pleasurable anticipation, for Patty loved to skate.
“Mam-ma!” said Patty, putting her finger in her mouth, and assuming a vacant, babyish stare.
Roger laughed at her foolishness, and then Elise came along and they all went out to the car.
Elise’s suit was of crimson cloth, bordered with dark fur, and as a consequence the two girls together made a pretty picture.
“You’re such a comfort, Patty,” Elise said, as they climbed into the big car. “You always dress just right to harmonise with my clothes.”
“Sure you do!” said Roger, looking at the two girls admiringly. “No fellow on the ice will escort such beautiful ladies as I have in my charge. Now, we’ll pick up Ken and the Morses, and then make a dash for the Pole.”
They reached the Park by three o’clock, so had nearly two hours of skating before the dusk fell.
Patty was a superior skater, and so were most of the others, for Roger had chosen his party with care.
“Skate with me, Patty, will you?” said Roger, just at the same moment that Kenneth said, “Of course you’ll skate with me, Patty.”
Patty looked at both boys with a comical smile. “Thank you,” she said; “but I always like to pick out my own escort.” Then, turning to Clifford Morse, she said:
“Skate with me, won’t you, Cliff? We’re a good team.”
“We are that!” he replied, greatly pleased, if a little surprised at Patty’s invitation.
Kenneth and Roger grinned at each other, and then turned quickly to the other girls, who had not heard the little parley.
Of course Roger skated with Clementine Morse, and Kenneth with Elise, which arrangement quite satisfied the dark-eyed beauty.
“You look like Little Red Riding-hood,” said Kenneth, as they started off, with long, gliding strokes.
“Don’t be a wolf, and eat me up,” laughed Elise, for Kenneth had fur on his cap and overcoat, and with his big fur gloves, seemed almost like some big, good-natured animal.
“You skate beautifully, Elise,” said Kenneth, “and all you girls do. Look at Clementine; isn’t she graceful?”
“Yes,” agreed Elise, “and so is Patty.”
“Patty,” echoed Kenneth. “She is a poem on ice!”
She was, and Elise knew it, but a naughty little jealousy burned in her heart at Ken’s words.
She bravely tried to down it, however, and said: “Yes, she is. She’s a poem in every way.”
“Well, I don’t know about that. In some ways she’s more of a jolly, merry jingle.”
“A nonsense rhyme,” suggested Elise, falling in with his metaphor.
“Yes; how quick you are to see what I mean. Now, Clementine is a lyric,—she glides so gracefully along.”
“And I?” asked Elise, laughing at his witty characterisation.
“You? Well, I can’t judge unless I see you. Skate off by yourself.”
Elise did so, and Kenneth watched the scarlet-clad figure gracefully pirouetting and skilfully executing difficult steps.
“Well?” she said, as she returned to him, and again they joined hands and glided along in unison.
“Well, you’re delightful on ice. You’re a will o’ the wisp.”
“But I want to be a poem of some sort. The other girls are.”
Kenneth smiled at the pretty, anxious face.
“You are a poem. You’re one of those little French forms. A virelay or a triolet.”
Elise was a little uncertain as to what these were, exactly, but she resolved to look them up as soon as she reached home. At any rate, she knew Kenneth meant to be complimentary, and she smiled with pleasure.
Then the others joined them and they all skated together for a time, and then the sun set, and Roger said they must go home.
He was a most reliable boy, and always took charge of their little expeditions or outings. Elise never thought of questioning his authority, so again they all bundled into the car, and started homeward.
“I ought to go right home,” said Clementine.
“Oh, come round for a cup of Christmas tea,” said Roger, “and I’ll take you home in half an hour.”
So the Morses consented, and the six merry young people had tea under the Christmas tree, and told stories by the firelight, and laughed and chatted until Clementine declared she must go, or she’d never get back in time for the dance.
“What are you going to wear, Patsy?” asked Elise, as they went upstairs, arm in arm.
“I’ve a new frock, of course. Did you think I’d come to your dance in one I’d worn before? Nay, I hold Miss Farrington in too high esteem for that!”
“Well, scurry into it, for I’m crazy to see it. If it’s prettier than mine, I won’t let you go down to the ballroom!”
“It won’t be,” returned Patty; “don’t worry about that!”
But when the two girls were dressed, Patty’s frock, though not so expensive, was quite as attractive as Elise’s.
Patty’s was of apricot-coloured satin, veiled all over with a delicate thin material of the same shade. A pearl trimming encircled the slightly low-cut throat and the short sleeves. It was very becoming to pretty Patty, and she knew herself that she had never looked better.
Elise’s gown was of white silk, draped with silvered lace. It was lovely, and suited Elise’s dark hair and eyes, and really both girls were pictures. But Patty’s face was sunny and happy, while Elise’s red mouth drooped in a little curve of discontent.
The girl was discontented by nature, and though she had everything that heart could wish, she was never brimming over with content and happiness, as Patty always was.
The dance was in the tennis court, where a smooth crash had replaced the snowy floor of the Christmas Eve celebration. The Christmas tree still stood there, as it formed a beautiful decoration for that end of the ballroom.
It was not a large party, for Mrs. Farrington would not allow Elise to act like a young lady out in society. About thirty young people were asked, and the hours were from nine till twelve.
But the music was of the finest, and as Patty’s favourite amusement was dancing, she had a most enjoyable time.
An exquisite dancer, she was, of course, besieged by partners, but in her merry, wholehearted way, she treated them all alike, showing favouritism to none, and dancing with less desirable partners as pleasantly and happily as with those she liked better.
Roger grumbled at this.
“You’re wasted on a fellow like Harry Barr,” he said, as he and Patty started for a turn. “He dances like a grain-thresher, and yet you bob along with him as smilingly as if you were dancing with a decent tripper.”
“Why not?” returned Patty; “he’s pleasant and kind. He doesn’t talk like a grain-thresher, and he can’t help his dancing. Or rather, his lack of it, for you can’t call those gymnastics of his dancing. Oh, Roger, there’s Mr. Hepworth!”
Sure enough, Mr. Hepworth had just come in, and as Patty spoke, he caught her eye and smiled.
She smiled back, and when the dance was over asked Roger to take her to him.
“Old Hepworth?” said Roger, in surprise. “You can’t waste time on him, Patty; your dance card