"How old are you, Patty?" asked her father, abruptly. "Fourteen, papa, -why?" "My conscience what a great girl you're getting to be. Stand up and let me look at you." Patty Fairfield, with two twists and a spring, brought herself to her feet, and stood awaiting her father's inspection. He saw a slender, graceful girl, a Southern blonde of the purest type. Her pretty golden hair would gladly have hung in curly masses, but it was only allowed to have its own sweet will around her temples and at the end of a long thick braid. Her eyes were blue, deep and twinkly, and the rest of her face was as pretty and sweet as soft girlish contours and a perfect complexion could make it. But best of all was the gentle expression and frank, good-natured smile which so often broke into mischievous dimples.