The girls slept restfully all night, and were awakened in the morning by the entrance of Lisette, who was followed by the pleasant-faced and voluble French stewardess. The day was bright and sunshiny, and half a dozen times while she was dressing Patty stuck her head out of the porthole to gaze at the sparkling blue water. On these occasions Elise grasped her by the feet lest she should fall out. But as Patty's substantial frame could not possibly have squeezed through the porthole, the precaution was unnecessary.

After breakfast the girls prepared for a delightful morning on deck. The breeze had freshened considerably, so Patty put on a long, warm ulster that enveloped her from throat to feet. A long blue veil tied her trim little hat in place, and when fully equipped she looked over the piles of literature to make a selection.

"Do you know," she said to Elise, "I don't believe I shall read much; I think I shall just sit and look at the water and dream."

"All right," said her practical friend; "but take a book with you, for if you don't you're sure to want one; while if you do, you probably won't look at it."

"Elise, you're a genius. I'll take the book, and also some of this candy. I'm glad Hilda gave me this bag; it's most convenient."

The bag in question was a large, plain affair of dark green cloth, with a black ribbon drawstring. It proved to be Patty's constant companion, as it was roomy enough to hold gloves, veils, handkerchiefs, as well as pencil and paper, and anything else they might need through the day. It hung conveniently on the back of Patty's deck chair, and became as famous as the bag of the lady in "Swiss Family Robinson."

As Patty had anticipated, she did not do any reading that morning, but neither did she gaze at the ocean and dream. She discovered that life on an ocean steamer is apt to be full of incident and abounds in occupation.

No sooner had she and Elise arranged themselves in their chairs than along came two gay and laughing girls, who stopped to talk to them.

"We're going to introduce ourselves," said one of them. "I am Alicia Van Ness, and this is my little sister Doris. We're from Chicago, and we like the looks of you girls, and we want to be chums. Though, of course, it's up to you, and if you don't like our looks you've only to say so and we'll never trouble you again."

"Speak out!" chimed in the other girl, who was quite as vivacious as her sister. "We're not a bit stupid, and we can take the slightest hint. I can see you don't quite approve of us"—and she looked shrewdly at Patty, who had unconsciously assumed an air of hauteur as she watched the frank-mannered Western girls—"but really and truly we're awfully nice after you get acquainted with us."

Patty was amused, and a little ashamed that a stranger should have read her feelings so accurately, for she had felt slightly repelled at the somewhat forward manners of these would-be friends.

As if to make up for her coolness she said heartily: "I'm sure you are delightful to know, and I'm quite ready to be friends if you will allow it. I'm Patty Fairfield, and this is my chum, Elise Farrington."

"We knew your names," said Alicia Van Ness; "we asked the captain. You see, we thought you two were the nicest girls on board, but if you had thrown us down we were going to tackle the English girl next."

Though this slangy style of talk was not at all to Patty's liking, she saw no reason to reject the offered friendship because of it. The Van Ness sisters might prove to be interesting companions, in spite of their unconventional ways. So two vacant chairs were drawn up, and the four girls sat in a group, and very soon were chatting away like old friends.

"Do you know the English girl?" asked Doris; "she sits at your table."

"No," said Elise; "she's way down at the other end from us. But I like her looks, only she's so very English that I expect she's rather stiff and hard to get acquainted with."

"You can't say that about us, can you?" said Alicia, laughing; "I'm as easy as an old shoe, and Doris as an old slipper. But we hope you'll like us, because we do love to be liked. That English girl's name is Florrie Nash. Isn't that queer? She doesn't look a bit like a Florrie, does she? More like a Susan or a Hannah."

"Or more like a Catharine or Elizabeth, I think," said Patty. "But you never can tell people's names from what they look like."

"No," said Alicia; "now a stranger would say you looked like my name, and I looked like yours."

"That's true enough," said Elise, laughing; "your jolly ways are not at all like your grand-sounding name; and as for Patty here, it's a perfect shame to spoil her beautiful name of Patricia by such a nickname."

Two young men in long plaid ulsters with turned-up collars and plaid yachting caps came into view at the other end of the deck. They were walking with swinging strides in the direction of the group of girls.

"Now I'll show you," said Alicia in a low voice, "how we Chicago girls scrape acquaintance with young men."

As the young men drew nearer Alicia looked at them smilingly and said "Ahem" in a low but distinct voice. The young men looked at her and smiled, whereupon Doris purposely dropped a book she had been holding. The young men sprang to pick it up, Doris took it and thanked them, and then made a further remark as to the beauty of the weather. The young men replied affably, and then Alicia asked them to join their group and sit down for a chat.

"With pleasure," said one of the young men, glancing at Patty and Elise, "if we may be allowed."

Patty was surprised and shocked at the behaviour of these strange girls, and very decidedly expressed her opinion in her face. Without glancing at the young men, she turned on the Van Ness sisters a look of extreme disapproval, while Elise looked frightened at the whole proceeding.

The two horrified countenances were too much for the Van Ness girls, and they burst into peals of laughter.

"Oh, my children," cried, Alicia, "did you really think us so unconventional, even if we are from Chicago? These two boys are our cousins, Bob and Guy Van Ness, and they are travelling with us in charge of our parents. Stand up straight, infants, and be introduced. Miss Farrington and Miss Fairfield, may I present Mr. Robert Van Ness and Mr. Guy Porter Van Ness?"

The young men made most deferential bows, and, greatly appreciating the joke, Patty invited them to join their party, and offered them some of her confectionery.

"But it's a shame to sit here," observed Guy, "when there's lots of fun going on up on the forward deck. Don't you girls want to go up there and play shuffleboard?"

"I do," said Patty readily; "I've always wanted to play shuffleboard, though I've no idea whether it's played with a pack of cards or a tea set."

Guy laughed at this and promised to teach her the game at once.

So they all went up to the upper deck, which was uncovered, and where, in the sunlight, groups of young people were playing different games.

Both Patty and Elise delighted in outdoor sports, and the Van Ness girls were fond of anything athletic. During the games they all made the acquaintance of Florrie Nash, who, though of an extreme English type, proved less difficult to make friends with than they had feared.

They also met several young men, among whom Patty liked best a young Englishman of big-boyish, good-natured type, named Bert Chester, and a young Frenchman of musical tastes. The latter was a violinist, by the name of Pierre Pauvret. He seemed a trifle melancholy, Patty thought, but exceedingly refined and well-bred. He stood by her side as she leaned against the rail, looking at the water, and though evidently desirous to be entertaining, he seemed to be at a loss for something to say.

Patty felt sorry for the youth and tried various subjects without success in interesting him, until at last she chanced to refer to music. At this Mr. Pauvret's face lighted up and he became enthusiastic at once.

"Ah, the music!" he exclaimed; "it is my life, it is my soul! And you—do you yourself sing? Ah, I think yes."

"I sing a little," said Patty, smiling kindly at him, "but I have not had much training, and my voice is small."

"Ah," said the Frenchman, "I have a certainty that you sing like an angel. But we shall see—we shall see. There will be a concert on board and you will sing. Is it not so?"

"I don't know," said Patty, smiling; "I will sing with pleasure if I am asked, but it may not give my audience pleasure."

"It will be heaven for them!" declared the volatile young Frenchman, clasping his hands in apparent ecstasy.

His exaggerated manner amused Patty, for she dearly loved to study new types of people, and she began to think there was a varied assortment on board.

Suddenly several people rushed wildly to the side of the boat. They were followed by others, until it seemed as if everybody was crowding to the rail. Patty followed, of course, and found herself standing by the side of Bert Chester.

"What is it?" she exclaimed.

"A porpoise!" he replied, as if announcing an event of greatest importance.

"A porpoise!" echoed Patty, disgusted. "Such a fuss about a porpoise? Why, it's nothing but a fish!"

"My dear Miss Fairfield," said the Englishman, looking at her through his single eyeglass, "tradition demands that steamer passengers shall always make a fuss over a passing porpoise. To be sure it's only a fish, but the fuss is because of tradition, not because of the fish."

Patty had always thought that a single eyeglass betokened a brainless fop, but this stalwart young Englishman wore his monocle so naturally, and, moreover, so securely, that it seemed a component part of him. And, too, his speech was that of a quick-witted, humorous mind, and Patty began to think she must readjust her opinion.

"Is it an English national trait," she said, "to be so in thrall to tradition?"

"I'm sorry to say it is," young Chester responded, somewhat gravely. "In the matter of the porpoise it is of no great importance; but there are other matters, do you see, where Englishmen are so hampered by tradition that individual volition is often lost."

This was more serious talk than Patty was accustomed to, but somehow she felt rather flattered to be addressed thus, and she tried to answer in kind.

"But," she said, "if the tradition is the result of the wisdom of past ages, may it not be of more value than individual volition?"

"By Jove!" exclaimed Mr. Chester, "you have a clever little head on your young shoulders, to take that point so adroitly. But let us defer this somewhat serious discussion until another time and see if it is a porpoise or something else that it attracting the curious crowd to the other side of the ship."

As they followed the hurrying people across the deck, Mr. Chester went on: "After you have crossed the ocean a few more times you will discover that there are only two things which make the people rush frantically and in hordes to the rail. The one that isn't a porpoise is a passing steamer."

Sure enough, the object of interest this time was a distant steamer, which was clearly visible on the horizon. It was sharply outlined against the blue sky, and the sunlight gave it its true value of colour, while the dark smoke that poured from its smokestack floated back horizontally like a broad ribbon. But owing to the distance there was no effect of motion, and even the smoke as well as the vessel seemed to be stationary.

"That isn't a real steamer," said Patty whimsically; "it's a chromo-lithograph. I've often seen them in the offices of steamship companies. This one isn't framed, as they usually are, but it's only a chromo all the same. There's no mistaking its bright colouring and that badly painted smoke."

Young Chester laughed. "You Americans are so clever," he said. "Now an English girl would never have known that that was only a painted steamer. But as you say, you can tell by the smoke. That's pretty badly done."

Patty took a decided liking to this jesting Englishman, and thought him much more entertaining than the melancholy French musician.

She discovered that very evening that Mr. Chester possessed a fine voice, and when after dinner a dozen or more young people gathered round the chairs of the Farrington party, they all sang songs until Mrs. Farrington declared she never wanted to attend a more delightful concert.

Mr. Pauvret brought his violin, and the Van Ness boys produced a banjo and a madolin. Everybody seemed to sing at least fairly well, and some of the voices were really fine. Patty's sweet soprano received many compliments, as also did Elise's full, clear contralto. The girls were accustomed to singing together, and Mr. Pauvret proved himself a true musician by his sympathetic accompaniments.

Everybody knew the popular songs of the day, and choruses and glees were sung with that enthusiasm which is always noticeable on the water.

The merry party adjourned to the dining-room for a light supper after their vocal exercises.

Patty was sorry that her friend and tablemate, the old Ma'amselle, had not been visible since that first dinner. Upon inquiry she learned that the old lady had fallen a victim to the effects of the rolling sea.

"But she'll soon be around again," said the captain in his bluff, cheery way; "Ma'amselle Labesse has crossed with me many times, and though she usually succumbs for two or three days, she is a good sailor after that. She is passionately fond of music, too, and when she is about again you young people must make the old ship ring for her."

This they readily promised to do, and then they wound up the evening by a vigorous rendition of the "Marseillaise," followed by "The Star Spangled Banner" and "God Save the King."

It was all a delightful experience for Patty, who dearly loved lights and music and flowers and people and gay goings on, and she felt that she was indeed a fortunate girl to have all these pleasures come to her.

CHAPTER VIII
DAYS AT SEA

The time on shipboard passed all too quickly.

Each day was crammed full of various amusements and occupations, and Patty and Elise enjoyed it all thoroughly.

Although the majority of passengers were French, yet they nearly all spoke English, and there were a number of Americans and English people, who proved to be pleasant and companionable.

The young people from Chicago seemed to wear well, and as she grew to know them better Patty liked them very much. The Van Ness girls, though breezy in their manner, were warm-hearted and good-natured, and their boy cousins were always ready for anything, and proved themselves capable of good comradeship.

The English girl, Florrie Nash, Patty could not quite understand. Florrie seemed to be willing to be friends, but there was a coldness and reserve about her nature that Patty could not seem to penetrate.

As she expressed it to Elise, "Florrie never seems herself quite certain whether she likes us or we like her."

"Oh, it's only her way," said Elise; "she doesn't know how to chum, that's all."

But Patty was not satisfied with this, and determined to investigate the matter.

"Come for a walk," she said, tucking her arm through Florrie's one morning. "Let's walk around the deck fifty times all by ourselves. Don't you want to?"

"Yes, if you like;" and Florrie walked along by Patty's side, apparently willing enough, but without enthusiasm.

"Why do you put it that way?" asked Patty, smiling; "don't you like to go yourself?"

"Yes, of course I do; but I always say that when people ask me to do anything. It's habit, I suppose. All English people say it."

"I suppose it is habit," said Patty; "but it seems to me you'd have a whole lot better time if you felt more interest in things, or rather, if you expressed more interest. Now look at the Van Ness girls; they're just bubbling over with enthusiasm."

"The Van Ness girls are savages," remarked Florrie, with an air of decision.

"Indeed they're not!" cried Patty, who was always ready to stand up for her friends. "The trouble with you, Florrie, is that you're narrow-minded; you think that unless people have your ways and your manners they are no good at all."

"Not quite that," returned Florrie, laughing. "Of course, we English have our prejudices, and other people call us narrow; but I think we shall always be so."

"I suppose you will," said Patty; "but anyway you would have more fun if you enjoyed yourself more."

"It's good of you, Patty, to care whether I enjoy myself or not."

Florrie's tone was so sincere and humble as she said this that Patty began to realise there was a good deal of character under Florrie's indifferent manner.

"Of course I care. I have grown to like you, Florrie, in these few days, and I want to be good friends with you, if you'll let me."

"If you like," said Florrie again, and Patty perceived that the phrase was merely a habit and did not mean the indifference it expressed.

"And I want you to visit me," went on Florrie. "I'm travelling now to Paris with my aunt, who took me to the States for a trip. From Paris I shall soon go back to my country home in England, and I wish you would visit me there—you and Elise both. Oh, Patty, you have no idea how beautiful England is in the springtime. The may blooms thickly along the lanes, till they're masses of pink fragrance; and the sky is the most wonderful blue, and the birds sing, and it is like nothing else in all the world."

The tears came into Florrie's eyes as she spoke, and Patty was amazed that this cold-blooded girl should be so moved at the mere thought of the spring landscape.

"I should dearly love to visit you, Florrie, but I can't promise, of course, for I'm with the Farringtons, and must do as they say."

"Yes, of course; but I do hope you can come. You would love our country place, Patty; it is so large, and so old, and so beautiful."

Florrie said this with no effect of boasting, but merely with a sincere appreciation of her beautiful home. Then as she went on to tell of the animals and pets there, and of the park and woods of the estate, Patty found that the girl could indeed be enthusiastic when she chose.

This made Patty like her all the better, for it proved she had enthusiasm enough when a subject appealed to her.

But when they were joined by the crowd of gay young people begging them to come and play games, Florrie seemed to shut up into herself again, and assumed once more her air of cold indifference.

But if Florrie was lacking in enthusiasm, it was not so with another of Patty's friends.

Ma'amselle Labesse, who had recovered from her indisposition, had taken a violent fancy to Patty and would have liked to monopolise her completely.

Patty was kind to the old lady and did much to entertain her, but she was not willing to give up all her time to her. The old ma'amselle greatly delighted to carry Patty off to her stateroom, there to talk to her or listen to her read aloud. Except for her maid, ma'amselle was alone, and Patty felt sorry for her and was glad to cheer her up. Not that she needed cheering exactly, for she was of a merry and volatile disposition, except when she gave way to exhibitions of temper, which were not infrequent.

One morning she called Patty to her room, and surprised the girl by giving her a present of a handsome and valuable old necklace. It was of curiously wrought gold, and though Patty admired it extremely, she hesitated about accepting such a gift from a comparative stranger.

"But yes," said ma'amselle, "it is for you. I wish to give it to you. I have taken such a fancy to you, you could scarce believe. And I adore to decorate you thus." She clasped the necklace about Patty's throat, with an air that plainly said she would be much offended if the gift were refused. So Patty decided to keep it, at least until she could get an opportunity to ask Mrs. Farrington's advice on the subject.

When she did ask her, Mrs. Farrington told her to keep it by all means. She said she had no doubt the old ma'amselle enjoyed making the gift far more than Patty was pleased to receive it, so Patty kept the trinket, which was really a very fine specimen of the goldsmith's art.

"And, my dear," the old lady went on, the day that she gave Patty the necklace, "you must and shall come to visit me in my chateau. My home is the most beautifull—an old chateau at St. Germain, not far from Paris, and you can come, but often, and stay with me for the long time."

Patty thanked her, but would not promise, as she had made up her mind to accept no invitations that could not include the Farringtons.

But Ma'amselle Labesse did include the Farringtons, and invited the whole party to visit her in the winter.

Mrs. Farrington gave no definite answer, but said she would see about it, and perhaps they would run out for the week-end.

For the first five or six days of their journey the weather was perfect and the ocean calm and level. But one morning they awoke to find it raining, and later the rain developed into a real storm. The wind blew furiously and the boat pitched about in a manner really alarming. The old ma'amselle took to her stateroom, and Mrs. Farrington also was unable to leave hers. But the girls were pleased rather than otherwise. Patty and Elise proved themselves thoroughly good sailors, and were among the few who appeared at the table at luncheon.

After the meal, Bob and Guy Van Ness came up to the girls and asked them if they cared to brave the storm sufficiently to go out on deck. Elise, though not timid, declared that she could see all she wished through the windows; but Patty, always ready for a new experience, expressed her desire to go.

She put on her own little rain-coat and tied a veil over her small cap, but when she presented herself as ready the boys laughed at her preparations.

"That fancy little mackintosh is no good," said Bob; "but you wait a minute, Patty; we'll fix you."

Bob disappeared, and soon returned, bringing from somewhere an oilskin coat and cap of a brilliant yellow color. These enveloped Patty completely, and as the boys were arrayed in similar fashion, they looked like three members of a life-saving corps, or, as Patty said, like the man in the advertisement of cod-liver oil.

Although the yellow oilskins were by no means beautiful, yet Patty's rosy face peeping out from under the queer-shaped, ear-flapped cap was a pretty picture.

Laughing with glee, they stepped out on the deck into the storm. The stepping out was no easy matter, for the wind was blowing a hurricane and the spray was dashing across the decks, while the rain seemed to come from all directions at once.

With the two big boys on either side of her, Patty felt no fear, and as they walked forward toward the bow of the ship she felt well repaid for coming out by the grandeur of the sight. It was impossible to distinguish sea from sky, as both were of the same leaden grey, and the torrents of rain added to the obscurity. The ocean was in a turmoil, frothing and fuming, and the waves rolled over and broke against the ship with angry vehemence. Patty, though not frightened, was awed at the majesty of the elements, and did not in the least mind the rain and spray in her face as she gazed at the scene.

"You're good wood!" exclaimed Guy; "not many girls could stand up against a storm like this."

Patty shook the wet curls out of her eyes as she smiled up at him. "I love it!" she exclaimed, but she could hardly make her voice heard for the roar of the sea and the storm.

Up and down the decks they walked, or rather tried to walk, now battling against the wind, and now being swept along in front of it, until almost exhausted, Patty dropped down on a coil of rope in a comparatively sheltered corner. The boys sat down beside her, and they watched the angry ocean. At times the great waves seemed as if they would engulf the pitching ship, but after each wave the steamer righted herself proudly and prepared to careen again on the next.

After a time Patty declared she'd had enough of it, and also expressed her opinion that oilskins were not such a positive protection against the wet as they were reputed to be.

So indoors they went, warm and glowing from their vigorous exercise, and their appetites sharpened by their rough battle with the weather.

Every day there seemed to be something new to do.

"I've been told," said Patty, "that life on an ocean steamer is monotonous, but I can't find any monotony. We've done something different every day, haven't we, Elise?"

"Yes; and next will be the concert, and that will be best of all. What are you going to sing, Patty?"

"I don't know. I don't want to sing at all, but your mother said I'd better sing once, because they all insist on it so, and I do like to be accommodating."

"I should think you did, Patty; you're never anything but accommodating."

"Oh, pooh! It's no trouble to me to sing. I'd just as lief do it as not; only it seems foolish for me to sing when there are so many older people with better voices to do it."

"Well, sing some simple little ballad, and I don't believe but what the people will like it just as much as the arias and things sung by the more pretentious singers."

So Patty followed Elise's advice, and when the night of the concert came her name was on the programme for one song.

And, as Elise had thought, it pleased the audience quite as well as some of the more elaborate efforts.

Patty wore one of her pretty new dresses, a simple little frock of white chiffon cloth, with touches here and there of light blue velvet. Her only ornament was the necklace that Ma'amselle Labesse had given her, and in her curly golden hair was a single white rose.

Very sweet she looked as she stood on the platform to sing her little song. She had chosen "My Ain Countree" as being likely to please a popular audience, and also not difficult to sing.

Mr. Pauvret accompanied her on his violin, and so effective was his accompaniment and so sweet pretty Patty's singing of the old song, that their performance proved to be the most attractive number on the programme. So prolonged was the applause and so persistent the cry of "Encore!" that Patty felt she really must respond with another song.

So she sang Stevenson's little verses, "In Winter I Get Up at Night," which have been set to such delightful music. Again Mr. Pauvret's accompaniment added to the charm of the song, and Patty returned to her place in the audience, quite embarrassed at the praises heaped upon her.

Elise sang, too, in a quartette of four girls. They had practised together considerably, and sang really well. There were many other musical numbers, interspersed with monologues and recitations, and the programme wound up with a series of tableaux.

Patty was in her element in these, and had helped to arrange them. She took part in some of them herself, and in others she arranged the groups to form effective pictures. An immense gilt picture frame, stretched across with gauze, was at the front of the stage. This was held up on either side by two able-bodied seamen of the ship, in their sailor costume. All of the tableaux were shown as pictures in this frame, and they called forth enthusiastic and appreciative applause.

Old Ma'amselle Labesse had been induced to appear in one of the tableaux, and as she possessed strikingly handsome costumes, she wore one of the prettiest, and made an easily recognisable representation of a painting by Nattier. Altogether the concert was a great success and everybody had a good time. It was expected that they would see land the next day, and so the concert partook of the nature of a farewell function. Everybody was shaking hands and saying good-bye to everybody else, and after many good wishes and good-nights our two tired and sleepy girls went to their stateroom.