Pat turned on his heel and went up-stairs, but not to his chamber.  Instead, he made his way to a little attic room with a dormer window.  There was a couch which his mother had covered with chintz patterned in morning-glories, his birth-month flowers.  The book-shelves and the chest for toys were covered with the same design, applied by her dear hands.  How many a rainy Sunday afternoon his mother and he had spent in this den, reading and talking together!  In the months since his mother’s death, he had never missed her as he did now—­in these first days at home.  There was no one to take away the loneliness.  Aunt Sarah was with Cousin Hugh.  And now Anne was away—­not just for a time but for always.  There was no one left but his father, who seemed like a stranger and whom—­he said it over and over to himself—­he did not love.

The boy threw himself face downward on his couch and sobbed as he had not done since the first days after his mother’s death.  Where was Anne?  Was she with people who were good to her?  If only he had written to her long ago!  Father would have sent the letter, or given the address.  He had begun a letter telling about a big baseball game but he had blotted it; it was in his portfolio still, unfinished.  Poor little Anne!  The tears came afresh.  He could see his mother stroking Anne’s fair hair, as she had done one day when he was teasing about Honey-Sweet.

“My son,” the gentle voice had said, “you must be good to our little girl.  Remember, she has no one in the world but us.”

Dear little Anne!  What a jolly playmate she was,—­brave, good-tempered, affectionate! and what a generous little soul!  How she always insisted on dividing her fruit and candies with him when he devoured his share first.

An hour passed.  Mr. Patterson came up-stairs, went from his room into Pat’s, and then walked down the hall.

“Pat!” he called.  “Patrick!” The voice sounded stern but really its undertone was anxiety.

Pat did not speak.  He scrambled to his feet and descended the stairs.  With set mouth and downcast eyes, he stood before his father.

“Did I not tell you to go to your room, Pat?”

“Yes, father.”  Pat paused in the doorway.  “I want to know where Anne is,” he said.

“Patrick!” Mr. Patterson spoke sternly now.  “You forget yourself strangely to address me in this way.  I refuse to answer.”

He turned on his heel and left his son.  And he left a breach between them which the days and weeks widened instead of closing.  Pat, feeling that it would be useless to question his father any more, did not mention Anne’s name again.  He picked up his old comrades and went walking, swimming, and canoeing, keeping as much away from his father as possible.  Mr. Patterson busied himself with office affairs, looking forward with relief to the end of the so-longed-for vacation.  In a few days, Miss Drayton would join them to take Pat with her to the Adirondacks.