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"That's my business. Oh, Patty, let me alone!"

Azalea was clearly overwrought, and in another moment would fly into an hysterical tantrum. But Patty made one more effort.

"Just tell me the name," she said, gently.

"Well—Smith. There, now are you satisfied?"

"I am not," said Patty, truthfully. "Good night, Azalea."

She went thoughtfully away, and communicated to Bill the whole conversation.

"She's a queer girl," Farnsworth remarked, after he had heard all about the afternoon telephoning. "Do you know, Patty, that letter which she pretended came from her father,—she wrote herself."

"What?"

"She did; and on my own typewriter,—here in our library."

"What do you mean?"

"Just what I say. I knew it, the moment I saw it, for the writing on my machine is so familiar to me, I can recognise it instantly. The tail of the y doesn't print, and there are lots of little details that make it recognisable."

"Are you sure, dear? I thought all typewriting was just alike."

"Oh, no; it is as greatly differentiated, almost, as penwriting,—some experts think more so. I mean, it can't be forged successfully, and penwriting can. Well, anyhow, that letter Azalea showed me, as being from her father, was written on my machine. She had no envelope, for of course she couldn't reproduce the proper postmark on an envelope she had herself addressed."

"But why,—what for? I don't understand."

"I haven't got it all straightened out yet, myself,—but I shall. Another thing, Azalea is a poor speller, and she herself spells very with two r's. She did in a dinner acceptance she wrote and referred to me for approval. So, when I saw that word misspelled twice in the letter we're talking of, I knew she wrote it,—I mean, it corroborated my belief. Now, Patty, we've a peculiar case to deal with, and we must feel our way. This telephoning business is serious. Of course, Smith is not those people's name! She told you a falsehood. We know she is capable of that! Now to find out what their name is. It isn't too late to call up Gale."

Farnsworth took up the telephone and soon had Raymond Gale on the wire.

He asked him frankly for the name of the two people who were calling on Azalea when he recognised them.

"Miss Thorpe asked me not to tell," said Gale, "I'm sorry, old chap, but I promised her I wouldn't."

"But it's an important matter, Ray, and a case in which I'm sure you're justified in breaking your promise—"

"Can't do it! Can't break my word given to a lady."

"But Azalea is a mere girl, and a headstrong, ignorant one, at that. She is in our care, and it is our duty to know with whom she associates. Who were those people?"

"Seriously, Farnsworth, I can't tell you. Miss Thorpe asked me definitely not to do so, and I gave her my promise. You must see,—as man to man,—I can't tell you."

"I see your point, and I quite agree, in a general way. But, Gale, this is a—well, a crisis. I'm investigating a mystery and I must know who those people are."

"Ask Miss Thorpe."

"I have, and she won't tell."

"Then you surely can't expect me to! After I promised to keep her secret!"

"Why should it be a secret?"

"Ask her."

"Well, tell me one thing; is the name Smith?"

"It is not."

"What sort of people are they?"

"Oh, people of—why, hang it, man,—I don't know what to say to you! I refuse to betray Miss Thorpe's confidence, and so I don't know how much I ought to tell you."

"Are they people I would receive in my home?"

"Scarcely! If you mean, are they your social equals, they are not!"

"Then, I ought to know about them, and forbid Azalea their acquaintance."

"Oh, Miss Thorpe doesn't know them socially!" said Gale, and then he said a quick "good-bye" and hung up his receiver.

CHAPTER X
INQUIRIES

The next day Farnsworth made an occasion to see Azalea alone.

"Come for a stroll in the rose garden," he said to her as they left the breakfast table.

"But aren't you in a hurry to go to town?" she objected.

"No, I'm not. Come along, Zaly, I want to talk to you."

Azalea looked embarrassed. She had on a trim linen street suit, and had an air of alertness as if about to start on a trip of some sort.

"I was—I was just going for a walk," she said, hesitatingly.

"All right, I'll walk with you. Let's make it a long hike."

"Oh,—I'd love to, Cousin William,—really,—but I—I've a lot to do in my room, this morning."

"A lot to do! What do you mean? Does Patty make you take care of your room?"

"Oh, not that sort of work. I've got to—to—write letters."

"To your father?" Bill's look was significant.

"Yes—no,—oh, a lot of letters."

"Look here, Azalea, you come out with me for a few minutes,—I won't keep you long." Farnsworth took her arm, and led her gently down the verandah steps and along a garden path.

"Now, my child," he said most kindly, "tell me why you pretended that letter was from your father, when it was not?"

"Oh, yes, it was—"

"Stop, Azalea! Don't add to your list of falsehoods! You wrote that letter yourself on my typewriter, in my library. Why did you do it?"

"How do you know?" Azalea turned an astonished face to her inquisitor.

"I recognised the typing. How do you know how to use the machine so well? Were you ever a stenographer?"

"No; I don't know shorthand at all. And I didn't—"

"Stop, I say, Azalea! I know you wrote that! Now, tell me why! I can't imagine any reason for it."

The girl was stubbornly silent

"Unless you tell me why you did it, I shall be compelled to think there is some wrong reason—"

"Oh, no, there isn't!"

"Then,—come now, Zaly,—'fess up. Was it for a joke on me?"

"Yes, yes, that was it!"

"No, that wasn't it, and you only grasped at my suggestion to evade the real truth! Now, you must tell me. Out with it!"

"Well—you see, Cousin William, you are always asking me why I don't get letters from my father, and—as I didn't get any, I manufactured one to—to satisfy you. That's all."

"No, no, my girl, we haven't got the truth yet. You had more of a motive than that. And, too, why don't you get letters from your father? Is he angry with you? Are you two at odds?"

"Yes,—we are. He and I had a quarrel."

"Azalea, you have a very readable face. I know when you are telling me the truth and when you are not. Now, you are ready to grasp at anything I suggest rather than let me know the real facts of the case. So I am justified in thinking it's something pretty bad. What is it, child? Don't be afraid of me. Did you run away from home?"

"Oh, no!" Azalea looked frightened. Then she burst into tears. "Wh-what makes you think I'm doing wrong?" she sobbed; "I'm not,—I'm oh,—I'm all right!" Her air of bravado suddenly returned and she looked up defiantly, brushing her tears aside.

Farnsworth could, as he said, read her face, and he was quite ready to meet her explanations when she was in a docile mood, but this quick return to her pose of injured innocence roused him to fresh indignation.

"I daresay you are all right, Azalea, and therefore it will be easy for you to answer a few questions which I must insist on having answered. Who was it that telephoned you yesterday?"

"Oh, that was Mr. Smith."

"His name is not Smith!" Farnsworth spoke so sharply that Azalea fairly jumped.

But she insisted, "Yes, it is—"

"I know it is not! It was the man who came here to see you one day,—and whatever his name is, it is not Smith! Tell me the truth or not, as you choose, but don't try to insist on Smith!"

"All right, then I choose to tell you nothing, I have a perfect right to have friends telephone me, and I think it shows an ill-bred curiosity for you to ask their names!"

Azalea's would-be haughty face and her reference to ill-breeding struck Farnsworth so funny he laughed in spite of himself.

Azalea was quick to take advantage of this.

"Oh, Cousin William," she said, smilingly, "don't be hard on me. I'm only a wild Western girl, I know, but I'm—I'm your cousin and I claim your—your—"

Azalea didn't quite know what she was claiming, but as it was really a cessation of the interview that she most desired, she turned on her heel and walked rapidly toward the house.

"Hold on!" cried Farnsworth, "not so fast, Zaly. Before you leave me, listen to this. I am not at all satisfied with what you have told me,—or, rather, what you have refused to tell me,—and I am going to write to your father, and ask him why he doesn't write to you."

Azalea stood still, facing him, and her face turned white.

"Oh, no!" she cried, in a tone of dismay, "you mustn't do that!"

"But I will. There's no reason I shouldn't write to my relative. And I must get at the mystery of this thing."

"Don't do that, Cousin William, don't, I beg of you!" The girl was greatly excited now. Her face was drawn with terrified apprehension and her voice shook with fear.

"Why not?" Farnsworth demanded, and he grasped her arm as she tried to run away. "I'm going to have this out now, Azalea! Why shan't I write to Uncle Thorpe?"

"Be—because he isn't—he isn't there—"

"Is he dead?"

"Oh, no! He's—he's—gone away on a—a business trip."

"You're making up, Azalea,—I see it in your face. Tell me the truth about him. Has he married again?"

"No,—oh, no."

"Well, then, where is he?"

"He's—I don't know—"

"You don't know where he is,—and yet you claim you had a letter from him!"

"You say I wrote that letter myself—"

"And you did!"

"Well, then, it was because you insisted on my getting a letter from him,—and—and that's the only way I could think of."

Azalea gave a half-smile, hoping Farnsworth would laugh, too.

But he did not. He said, sternly, "I can't understand you, Azalea. I don't want to misjudge you, but you must admit, yourself, that you're making it very hard for me. Why won't you tell me everything? If Uncle Thorpe disowned you,—cast you off,—or anything like that,—tell me; I'll take your part,—and I'll defend you."

"Would you, Cousin William?" Azalea's voice was wistful; "would you defend me?"

The serious tone disturbed Farnsworth more than her anger had done, and he looked at her keenly.

"Yes," he answered, "but only if you are frank and truthful with me. Now, once again, Azalea, what is the real name of the man who called you up yesterday?"

"Brown," said Azalea, and Farnsworth gave a gesture of impatience.

"You're a very poor story-teller!" he exclaimed. "It is not Brown,—or Green,—or Smith. If you had said some less common name, I might have believed you. But your inventiveness doesn't go far enough. When people want to deceive, it's necessary to frame their falsehoods convincingly. If you had said Mersereau or Herncastle,—I might have swallowed it."

Azalea stared at him.

"Why would you have thought those names were right?" she asked.

"Because I should have felt sure you didn't invent them. But when you want to conceal a name, and you say Smith or Brown, it doesn't go! Also, you look as if you were fibbing. Why do you do it, Azalea? Why?"

"Oh, Cousin William," the girl looked genuinely distressed, "I wish I could tell you all,—I believe I will,—but—no,—I can't—"

Then she shrugged her shoulders, and tossed her head, and her defiant manner returned.

Farnsworth gave up in despair. "Very well, Azalea," he concluded, "I shall write to-day to Uncle Thorpe. I tell you this frankly, for I do not do things on the sly. I'm sorry you take the attitude you do, but while I'm waiting to hear from your father, I shall continue to treat you as a guest and a trusted friend. That is all."

Farnsworth stood aside, and let Azalea pass. The girl went back to the house, in deep thought.

She did not go to her room, or write any letters. She dawdled about, started the phonograph going, read a little in a magazine, and seemed generally distraught.

As she sat in the big, pleasant hall, she saw Farnsworth come in, go to the library and sit at his desk writing. Apparently this was one of the days when he did not go to New York. Patty came by—spoke cheerily to Azalea as she passed her, and then went on to speak to Bill.

The two went out of doors together. Azalea jumped at the chance, and running into the library, glanced over the letters Farnsworth had written. As she had surmised, there was one addressed to Samuel Thorpe, Horner's Corners, Arizona.

Azalea didn't touch it. She merely glanced at her wrist-watch and hurried up to her own room.

Sitting there at the pretty desk, she wrote two or three letters, and sealed and addressed them.

Then, sitting on her window-seat, she looked out over the beautiful lawns and gardens. She saw Bill and Patty walking about, pausing here and there. She knew they were selecting places for the booths and stands to be used at the forthcoming Fair.

How happy they were! And how miserable she was! She looked at them enviously, and then again she tossed her hand, in her defiant way, and turned from the window.

At luncheon Azalea was very sweet and pleasant. She talked with Farnsworth gaily, and discussed the Fair with Patty and Elise.

"I'm going to donate some lovely things for the sale," she said. "I've written home for some Indian baskets and Navajo blankets, and some beadwork."

"Good gracious, Azalea," cried Elise, "you'll outshine us all in generosity! I'm making some lace pillows and boudoir caps, but they won't sell as well as your gifts."

"It's very kind of you, dear," and Patty smiled at the Western girl with real gratitude. "I wonder what booth you'd rather serve in, Azalea," she went on. "Of course, you may take your choice."

"When is the Fair?" Azalea asked.

"We're planning it for the middle of July. I think we can get ready by that time."

"I won't be here then," and Azalea looked thoughtful.

"Won't be here! Of course you will! What nonsense!" and Patty's blue eyes opened wide in astonishment.

"I thought I might outstay my welcome," Azalea said, seeming a little confused.

"Nay, nay, Pauline," and Patty smiled at her, "stay as long as you like.

As long as you can be happy with us."

But there was an uncomfortable pause, for Farnsworth didn't second Patty's invitation or make any comment on it.

"I'm going down to New York in the car this afternoon," said Elise.

"Want to go, Azalea?"

"Yes,—I'd be glad to."

"All right, be ready about three. You going, Pattibelle?"

"No; not to-day. My lord and master is at home, and I can't give up a precious hour of his companionship."

"Oh, you turtle-doves! All right, then, Zaly and I will sally forth to the great metropolis."

Elise was spending a month with Patty, and was going later to the mountains with her own family. They were all anxious, therefore, to get the Fair under way, and to hold it while Elise was still there.

So things were being pushed, and the committees were hard at work. There were innumerable errands to the city, and nearly every day the big car went down and returned laden with materials for the work.

Promptly at three, Azalea was in the hall, and Elise joined her, ready for the trip.

"I mean to mail these in New York," said Elise, who carried a handful of letters.

"I will too," returned Azalea, who also had a number of them in her hand. "Let's take these that are on the hall table,—they go quicker if we mail them in the city."

"All right," said Elise, carelessly, and Azalea, with a stealthy look about, picked up the big pile of addressed mail that lay on the table.

No one was looking and she deftly slipped out from the lot the letter Farnsworth had written to Mr. Thorpe,—and pocketed it.

Going out the door, she handed the rest of the letters, with her own, to the chauffeur, to mail, and then got into the car after Elise.

Away they went, chattering blithely about the Fair, and the enormous lot of work yet to be done for it.

"There are so many working with us," observed Elise, "that it seems a big job of itself to keep them in order."

"It all amazes me," returned Azalea. "I never saw people work as hard as you and Patty do. And you accomplish such a lot! And yet, you never get flustered or hurried, or—"

"That's partly the result of long experience in these bazaar affairs, and partly because we both have a sort of natural efficiency. That's a much used word, Zaly, but it means a lot after all."

"Yes, it does. What's your booth, Elise?"

"It isn't exactly a booth. I'm going to have a log cabin,—a real one, built just as I've planned it, and in it I'm going to sell all sorts of old-fashioned things."

"Antiques?"

"Yes, of the proper sort. Old Willow china and Sheffield plate. Copper lustre tea-sets and homespun bedspreads. And samplers! Oh, Azalea, I've three or four stunning samplers! One is dated 1812. That ought to bring a fine price."

"I don't know about samplers. Of course, I know what they are,—but what makes them valuable?"

"Age, my dear. And authoritative dates. People make collections of old samplers, and those who collect will spend 'most anything for a good specimen."

"I've one that my grandmother made,—at least, I can get it. Would you like it?"

"Would I? Indeed I would! But you ought to keep that, Azalea. My, what a generous girl you are! You'd give away your head, if it weren't fastened on! No, dear child, keep your grandmother's sampler yourself. Is it a good one?"

"I don't know what a 'good' one is. It has flowers on it, and little people,—queer ones,—and a long verse of poetry and an alphabet of letters."

"And the date?"

"Yes; 1836, I think it is."

"That's fairly old. Not a collection piece,—but a good date. Is it in good condition,—or worn?"

"Good as new. I don't want it, Elise,—that is, I'd like to give it to you. You've been awful good to me."

"All right, Zaly, send for it, and we'll take a look at it, anyway."

CHAPTER XI
THE SAMPLER

Vanity Fair was all that its name implied. By good fortune, the weather was perfect,—ideally pleasant and sunshiny, yet not too warm. Wistaria Porch was transformed into a veritable Fairyland, and it was a bewildering vision of flowers, flags and frivolity by day, and a blaze of illuminated gaiety by night.

It was to last but two days, for, Patty said, they might hope for fair weather for that long but hardly for three days.

It was to open at noon, and all the morning everybody was running about, doing last minute errands or attending to belated decorations.

Azalea had the Indian booth. It was a wigwam, in effect, but it was so bedecked and ornamented that it is doubtful if a real Indian would have recognised it as one. However, it was filled with real Indian wares, and the beautiful baskets and pottery were sure to prove best sellers. Azalea received a large consignment from some place she had sent to in Arizona, and other people had donated appropriate gifts, until the little tent was overflowing.

Azalea herself, the attendant on the booth, was in the garb of an Indian princess, a friend of Patty's having lent the costume for the occasion. It was becoming to the girl, and she looked really handsome in the picturesque trappings, and elaborate head-dress.

Just before time for the Fair to be opened, Azalea went over to Elise's booth. As she had planned, Elise had a log cabin, and in it she had arranged a motley collection of antiques and heirlooms that were quaint and valuable. It was the design of the Fair to sell really worthwhile things at their full value; and as they expected many wealthy patrons, the committees felt pretty sure of a grand success.

"Elise," said Azalea, as she appeared at the door of the cabin, "here's my contribution to your department. I haven't had a chance to give it to you before." She handed out a parcel, which Elise opened eagerly.

It proved to be a sampler,—old, but in fine condition. It was an elaborate one, with many rows of letters, some lines of verse, and several little pictured shapes. There was a beautiful border, and the signature was Isabel Cutler, 1636!

"Oh!" exclaimed Elise, "what a gem! Where did you get it? Why, Azalea, this is a museum piece! 1636! It's worth hundreds of dollars!"

"Oh, no," said Azalea, "it can't be worth all that! But I thought you'd like an old one."

"But I don't understand! Where did you get it?"

"It was my grandmother's."

"But your grandmother didn't live in 1636!"

"N—n—no,—I s'pose not. Well,—you see, she had it from her grandmother and great-grandmother,—clear back,—you know."

"I see," said Elise, scrutinising the sampler. "It's a marvel, Azalea.

You mustn't sell it at this Fair. It ought to go to a museum. 1636!

That's one of the earliest sampler dates! I can't see how it's lain unknown all these years. Who had it before you did?"

"Mother."

"Oh, yes,—of course. Well, I'm not going to take it from you—"

"Yes, you are, Elise. I want to give it to you. I've wanted all along to give you something nice,—you've been so good to me—"

"Rubbish! don't talk like that, Zaly! If you want to make Patty a present, now,—give it to her. That would be a worth-while return for her kindness to you."

"Oh, I don't think so much of the old thing as you do. I don't even think it's pretty."

"It isn't a question of prettiness, or even of a well worked piece. It's the date. And this is genuine,—I can see that. But I can't understand it! Why,—I think this border wasn't used until—I must look it up in my book. That's home in New York. But, there's one thing sure and certain! This doesn't get put in with my bunch of wares! Mr. Greatorex may come this afternoon. He's an expert on these things. He'll know just what it's worth."

"Oh, Elise," Azalea looked troubled, "don't take it so seriously. It's just an old thing. You've others here that are far handsomer."

"As I told you, Zaly, it's the age that counts,—not the beauty. Run along to your own booth. I'll lay this aside until I can find out about it. But if it's as valuable as I think it is, you mustn't give it to Vanity Fair,—or to anybody. 1636! My!"

Azalea looked a little crestfallen. Instead of being glad at the unexpected value ascribed to her gift, she seemed decidedly put out about it. She strolled round by Patty's booth. That enterprising young matron had caused to be built for her use a little child's playhouse. It was just large enough for half a dozen children, and would perhaps hold nearly as many grown people. But it had a good-sized verandah and on this were tables piled with the loveliest fairy-like gossamer garments and comforts for tiny mites of humanity. Such exquisite blankets and afghans and tufted silk coverlets and such dainty frocks and caps and little coats and everything an infant could possibly use, from baskets to bibs and from pillows to porringers.

And dolls,—soft, cotton or woolly dolls for little babies to play with, and soft, cuddly bears and lambs. Rattles, of course, and bath-tub toys, and all sorts of infants' novelties.

Patty, happy as a butterfly, hovered over her treasures. She wore the immaculate white linen garb of a nurse, and very sweet and fair she looked. Later, Fleurette was to grace the booth and attract all observers by her marvellous baby charm.

At high noon the bazaar was opened with a flourish of trumpets and a fanfaronade by the band. Farnsworth had given the services of a first class band as his donation, and the musicians made good.

The scene was one of varied attractions. The place itself was lovely with its wealth of flower gardens and shrubbery and the unique and elaborate booths here and there among the trees made a striking picture.

Betty was queen of the soda fountain. A really, truly soda fountain had been procured, and it was attended by white uniformed servitors who were trained to the work, but Betty was the presiding genius and invited her customers to sample her beverages, with free advice as to which flavours and combinations she thought the best.

Raymond Gale was a general supervisor of several of the enterprises.

He had in charge the moving-picture men who had expressed a desire to get some scenes of the gay throngs and were willing to pay well for the privilege.

"You like the 'movies,'" he called out to Azalea, "come over here and get into the game."

"Can't," she called back. "I have to be on duty at my wigwam."

"Oh, come along; the wigwam won't run away. At least promenade up and down once with me."

So Azalea came, laughingly, and the two walked grandiloquently into the focus of the camera.

"And there is a man making phonograph records," young Gale went on. "Come over there, Zaly, and we'll have a joust of words, and record it on the sands of time!"

"What do you mean?" asked Azalea, interestedly, for she had no knowledge of some of the performances going on.

She went with Raymond and found a crowd waiting at the booth where the phonograph man was doing business. His plan was to make a record for any customer who cared to sing, recite or soliloquise for him. Mothers gladly brought their infant prodigies to "speak pieces" and went away proudly carrying the records that could be played in their homes for years to come. Aspiring young singers made records of their favourite songs. One young girl played the violin for a record.

Taking their turn, Raymond and Azalea had what he called an impromptu scrap. A few words of instruction were enough for Azalea's dramatic instinct to grasp his meaning, and they had a lively tiff followed by a sentimental "making-up" that was good enough for a vaudeville performance, and which Azalea knew would greatly amuse Patty and Bill when they should hear the record.

"Oh, what fun!" Azalea cried, "I never heard of such a thing. I want to make a lot of records. I'm going to make one of Baby!"

She ran into the house and up to the nursery where Winnie was just giving the child her dinner. "Goody!" cried Azalea, "now she'll be good-natured! Let me take her, Winnie."

Not entirely with Winnie's sanction, but in spite of her half-expressed disapproval, Azalea took the laughing child and ran back to the phonograph booth.

"Let me go in ahead of you people, won't you, please?" she begged, and the waiting line fell back to accommodate her.

But alas for her hopes. She wanted the baby to coo and gurgle in the delightful little way that Fleurette had in her happiest moments.

Instead, frightened by the strangeness of the scene and the noise and laughter of the people all about, Fleurette set up a wail of woe which developed rapidly into a storm of screams and sobs,—indeed, it was a first-class crying spell,—a thing which the good-natured child rarely indulged in.

Not willing to wait for a better-tempered moment, the man took the record and poor little Fleurette was immortalised by a squall instead of a sunny burst of laughter.

But there was no help for it, and Azalea, greatly chagrined, took the baby back to Nurse.

"Here's your naughty little kiddy," she cried ruefully, handing Fleurette over, but giving the child a loving caress, even as she spoke.

"Thank you, Miss Thorpe, I'm glad to get her back so soon."

And then Azalea ran away to her Indian booth, where she found her assistant doing a rushing business with the Indian wares.

Indeed, everybody seemed anxious to buy the baubles of Vanity Fair. The cause was a worthy one, the patrons were wealthy and generous, and the vendors were charming and wheedlesome.

So the coin fairly flowed into their coffers and as the afternoon wore on they began to fear they wouldn't have enough goods to sell the second day.

Azalea was a favourite among the young people. She looked a picture in her Indian dress and she was in rare good humour. She tried, too, to be gracious and gentle, and committed no gaucheries and made no ignorant errors.

"You've simply made that girl over," Elise said to Patty, as the two spoke of Azalea's growing popularity.

Patty sighed. "I don't know," she said, thoughtfully. "There's something queer about Azalea. Little Billee has said so from the first, and now I begin to see it, too."

"She is queer," assented Elise, "but she's so much nicer than she was at first. Ray Gale is very devoted to her."

"I know it. I like Ray, too, but sometimes,—think,—he knows something about her that he won't tell us."

"For mercy's sake,—what do you mean? knows something about your own cousin that you don't know!"

"Oh, Zaly isn't our own cousin, you know. But—well, never mind now, Elise. This isn't a good time to talk confidentially."

Crowds of people were constantly arriving, and among them were many of Patty's old friends. Many, too, of her newer acquaintances, who lived in Arden and also in the nearby towns.

Patty was charming and delightful to everybody, remembering that she was in a way hostess as well as a sales-lady.

Fleurette graced her mother's booth with her presence, later in the afternoon, and quite redeemed her reputation for good nature, by smiling impartially on everybody, and gurgling a welcome to all who looked at her.

The little garments and toys of Patty's booth were soon sold out, for they were choice bits of needlework and found ready buyers.

And then one enthusiastic young father wanted to buy the playhouse itself, in which Patty had displayed her wares.

"But I meant to keep this for my own baby!" she cried.

"Oh, you can build another by the time that little mite needs one," the young man replied. "And my youngster is four years old,—just ready to inhabit a ready made home of this kind,"

So the pretty little house was sold, and plans were made to remove it to the purchaser's estate.

So it went. Azalea had many offers for her wigwam, if she would sell it after the fair. She agreed to let it go to the highest bidder, and finally received a fine price.

Archery was one of the pretty diversions, and at this Azalea excelled. To the surprise of all, she proved exceedingly skilful with the bow and arrow and easily won the prize offered. But she magnanimously refused to accept it, and returned it to be competed for over again.

Mr. Greatorex, the expert connoisseur in the matter of antiques, arrived at Elise's log cabin and expressed delight in its construction and furnishing.

The cabin was not for sale, Elise laughingly informed him, as Mr. Farnsworth intended to keep it a permanent fixture on his own grounds. Also, Elise went on, very few things of value were left on her tables,—but she still had one piece on which she wished to ask his opinion.

From a drawer she brought out the sampler that Azalea had given her and passed it over to Mr. Greatorex, without comment.