“Then what is it you do want?” and Mr. Hepworth looked away as he evaded her question.

“Since you make me confess my very prosaic desires, I’ll own up that I’d like a strawberry ice.”

“Well, that’s just what I’m dying for myself,” said Mr. Hepworth gaily; “and if you’ll reserve this orchestra chair for me, I’ll go and forage for it.  It looks almost impossible to get through that crowd, but I’ll return either with my shield or on it.  Unless you’d rather I’d send Harper back with the ice?”

“Do just as you please,” said Patty, with a sudden touch of coquetry in her smiling eyes; “it doesn’t matter a bit to me.”

But though a willing messenger, Mr. Hepworth found it impossible to accomplish his errand with any degree of rapidity, and when he returned, successful but tardy, he found young Harper waiting where he had left Patty.

“She’s gone off to dance with Frank Elliott,” explained the boy cheerfully, “and she said you and I could divide the ices between us.”

“All right,” said the artist; “here’s your share.”

The next morning Patty, Nan, and Marian went down to the beach for a quiet chat.

“Let’s shake everybody,” said Patty, “and just go off by ourselves.  I’m tired of a lot of people.”

“You’re becoming such a belle, Patty,” said Nan, “that I’m afraid you’ll be bothered with a lot of people the rest of your life.”

“No, I won’t,” said Patty.  “Lots of people are all very well when you want them, but I’m going to cultivate a talent for getting rid of them when you don’t want them.”

“Can you cultivate a talent, if you have only a taste to start with?” said Marian, with more seriousness than Patty’s careless remark seemed to call for.

“If you have the least little scrap of a mustard-seed of taste, and plenty of will-power, you can cultivate all the talents you want,” said Patty, with the air of an oracle, “Why, what do you want to do now, Marian?”

Marian’s ambitions were a good deal of a joke in the Elliott family.  At one time she had determined to become a musician, and had spent, unsuccessfully, many hours and much money in her endeavours, but at last she was obliged to admit that her talents did not lie in that direction.  Later on she had tried painting, and notwithstanding discouraging results, she had felt sure of her artistic ability for a long time, until at last she had proved to her own satisfaction that she was not meant to make pictures; and now, when she asked the above question in a serious tone, Patty felt sure that some new scheme was fermenting in her cousin’s brain.

“What’s up, Marian?” she said.  “Out with it, and we’ll promise to help you, if it’s only by wise discouragement.”

“I think,” said Marian, unmoved by her cousin’s attitude, “I think I should like to be an author.”

“Do,” said Patty; “that’s the best line you’ve struck yet, because it’s the cheapest.  You see, Nan, when Marian goes in for painting and sculpture and music, her whims cost Uncle Charley fabulous sums of money.  But this new scheme is great!  The outlay for a fountain pen and a few sheets of stamps can’t be so very much, and the scheme will keep you out of other mischief all winter.”