“I just guess it would,” said Patty, “and I’m sure I hope I’ll have it.”

She began to wonder if she couldn’t find some other way to economise rather than on the horses, for she certainly did love to drive.

Promptly at six o’clock Uncle Charley left her at Boxley Hall, and as she entered the door Patty felt that strange sinking of the heart that always accompanies the resuming of a half-forgotten mental burden.

“I know just how thieves and defaulters and forgers feel,” she said to herself, as she took off her wraps.  “I haven’t exactly stolen, but I’ve betrayed a trust, and that’s just as bad.  I wonder what papa will say?”

At dinner Patty was subdued and a little nervous.

Mr. Fairfield, quick to notice anything unusual in his daughter, surmised that she was bothered, but felt sure that in her own time she would tell him all about it, so he endeavoured to set her at her ease by chatting pleasantly about the events of his day in the city, and sustaining the burden of the conversation himself.

But after dinner, when they had gone into the library, as they usually did in the evening, Patty brought out her fearful array of paper bugbears and laid them before her father.

“What are these?” said Mr. Fairfield cheerily.  “Ah, yes, I see.  The 1st of the month has brought its usual crop of bills.”

“I do hope it isn’t the usual crop, papa; for if they always come in like this, we’ll have to give up Boxley Hall and go to live in the poor-house.”

“Oh, I don’t know.  We haven’t overdrawn our bank account yet Whew!  Pacetti’s is a stunner, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” said Patty, in a meek little voice.

“And Fisher & Co. seem to have summed up quite a total; and Smith’s flower bill looks like a good old summer time.”

“Oh, papa, please scold me; I know I deserve it.  I ought to have looked after these things and kept the expenses down more.”

“Why ought you to have done so, Patty?  We have to have food, don’t we?”

“Yes; but, papa, you know we estimated in the beginning, and these old bills come up to about twice as much as our estimate.”

“That’s a fact, baby, they do,” said Mr. Fairfield, looking over the statements with a more serious air.  “These are pretty big figures to represent a month’s living for just you and me and our small retinue of servants.”

“Yes; and, papa, I think Mancy is rather wasteful.  I don’t say this to blame her.  I know it is my place to see about it, and be careful that she utilises all that is possible of the kitchen waste.”

Patty said this so exactly with the air of a Young Housekeeper’s Guide or Cooking School Manual, that Mr. Fairfield laughed outright.