"It is a Turkish custom, which has been copied the world over by those favored individuals whom fate or fortune has made irresistible; only the handkerchief must be gold-edged." "If you are going to talk nonsense," the young man said, offended, "I may as well go." "Nonsense!" Patty retorted, giving her umbrella a flirt. "Do you call it nonsense? It is the most serious thing I know. However, it is no matter. I am hindering you. Good-night." "Wait," he said. "You promised me an answer long ago, and you've never given it to me." "An answer? An answer to what?" "You know what," he said doggedly. "To the question I asked you the day we went to Samoset." "I haven't had time to think," she answered weakly. "First there was the exhibition, and then the masquerade, and then Peter Mixon's sickness." "If you require so much time to think," returned he bitterly, "that is answer enough." "Very well. We'll consider the matter settled." "No, no!" he exclaimed. "Take your own time. I'll wait. But you ought to answer me." "That is true," assented Patty gloomily. "Give me a week, only a week, and I will." "In a week then," he said, "I shall come for my answer. Don't make it 'no,' Patty." CHAPTER XLI. OLD MULLEN'S WILL. Peter Mixon was safely bestowed beneath the sod before Patty remembered the pocket-book which he had confided to her care. One afternoon when she chanced to be alone in the house, she came upon it, and, opening it, began idly enough to examine the contents. There was little of importance except a bulky document which proved to be a will, although, so little accustomed was she to legal phraseology, it was some time before the reader comprehended the full import of the instrument. Slowly she realized that the paper to which Peter Mixon had clung so tenaciously, and which Frank Breck had wished to obtain was a will executed by old Mr. Mullen; and that in it he bequeathed real estate and personal property, without reserve, to Mrs. Smithers. With the will in her hand, Patty sat pondering on the consequences of its discovery. Her thoughts turned first to the legatee, and she pictured to herself Mrs. Smithers as mistress of Mullen House and its splendors. She would hardly have been human, and certainly would not have been a woman, had she not bitterly hated one who had robbed her of security in her faith of her lover. What she believed of Putnam's relations with his tenant, Patty hardly knew. She had heard scandals concerning this woman and the late owner of Mullen House; and the character of Mrs. Smithers, even charity could scarcely call doubtful. She was still, in spite of her thirty-five years and her turbulent life, remarkably handsome; and her daughter, whom the lawyer had followed to Boston, was more beautiful still. Patty refused to believe absolute evil of Tom, but jealousy and doubt cast their blighting shadows over her heart.