Mr. Patterson dropped his hand.  His lashes were wet with tears.  “Lord!” he said in a broken voice.  “Can I ever forgive myself?”

Pat started forward with tears in his eyes.  “Father!” he cried.  “Dear—­old—­dad!  We’ll find her yet.”

Mr. Patterson seized the outstretched hand and held it close.  “God grant it,” he said.  “My son, my son!”

CHAPTER XXI

Meanwhile, where was Anne?  Was she as forlorn and miserable in reality as her friends fancied?  Let us see.

After she slipped unobserved from the railway coach, she followed the familiar footpath in its leisurely windings across meadow and up-hill.  It led her to a tumble-down fence, surrounding a spacious, deep-turfed lawn, with native forest trees—­oak, elm, and chestnut—­growing where nature had set them.  On the crest of the hill, rose a square, old-fashioned house, dear and familiar.  Home, home at last!

Anne pushed through the gate, hanging ajar on one hinge, and hurried across the lawn.  Even in the twilight, she could see that the microfila roses by the front porch were still blooming—­they had been in bloom when she went away—­and the Cherokee rose on the summer-house was starred with cream-white blossoms.  From the windows of the old sitting-room, a light was shining and Anne hastened toward the latticed side-porch which opened into the room.  As she approached the steps, a lank, clay-colored dog came snarling toward her.  Two or three puppies ran out, barking furiously.  Anne stopped, too frightened to cry out.

The sitting-room door opened and a thick-set man in shirt-sleeves came out on the porch.  He peered into the darkness.

“Who’s that?” he asked.  Anne, fearfully expecting to be devoured by the yelping curs, could not answer.  “Who’s out there, say?” repeated the man.  Anne took two or three steps toward the protection of the light and the open door.  The man answered a question from within.  “Don’t know.  It’s a child,” he said, catching sight of Anne, and going to meet her.  “Them pups won’t bite.  Get away, Red Coat.  She’ll nip you if she gits a chance.  Come right on in, honey.  Whyn’t you holler at the gate?”

Anne followed the strange man through the door that he opened hospitably wide.  It was and was not the dear room that she remembered.  There were the four big windows, the panelled walls, the bookcase with diamond-paned doors, built in a recess beside the chimney.  But where was the gilt-framed mirror that hung over the mantel-piece?  And the silver candlesticks with crystal pendants?  And the old brass fender and andirons?  And the shiny mahogany table with brass-tipped claw feet?  And the little spindle-legged tables with their burdens of books, vases, and pictures?  And the tinkly little old piano?  And the carved mahogany davenport?  And the sewing-table, ebony inlaid with mother-of-pearl, that stood always by the south window?  And the