AUTHOR OF The Primrose Ring ILLUSTRATED    ...

SEVEN MILES TO ARDEN Copyright, 1915, 1916, by The Curtis Publishing Company Copyright, 1915, 1916, by Harper & Brothers Printed in the United States of America Published April, 1916 Books by RUTH SAWYER SEVEN MILES TO ARDEN. Illustrated. Post 8vo THE PRIMROSE RING. Illustrated. Post 8vo HARPER & BROTHERS, NEW YORK to HIMSELF...

P atsy O’Connell sat on the edge of her cot in the women’s free ward of the City Hospital. She was pulling on a vagabond pair of gloves while she mentally gathered up a somewhat doubtful, ragged lot of prospects and stood them in a row before her for contemplation, comparison, and a final choice. They strongly resembled the contents of her steamer trunk, held at a respectable boarding-house in University Square by a certain Miss Gibb for unpaid board, for these were made up of a jumble of pricel

M arjorie Schuyler sat in her own snug little den, her toy ruby spaniel on a cushion at her feet, her lap full of samples of white, shimmering crêpes and satins. She fingered them absent-mindedly, her mind caught in a maze of wedding intricacies and dates, and whirled between an ultimate choice between October and June of the following year. The world knew all there was to know about Marjorie Schuyler. It could tell to a nicety who her paternal and maternal grandparents were, back to old Peter S

P atsy ran down the steps of the Schuyler house, jumping the last four. As her feet struck the pavement she looked up and down the street for what she sought. There it was—the back of a fast-retreating man in a Balmacaan coat of Scotch tweed and a round, plush hat, turning the corner to Madison Avenue. Patsy groaned inwardly when she saw the outlines of the figure; they were so conventional, so disappointing; they lacked simplicity and directness—two salient life principles with Patsy. “Pshaw! W

S afe in her room, with the door closed and locked, Patsy stood transfixed before a trunk—likewise closed and locked. “Thank Heaven for many blessings!” she said, fervently. “Thank Heaven Miriam St. Regis has worn wigs of every conceivable color and style on the stage, so there is small chance of any one here knowing the real color of her hair. Thank Heaven she’s given to missing her engagements and not wiring about it until the next day. Thank Heaven I’ve played with her long enough to imitate

T he Brambleside Inn lost one of its guests at an inconceivably early hour the morning after Patsy O’Connell unexpectedly filled Miss St. Regis’s engagement there. The guest departed by way of the second-floor piazza and a fire-escape, and not even the night watchman saw her go. But it was not until she had put a mile or more of open country between herself and the Inn that Patsy indulged in the freedom of a long breath. “After this I’ll keep away from inns and such like; ’tis too wit-racking to

T heir road went the way of the setting sun, and Patsy and the tinker traveled it leisurely—after the fashion of those born to the road, who find their joy in the wandering, not in the making of a distance or the reaching of a destination. Since they had left the cross-roads church behind Patsy had marked the tinker casting furtive glances along the way they had come; and each time she marked, as well, the flash of a smile that lightened his face for an instant when he saw that the road still re

T here is little of the day’s happenings that escapes the ears of a country boy. Every small item of local interest is so much grist for his mill; and there is no more reliable method for a stranger to collect news than a sociable game of “peg” interspersed with a few casual but diplomatic questions. The tinker played “peg” the night after he and Patsy reached Lebanon—on the barn floor by the light of a bleary-eyed lantern with Joseph and his brethren, and thereby learned of the visit of the she

T he laughter would have proved contagious to any except one in Patsy’s humor; and, as laughing alone is sorry business, the man soon sobered and looked over at Patsy with the merriment lingering only in his eyes. “By Willie Shakespeare, it’s the duke’s daughter in truth!” The words made little impression on her; it was the laugh and voice that puzzled her; they were unmistakably the tinker’s. But there was nothing familiar about face, figure, or expression, although Patsy studied them hard to f

W ith the realization that the tinker was gone, the empty house suddenly became oppressive. Patsy put down the photograph with a quick little sigh, and hunted up the breakfast-tray he had left spread and ready for her, carrying it out to the back porch. There in the open and the sunshine she ate, according to her own tabulation, three meals—a left-over supper, a breakfast, and the lunch which she was more than likely to miss later, She was in the midst of the lunch when an idea scuttled out of h

H aving established the permanent reality of Billy Burgeman to her own satisfaction, Patsy’s mind went racing off to conjure up all the possible things Billy and the tinker might think of each other as soon as chance should bring them together. Whereas it was perfectly consistent that Billy should shun the consolation and companionship of his own world, he might follow after vagabond company as a thirsty dog trails water; and who could slake that thirst better than the tinker? For a second time

“ A brave day to ye!” A little bit of everything that made Patsy was wrapped in the smile she gave the man in the Balmacaan coat standing by the wheel-guard of the car before the town post-office, a hand on the front seat. “Maybe ye’re not knowing it, but it’s a rare good day for us both. If you’ll only take me for a spin in your car I’ll tell you what brings me—and who I am—if you haven’t that guessed already.” Plainly the occupant of the coat and the car was too much taken by surprise to guess

T he railroad ran under the suspension-bridge. Patsy could see the station not an eighth of a mile down the track, and she made for it as being the nearest possible point where water might be procured. The station-master gave her a tin can and filled it for her; and ten minutes later she set about scrubbing the tinker free of all the telltale make-up of melodrama. It was accomplished—after a fashion, and with persistent rebelling on the tinker’s part and scolding on Patsy’s. And, finally, to pro

T his time there was no mistaking the right road; it ran straight past Quality House to Arden—unbroken but for graveled driveways leading into private estates. Patsy traveled it at a snail’s pace. Now that Arden had become a definitely unavoidable goal, she was more loath to reach it than she had been on any of the seven days since the beginning of her quest. However the quest ended—whether she found Billy Burgeman or not, or whether there was any need now of finding him—this much she knew: for

W hen Patsy at last reached Arden she went direct to the post-office and was there confronted by a huge poster occupying an entire wall: THE SYLVAN PLAYERS Under the Management of Geo. Travis Presenting Wm. Shakespeare’s Comedy “AS YOU LIKE IT” In the Forest of Arden, on the Estate of Peterson-Jones, Esq. The date given was Wednesday, the day following; and the cast registered her name opposite Rosalind. “So that’s the answer to the letter I wrote, and a grand answer it is. And that’s the meanin

S ummer must have made one day in June purposely as a setting for a pastoral comedy; and chance stole it, like a kindly knave, and gave it to the Sylvan Players. Never did a gathering of people look down from the rise of a natural amphitheater upon a fairer scene; a Forest of Arden, built by the greatest scenic artist since the world began. Birds flew about the trees and sang—whenever the orchestra permitted; a rabbit or two scuttled out from under rhododendron-bushes and skipped in shy ingénue