The mansion was a roomy, old-fashioned house which his grandfather Patterson had built when Georgetown was a fashionable suburb of the capital.  As Washington grew, fashion favored other sections, and the stately homes of Georgetown were stranded among small shops and dingy tenements.  Some old residents, the Pattersons among the number, clung to their homes.

Mr. Patterson had been little at home since his wife’s death.  Every nook and corner of the house, her pictures on the walls, her books on the shelves, her easy-chair beside the window, called her to mind.  How lonely and sad he was!  His son was little comfort to him in his loneliness.  Except on their ocean voyage, Pat and his father had not been together for three years and they had grown apart.  Pat was no longer just a merry little chap, ready for a romp with his father.  He was a tall, overgrown lad, absorbed in the sports and work of his school-world, at a loss what to say to the silent, reserved business man who made such an effort to talk to him.

One day, as they sat together at a rather silent dinner, a sudden thought made Pat drop his salad fork and look up at his father.  “When is Anne coming, father?” he asked.  “Where’s her school? and when is it out?”

“Anne?  Anne who?” asked Mr. Patterson, blankly—­for the moment forgetful of the child who had been a brief episode in his busy life.

“Why, Anne Lewis, of course—­our little Anne,” said Pat.

“Oh, that child,” answered Mr. Patterson, carelessly.  “She is in an orphan asylum in Virginia.  I put her there the week we landed.”

Pat started to his feet.  “In an orphan asylum?” he gasped.  He knew asylums only through the experiences of Oliver Twist, and if his father had said “in jail,” the words would not have excited more horror.

“Of course,” replied his father, viewing his emotion with surprise.  “That was where she belonged.  We couldn’t find any of her own people.  Why, son!  You didn’t expect me to keep her, did you?”

“Mother intended that.  She said Anne was my—­little—­sister.”  The boy found it difficult to speak.

“Your mother!  If she had lived—­but without her—­be reasonable, Pat.  How could you and I—­we rolling stones—­take charge of a little girl?  And now—­”

“There is Aunt Sarah,” interrupted Pat, refusing to be convinced.  “Or school.  I thought you had her in boarding-school like me.  Where is she?”

Mr. Patterson was just going to tell Pat about Anne and her whereabouts.  But now he was provoked that his son put the question, not as a request, but as a demand.  He spoke sternly.  “You forget yourself, Patrick.  It is not your place to take me to task for pursuing the course that I thought proper in this matter.  We will drop the subject, if you please.”

“But, father, Anne—­”

“Patrick!” Mr. Patterson interrupted.  “Either sit down and finish your dinner quietly or go to your room.”