It was the first of March, so the room was brightened both by a big bowlful of yellow daffodils and a blazing wood fire. The two things Patty liked best in life were warmth and colour, and so to-day she was sitting near the fire, with the splendid yellow glory of the daffodils in full view.
But she was not looking at them, for she was poring over a book. When Patty read she usually pored, for she was eager and enthusiastic over any story in which she was interested.
But to-day, she was not reading a story. She pored intently, and then, throwing back her head, she would stare blankly at the ceiling, thinking hard.
Then, perhaps, she would fly to her bookcase, tumble out two or three books, swiftly turn their pages, and then back to her big chair and the original book.
It was a very small book, with a paper cover, but it seemed to be most engrossing.
Two or three hours passed, and still Patty pored over the little book, rarely turning a page. Absent-mindedly, she rubbed her head until the hairpins fell out, and her golden hair fell around her shoulders, as bright a glory as the daffodils. Vacantly she stared into the fire or out of the window, and at last she flung her little book across the room and exclaimed aloud:
“It’s no use! I can’t do it!”
And then Nan, her pretty stepmother, appeared at the open door.
“Patty!” she cried; “in a kimono! And it’s nearly four o’clock! Don’t you know it’s my day?”
“Nan,” said Patty, with an anxious look in her eyes, “what is it, of which the poor have two and the rich have none?”