There was not a merrier or more light-hearted girl than Patty Jamblin in the whole county.
Her dulcet voice and ringing laugh brightened the old farmhouse like a ray of sunshine.
No wonder, then, that she was her father’s pet; for, albeit she never crossed him by word or deed, she mostly managed to have her own way.
But on this eventful evening Patty was sad and serious.
Whether the deep blow that was about to fall on her and the old farmer had been by some strange mysterious influence foreshadowed, it is now impossible to say.
Patty was dejected, and, indeed, it might be said, sorrowful—a circumstance very unusual with her.
There are moments, however, when our hearts are open of their own accord to melancholy impressions. This will occur at times to the most vivacious of the human species. At such times a tone of music will bring tears into our eyes, or some simple tale or sight of suffering will fill us with presentiments of a terrible misfortune. Such appeared to be the case with Patty Jamblin.
As the sun sank below the earth, and the curtain of darkness fell softly over Stoke Ferry House, the nightingale pouring forth his first sweet song, Patty dropped into her easy chair and covered her face with her cold and trembling hands.
Her brother had not returned.
She watched and waited—waited anxiously. Something whispered to her what was to happen next.