You may stay away from Current Events this
evening, and make it up."
The two scrambled into hats and coats in excited delight. A visit to
Round Hill Farm with Miss Sallie, was the greatest good that St.
Ursula's had to offer. For Miss Sallie--out of bounds--was the funniest,
most companionable person in the world. After an exhilarating
five-mile drive through a brown and yellow October landscape, they
spent a couple of hours romping over the farm, had milk and ginger
cookies in Mrs. Spence's kitchen; and started back, wedged in between
cabbages and eggs and butter. They chatted gaily on a dozen different
themes--the Thanksgiving masquerade, a possible play, the coming
game with Highland Hall, and the lamentable new rule that made them
read the editorials in the daily papers. Finally, when conversation
flagged for a moment, Miss Sallie dropped the casual inquiry:
"By the way, girls, what has got into Mae Van Arsdale? She droops
about in corners and looks as dismal as a molting chicken."
Patty and Conny exchanged a glance.
"Of course," Miss Sallie continued cheerfully, "it's perfectly evident
what the trouble is. I haven't been connected with a boarding-school for
ten years for nothing. The little idiot is posing as the object of an
unhappy affection. You know that I never favor talebearing, but, just as
a matter of curiosity, is it the young man who passes the plate in church,
or the one who sells ribbon in Marsh and Elkins's?"

"Neither." Patty grinned. "It's an English nobleman."
"What?" Miss Sallie stared.
"And Mae's father hates English noblemen," Conny explained, "and has
forbidden him ever to see her again."
"Her heart is broken," said Patty sadly. "She's going into a decline."
"And the violets?" inquired Miss Sallie.
"He promised not to send her any letters, but violets weren't
mentioned."
"H'm, I see!" said Miss Sallie; and, after a moment of thought, "Girls, I
am going