recognized as his favorite niece.

John Merrick was sixty years old. He was short, stout and chubby-faced,
with snow-white hair, mild blue eyes and an invariably cheery smile.
Simple in his tastes, modest and retiring, lacking the education and
refinements of polite society, but shrewd and experienced in the affairs
of the world, the little man found his greatest enjoyment in the family
circle that he had been instrumental in founding. Being no longer
absorbed in business, he had come to detest its every detail, and so
allowed his bankers to care for his fortune and his brother-in-law to
disburse his income, while he himself strove to enjoy life in a shy and
boyish fashion that was as unusual in a man of his wealth as it was
admirable. He had never married.

Patricia was the apple of Uncle John's eye, and the one goddess
enshrined in her doting father's heart. Glancing at her, as she sat here
at table in her plain muslin gown, a stranger would be tempted to wonder
why. She was red-haired, freckled as a robin's egg, pug-nosed and
wide-mouthed. But her blue eyes were beautiful, and they sparkled with a
combination of saucy mischief and kindly consideration for others that
lent her face an indescribable charm.

Everyone loved Patsy Doyle, and people would gaze longer at her
smiling-lips and dancing eyes than upon many a more handsome but less
attractive face. She was nearly seventeen years old, not very tall, and
her form, to speak charitably, was more neat than slender.

"A while ago," said the Major, resuming the conversation as he carved
the roast, "a young fellow came to me who had invented a new sort of
pump to inflate rubber tires. He wanted capital to patent the pump and