"Pooh! don't criticise the lack of style in that poor country child. I'll teach her to write letters,--and I won't let her know I'm teaching her, either."
"You'll teach her lots of things,--I know,--and in that dear, gentle way of yours, that couldn't hurt or offend anybody. Well, I'll telegraph, then, for her to come ahead. What else shall I say?"
"Tell her what road to take, and all directions you can think of. Though it sounds to me, as if she thought she would have no difficulty as to travel."
"Sounds that way to me, too; but I suppose her father can look after such details. Queer message from her father."
"Not at all. You said he wasn't overfond of you, so as he sends his respects to you, I don't think you need ask for more."
"If she does start right off,--and I'm pretty sure she will,--she'll be here in a week or so."
"Of course; but I'll be ready for her. I'll give her the yellow room. It's big and sunny and has a lovely bath and dressing-room. It's all in order, too, I'll just make some soft lacy pillows and give it some little personal touches and it will be all ready for her. Oh, Billee,--think what a lot we can do for her!"
Patty's eyes glowed with the anticipation of aiding the little country girl, but Farnsworth was not so sanguine.
"You're running a risk, girlie," he said. "Suppose she turns out impossible. The fact of her being my relative doesn't quite canonise her, you know. Perhaps she _isn't_ a saint."
"Now, now, old calamity howler,--I don't want her to be a saint! I hope and expect she'll be a sweet, docile nature, and her lack of culture, if any, I shall try to remedy. Her lack of familiarity with social customs and all that, I _know_ I can remedy. Oh, I expect a busy time with her,--and I know I shall have to be tactful and kind,--but don't you think I can be?"
Farnsworth kissed the wistful, questioning face upturned to his and assured her that she most certainly could!
So Patty gaily set about her preparations of the pretty guest chamber. She hoped Azalea liked yellow,--most girls did,--but if not, she could easily be moved to the pink guest room.
This yellow room, however, was so well adapted for a young girl. There was a long French window that opened on the dearest little balcony, where the wistaria clambered and made a delightful shade. There was an alcove, where stood a Chippendale writing desk, and a revolving book rack. There was a sewing corner, with a fully furnished work-stand; and there was a soft puffy couch, with a pile of down pillows and a fluffy yellow afghan. And yet there was ample room for the bed, with its dimity draperies, and the fascinating toilet table, with its bewildering array of ivory fittings.