“Dear Mr. Van Reypen:
“It’s no use. I’ve written a dozen notes and torn them up, trying to imply, or hint politely, what I prefer to say right out. It seems my parents think you come here too often, and, I daresay, you think so, too. So, at their command, you’re not to come again till next Monday. Come at four o’clock, and don’t ask to stay to dinner. I enclose some puzzles that I hope you can solve. I can’t.
“Sincerely yours,
“Patricia Fairfield.”
“There!” said Patty, to herself, as she read it over, “I think that would do credit to a ‘Young Lady’s Model Letter Writer.’ It tells the truth without subterfuge, and it certainly does not invite the correspondence father is so afraid of. Now, I’m not going to touch these old puzzles again, to-day, or I’ll have brain failure. I think I’ll go and practise some new songs. Music hath charms to sooth a puzzled breast.”
So Patty warbled away for an hour or so, in her clear, sweet voice, and Nan came down to the music room to listen.
“Oh, Patty,” she said, “if you’d put half the time and pains on your music that you do on those foolish puzzles, you’d be a great singer!”
“Think so, Nannikins? I doubt it.”
“Yes, you would. You have a lovely voice, but it needs more training and lots of practice.”
“Well, it won’t get it. Life’s too short; and, too, nobody cares for parlour tricks of a musical nature. I sing well enough to entertain the Fairfield family, and that’s all I care for.”