nowhere to put things away decently!"

She glanced at her room wardrobes and numerous chiffoniers and
dressing-tables.

"Live in a trunk, I s'pose," she went on to herself; "all my best
frocks in a mess of wrinkles, all my best hats smashed to
windmills! No broad ocean to look at! Nothing but mountains with
trees all over their sides! Nothing to do but walk up rocky, steep
paths to a spring, take a drink of water, and come stumbling down
again! In the evenings, dress up, and promenade eighty thousand
feet of veranda, AS ADVERTISED!"

Roused to a frenzy by her own self-pity and indignation, Patty got
up and stalked about the room. She flung off her pretty summer
frock, and slipped on a blue silk kimono. Then she sat down in
front of her dressing-table to brush her hair for the night.

She drew out the pins, and great curly masses came tumbling down
around her shoulders. Patty's hair was truly golden, and did not
turn darker as she grew older.

She brushed away slowly, and looked at herself in the mirror. What
she saw must have surprised her, for she dropped her brush in
astonishment.

"Well, Patricia Fairfield!" she exclaimed to her own reflection.
"You ought to be ashamed of yourself! YOU, who are supposed to be
of amiable disposition, YOU whom people call 'Sunshine,' because
of your good nature, YOU who have every joy and every blessing