PATRICIA
by
EMILIA ELLIOTT
1910
It is a deep regret to the publishers that Miss Emilia Elliott, the
creator of the charming character of Patricia, did not live to see this
book in print, nor to enjoy the welcome that they are confident it will
be accorded.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER
I. PATRICIA'S FATIGUING DAY.
II. THE GINGHAM APRON PARTY
III. THE WAY OF A GRANDMOTHER
IV. PATRICIA'S CHRISTMAS FAMILY
CHAPTER I
PATRICIA'S FATIGUING DAY
Patricia sat on the back fence, almost hidden by the low-spreading
branches of an old apple-tree. Below her, on the grass, lay a small,
curly, black dog, his brown, trustful eyes fixed confidently on
Patricia.
"Really, you know," the child said, gravely, "it's a very perplexing
situation. Aunt Julia needn't have been so inhospitable. Why didn't
I wait until Daddy got home! Daddy's so much more--convincible. But
it's no use now; Daddy never goes back on Aunt Julia."
Patricia slipped from the fence. "I rather think you and I'd better go
down to the back meadow to talk things over; it's getting pretty near
sewing-time."
Out in the meadow, flat on her back in the long grass, Patricia set
herself to the task of solving this perplexing situation.
Half an hour earlier she had appeared back from one of her desultory
rambles, accompanied by this most forlorn of all forlorn dogs,
explaining that she had met him on the road, and he had followed
her home.
It was no unusual occurrence, but when Patricia added that he didn't
seem to belong to anybody, and she thought she would keep him, Miss
Kirby promptly and firmly protested.
To Patricia's pleading, that he was poor and lame and homeless, that
Cæsar, the pointer, was the only dog they had now, and he was too old
to play much, Miss Kirby had proved adamant. Patricia might give her
foundling a good meal, but keep him she _could not_.
Whereupon, Patricia, having given the wanderer what was in reality
several meals condensed into one, had retired with him to think things
over.
"It really seems as if you'd been meant for me," she told him now;
"I found you. I can't see why Aunt Julia won't look at things in a
proper light. I'm afraid she hurt your feelings. Aunt Julia generally
means pretty well, but she's apt to speak out sort of quick. We Kirbys
mostly do. I wonder what your name is?"
The dog stretched comfortably out in the warm grass, quite as happy and
contented as if he had been everything he wasn't, sat up suddenly, with
a short little bark, as if trying to give the desired information.
Rolling over, Patricia, her chin in her hands, surveyed him carefully.
"You aren't very handsome just now; but then, I know lots of people who
aren't very good looking. I don't see why that saying Aunt Julia is so
fond of--about 'Handsome is as handsome does'--shouldn't apply to dogs
as well as people. All the same, you are a very mixed numbery sort of
a dog: you've got one and three-quarters ears, three and one-half
legs,--at least you don't use that front paw very much,--and half a
tail; and your hair is rather--patchy. But inside, I'm sure you're all
right. And you have _beautiful_ eyes; _they're_ all there, too."
The dog blinked back at her soberly, wagging his abbreviated tail in
apologetic fashion.
"You've simply got to have a home," Patricia went on; "and it's up to me
to find you one. But I think you'll have to have a bath first, and your
paw bandaged."
Jumping up, Patricia darted back to the house, and around to the side
door, leading to her father's office. Presently, she reappeared with a
cake of antiseptic soap, a box of salve, a roll of bandage, a pair of
scissors, and a bath-towel; with these gathered up in the skirt of her
frock she led the way down to the brook, followed by a most unsuspecting
small dog.
Ten minutes later that same small dog--decidedly sadder and wetter, if
not wiser--lay shivering on the sunny bank, while Patricia rubbed him
vigorously with one of her aunt's largest bath-towels.
Then the cut paw was salved and bandaged, and the most hopelessly
tangled knots of curls cut away. After which, Patricia, sitting back on
heels, studied her charge approvingly.
"If Aunt Julia could see you _now_! Why didn't I do all this first?
But--well, Aunt Julia's made up her mind; and she isn't exactly the
changey kind. I wonder if you'd like it at the Millers'? They've got a
lot of children, but they're ever so nice children! They've three dogs
now, so one more oughtn't to count--and you'd have plenty of company."
The dog, whose only present anxiety was to feel dry once more, merely
rolled over on his back by way of answer.
"Oh, but you mustn't!" Patricia protested. "You'll get all dirty again.
I know it's horrid to feel too clean, but, you see, it's so necessary to
make a good first impression! I reckon it was the first impression that
made all the trouble with Aunt Julia this morning. Come on, we'll start
right off; it's a pretty long walk to the Millers'."
They went 'cross-lots, stopping for more than one romp by the way, one
quite as light-hearted and irresponsible as the other; though behind
Patricia lay more than one neglected task, and before her companion
stretched a possibly homeless future.
It was a nearly perfect June day, the blue sky overhead just flecked
with soft, fleecy white clouds, and with enough breeze stirring to lift
Patricia's short brown curls and fan her sunburned cheeks.
Out on the highroad the wild roses were in bloom, and the air was full
of soft summer sounds; the very birds hopping lightly about from fence
to fence had a holiday air--and to Patricia there was something very
friendly in the inquisitive cock of their pert little heads, as they
stopped now and then to inspect her.
"Oh!" she cried, joyously, reaching up on tiptoe to gather a spray of
wild roses just above her head, "aren't we having the loveliest time,
Dog?"
Her companion wagged agreeingly; he was, at any rate. The hot sun on his
back felt exceedingly good; he began to entertain hopes of actually
feeling really and thoroughly dry again--some time.
"That's the Millers' house--the brown one, beyond the curve," Patricia
told him. And as it was the only house in sight, he had no trouble in
locating it.
"I'm sure you'll be happy there," Patricia added. "It's funny there
aren't any children, or dogs, about. There's Mrs. Miller."
Mrs. Miller was hanging out a wash. "Patricia Kirby!" She pushed back
her sunbonnet, the better to survey the child. "Where is your hat?
You're redder'n one of my big pinies!"
Patricia put her hand up to her head. "Maybe I left it in the meadow;
I'm not sure I've had it on at all this morning."
"Well!" Mrs. Miller's tone was emphatic. "The children and the dogs've
all gone off picnicking," she added. "I suppose you've come to see
them?"
"N-no," Patricia answered. "I came to bring you a--present, Mrs. Miller.
The nicest--"
She stopped abruptly, as Mrs. Miller rushed by her, with a shriek,
waving her apron frantically.
On the grass spread out to bleach, lay one of Mrs. Miller's best
tablecloths; and in the middle of the cloth Mrs. Miller's present was
rolling and twisting his damp, dusty little self, uttering all the while
short, sharp little barks of satisfaction.
But he was on his feet before any one could reach him, and with one
corner of the cloth caught in his mouth, had run gayly away.
"Head that dog off, Patricia!" Mrs. Miller screamed. "What dog is it,
anyway--mischievous, good-for-nothing little scamp? He doesn't belong
about here! Ten to one, he followed you in. I never knew such a child
for taking up with stray dogs!"
After several strenuous moments the cloth was rescued. "Is it hurt very
much?" Patricia asked, anxiously.
Mrs. Miller held it up; one of the corners was torn and frayed rather
badly, and the whole cloth was covered with grass-stains and dirt.
"You can see for yourself," she said wrathfully; "and it a _new_
cloth--never used yet!"
"But it'll wash, won't it?" Patricia suggested. "And the torn part won't
show when it's on the table; and it won't show when it's folded up in
the drawer." She stooped to lay a restraining hand on the wrongdoer, who
already had an eye on various other articles scattered about the grass.
"I wouldn't have thought he could run so, with a lame paw, would you,
Mrs. Miller?"
"The sooner he runs out of my sight, the better for him," Mrs Miller
declared, warmly. "If he don't get started mighty quick I'll help him
along a bit with a broom handle."
Patricia drew herself up. "I--I think I'll be going."
"But, Patricia," Mrs. Miller called after her, "what was that about a
present? Something your aunt sent?"
"No, Aunt Julia didn't send him. I brought you a--a dog, Mrs. Miller."
"_That_ little nuisance! Well, well, of all--"
Patricia waited to hear no more; not until she was some distance up the
road did she turn to her charge, limping ostentatiously in the rear.
"That was another bad first impression, Dog! It wasn't my fault this
time. Really, I'm very much ashamed of you."
Dog sat down, holding up a bandaged paw. His whole dejected little body
expressed penitence of the deepest dye.
Patricia softened. "I'm not so sure whether, after all, you would have
liked it at the Millers'. I'm a good deal disappointed in Mrs. Miller,
myself."
She sat down on the grass beside the road to rearrange the loosened
bandage. "Puppies will be puppies, I suppose. Daddy says you must always
take the intention into consideration--and I don't suppose you
_intended_ to be bad. It's dreadfully easy to be bad, without
intending to. I certainly hope it won't be washing-day at the next
place. The idea of having Thursday for a wash-day, anyhow! Dear me,
where is the next place?"
The dog crawled into her lap, trying to lick her face. He was not
in the least anxious to decide upon any "next place." Sitting there in
Patricia's lap, in the shade of a wide-spreading maple, seemed a very
agreeable method of passing the time.
"I think," Patricia said, stroking the little black head, "we'll try
Miss Jane. You don't know Miss Jane. She's awfully nice. She and her
sister haven't any dog but they've got a cat; you wouldn't mind
that--she's a very intelligent cat; Miss Jane says so."
To reach Miss Jane's it was necessary to leave the highroad for a
narrow, winding lane. A quarter of a mile further on they came to the
little white house. Patricia thought it very lonely looking, but perhaps
her companion might think otherwise. "And I do think," she said,
gravely, "that it's very good of me to bring them such a nice dog--to
keep the tramps off."
A large gray cat, sunning herself on one of the gate-posts, was the only
sign of life about the house.
But not for long. The next moment an exceedingly astonished, irate cat
was taking an unusual amount of exercise in the prim little garden,
urged cheerily on by a small, curly dog, whose three legs seemed quite
as effective as most dogs' four. While down the path from the house
came Miss Jane and Miss Susan, also stout, elderly, and unaddicted to
overmuch exercise, anxious for their cat, anxious for their garden,
most of all anxious to get this strange intruder off the premises.
"Go away, little girl, and take that horrid dog with you," Miss Jane
commanded, shaking a stick she had picked up.
Patricia's eyes flashed. "I'm not '_little girl_.' I'm _Patricia Kirby_!"
"Pa-tri-cia Kir-by! Upon my word!"
Patricia's bare curls were blown and tangled; her face, hot and dusty;
her blue gingham frock, fresh that morning, between water and dust was a
sight to behold. She bore very little resemblance to the Patricia Kirby
Miss Jane was accustomed to see in church on Sunday, or sometimes
driving about with Dr. Kirby.
"Whatever are you doing alone so far from home, Patricia?" Miss Susan
asked, coming up. The cat had retired to the shelter of a tall tree,
from a branch of which she glared down on her pursuer, who lay hot and
panting on the ground below.
Patricia pointed to the dog. "Why, I came on purpose to bring you
him--for a present, you know."
Miss Jane gasped.
"He's a very nice dog," Patricia went on. "I'd love to keep him for
myself; only Aunt Julia--Aunt Julia seemed to think one dog was enough.
I don't think Aunt Julia is particularly--enthusiastic, about dogs. You
would like him, wouldn't you?"
Not dust, heat, nor weariness could hide the persuasive charm of
Patricia's quick upward smile.
Before that smile Miss Jane, who was very soft-hearted, wavered; but
Miss Susan shook her head resolutely. "Augusta would never hear of it
for one moment!"
"Is Augusta your cook?" Patricia asked. Cooks were that way sometimes;
even Sarah had her moments of revolt--so far as Patricia was concerned.
"Augusta is our cat," Miss Jane explained. She felt grateful to Susan,
and sorry for Patricia.
Patricia sighed; she had recognized the finality in Miss Susan's tone.
"Do you know of any one who would like a dog," she asked, "a very nice
dog?"
"You might try the Millers'," Miss Jane suggested.
"I--I don't believe Mrs. Miller would care for him," Patricia answered,
hurriedly. She turned to go. "Why, where is he?"
"Perhaps he's waiting outside in the road for you." Miss Susan was not
ordinarily so inhospitable, but the minister was coming to supper that
evening; and, like Martha of old, Miss Susan was burdened with many
cares.
Patricia sighed again; the road outside the low white fence seemed
suddenly very long and sunny. She was tired and discouraged; above all,
she was hungry.
"Before you go, Patricia," Miss Jane said, kindly, "come round to the
kitchen and have a glass of cool milk and a cookie."
The kitchen door had been left open in the excited rush of a few moments
before. As the three neared it now, Miss Susan darted forward, with very
much the same shriek of horrified dismay as Mrs. Miller had uttered not
long since.
Mounted on a chair, his feet firmly planted on the kitchen-table was
a small black dog, just finishing the contents of a large glass dish
standing at the edge of the table.
"It's my custard," Miss Susan wailed, "and the minister coming to
supper!"
The "very nice dog" turned round, licking his chops contentedly. It
almost seemed as if he winked at Patricia.
The next instant, skilfully dodging Miss Susan, he had retired to the
side yard, to finish licking his chops. Truly, it was a red-letter day
for him. He wagged affably at the eloquent Miss Susan; surely he had
paid her the highest compliment in his power.
"Oh, I am so sorry," Patricia declared. "He must have been very
hungry--I couldn't have given him nearly enough breakfast." Then she
brightened. "After all, Miss Susan, I don't suppose he's ever had
custard before; and I know Dr. Vail has--lots of times."
Which view of the case did not in the least appeal to the indignant
maker of the custard.
Seeing which, Patricia concluded that the best thing to do was to take
her charge away as quickly as possible. And in the confusion milk and
cookies were quite forgotten.
"Really, you know," Patricia admonished, once they were outside the
gate, "you're not behaving at all well! Tearing table-cloths, chasing
cats, and eating up custards aren't at all good dog manners."
The culprit, quick to detect the disapproval in Patricia's voice,
thought it time to limp again.
"Is your paw very bad?" Patricia asked.
The dog assured her that it was.
"I don't know what we're going to do next," Patricia told him. And
once back on the main road, she came to a standstill. She couldn't take
her protégé home; even less could she desert him. She sat down by the
roadside to consider the matter--to consider various other matters, as
well. Even with Patricias there comes the moment of reckoning.
Aunt Julia had said that the next time she evaded sewing-lesson she must
go to bed at five o'clock. Patricia stretched out her tired little legs;
at the present moment that particular form of punishment did not appear
very unendurable. Just now, however, it seemed doubtful if she would be
at home by five o'clock.
Also, Daddy had said that the next time she broke bounds in this way
he should be obliged to punish her. Patricia fanned herself with a
decidedly dingy pocket-handkerchief; she wished Daddy had
said--_how_.
"I'm not saying you're not a very nice dog," Patricia patted her
companion, curled up on the folds of her short skirts; "still, if
I hadn't met you this morning--"
The dog blinked sleepily, licking her hand. Perhaps he was thinking of
a poor, forlorn little animal who had until that morning been hunted and
driven, half starved, never caressed.
"I wonder," Patricia said, anxiously, "if Mr. Carr wouldn't like you?
We'll go see, at any rate."
Up the hill they trudged, to where, in his little cabin, lived old Carr,
the cobbler.
He was at his bench as usual, and he paused, needle in air, at sight of
his visitors.
Patricia was growing desperate; she went straight to the heart of her
errand.
She and Carr were great friends, and the latter was immensely
interested. Over his spectacles he surveyed the pair. Patricia's gray
eyes had lost their confidence; they were almost as unconsciously
pathetic as the dog's brown ones.
"Well," Carr said, slowly, "there's no denying a dog's company; and
since old Sampson died--"
Patricia beamed. "Then you will take him? And you won't mind if he's
rather--lively? You see, he's so very young. Maybe, I'd better tell you
everything." And sitting down on one end of the workbench, Patricia made
full confession of her charge's misdoings. "But I think he's sorry," she
ended, hopefully.
"Sure, Miss," Carr assented; "especially as to the custard--that there
wasn't more. What's his name, Miss?"
"I don't know. I've called him just Dog."
"I reckon he won't care what he's called, so long as you don't call him
too late for dinner," Carr remarked. "How about Custard? It'd keep his
sin afore him." He took a piece of rope from the floor. "I'd best tie
him for a bit at first."
It was half-past four when Patricia reached home. Sarah was upstairs and
Aunt Julia busy with callers.
Making a hasty raid on the pantry, Patricia slipped quietly up the back
way to her own room. Aunt Julia had said it must be bed; and there was
no particular use in waiting to be sent.
She was just getting into bed, after a hurried bath, when Miss Kirby,
having learned from certain unmistakable evidence that Patricia had
returned, came upstairs.
"Patricia!" she exclaimed, her voice expressing almost as much relief as
displeasure, "where have you been?"
Patricia moved restlessly. "I've been--everywhere!"
"Sarah has ransacked the entire neighborhood." Displeasure was fast
becoming the dominant note in Miss Kirby's voice now that Patricia was
safe in bed before her. "Of course you understand," she began.
Patricia raised a small, flushed face. "Please, Aunt Julia, I'm in
bed--and you didn't have to send me. I've had a most _fatiguing_
day; and I'm dreadfully afraid that if you start in to talk to me the
'Kirby temper''ll make me say something back."
Miss Kirby sat down, surveying her niece in silence for a moment.
Patricia had frankly stated a quite undeniable fact; and she had no
desire to put the matter to the test. "Very well," she said, presently,
"we will wait until to-morrow morning."
"But that would be ever so much worse," Patricia pleaded. "I do so hate
waiting for things. I thought--maybe--if I went straight to bed--you'd
skip the--talk part, this time. I'm very tired; finding a home for a dog
takes it out of you a lot. People 'round here don't seem very anxious to
have dogs. And--I went considerably beyond bounds--so I've got Daddy to
settle with yet. All the same, I did find him a home, Aunt Julia--I
haven't got that on my mind."
Miss Kirby rose, and going over to the bed bent and kissed the tired,
wistful face. Patricia had a fashion of exciting sympathy at the wrong
time, in a way that was perilous to discipline. "For this time, then,
Patricia," she said. "Now I must go downstairs."
Left to herself, Patricia suddenly remembered that there was to be
strawberry shortcake for supper. Oh, dear, if only Custard had chosen
any other day to drift across her path! A sent-to-bed bed-supper meant
simply bread and milk. Patricia wondered if Dr. Vail would mind about
not having custard as much as she did about not having strawberry
shortcake. She decided that when she was grown up and had little girls
of her own she'd never send them to bed early on strawberry shortcake
night.
She heard her father drive into the yard, heralded by Cæsar's deep bark.
Cæsar had gone with the doctor on his day's round. Patricia knew how he
was running about now, looking for her. She hoped Sarah would forget and
leave the screen door open. Cæsar would be sure to come upstairs then.
She rather thought Daddy would delay his coming until after supper.
Sarah was taking in supper now; she could hear the dishes rattling.
She was very hungry; that hasty raid on the pantry had not been very
satisfactory. If Custard had felt that way she didn't much blame him for
eating up Miss Susan's custard. Probably no one had ever taught him that
it was wrong to take what didn't belong to him.
There! Sarah was bringing up her supper now!
Patricia sat up in bed; even bread and milk appeared highly desirable at
that moment.
But there was more than bread and milk on the tray Sarah carried.
Patricia stared at the generous square of strawberry shortcake,
plentifully supplied with cream, in wondering silence.
Sarah brought a small table to the side of the bed. "Miss Julia, she
done send some message 'bout this 'ere cake, Miss P'tricia; but, law
o' mercy, I'se clean forgot the most 'portant word. Hit were something
'bout you-uns having had a fat-fat-"
"Fatiguing day?" Patricia suggested, taking little anticipatory pickings
at the corners of the shortcake.
Sarah nodded her turbaned head. "Where's you-un been all day, Miss
P'tricia?" she enquired, severely.
"If you don't mind, Sarah--I'm very hungry and tired--I won't go into
that at present. I had something very important to see to."
"Humph!" Sarah grunted. "Nice doings, worrying your pore aunt near to
'straction--the doctor, he ain't come home to dinner--to hear 'bout your
carryings-on. What you think he's goin' say--when Miss Julia tells him?"
Patricia was absorbed in eating bread and milk. "It must be dreadful to
be really starved, Sarah," she observed.
"Where you get your dinner, Miss P'tricia?"
"I didn't have any," Patricia answered.
"My sakes!" Further speech failed Sarah. She turned away.
Patricia's next visitor was old Cæsar. Standing by the bed, he asked as
plainly as dog may what in the world she was doing there at that time
of day? He accepted solemnly his share of the good things going, then
stretched himself out on the floor beside the bed, to mount guard--but
not until he had told her as forcibly as he could that the summer
evening was unusually fine, and that there were several little affairs
in the garden requiring their joint supervision.
"But I can't go, Cæsar," Patricia told him. She was always sure that her
dumb friends understood quite well all she said to them. "There comes
Daddy now."
"It doesn't seem to be solitary confinement, Patricia," Dr. Kirby said,
as he came in and seated himself on the side of the bed.
Patricia stretched out a welcoming hand. "It's hours and hours since
I've seen you, Daddy."
Dr. Kirby took the outstretched hand gravely. "From your aunt's account,
there would appear to have been hours and hours in which she did not see
you, Patricia?"
"I'm afraid I was gone a long while, Daddy; but I came home just as soon
as I got things straightened out.
"Suppose you give me the particulars, Patricia."
And moving so as to rest her head on her father's knee, Patricia told
in detail the story of her day's experiences. She had the comforting
conviction that when Daddy knew all he would not be very displeased
with her.
More than once, during that recital, the doctor's mouth twitched under
his mustache, and he turned rather suddenly to look out of the window.
"But, Pat," he exclaimed, as she finished, "what made it so imperative
for you to find that tramp dog a home?"
Patricia's gray eyes were very earnest. "Some one had to do it, Daddy."
The doctor smoothed back the soft, thick curls. "But, Pat, I cannot have
you burdening yourself with the responsibility of finding homes for all
the stray animals that cross your path."
"He was so miserable, Daddy--outside; and so really nice--inside.
I don't believe he liked being a tramp dog."
The doctor stooped and kissed her; it was not easy to be severe with
Patricia. "Still, dear, it must not happen again; you run too great
a risk; stray dogs are not always very dependable as to temper."
"It's going to be mighty hard not to, Daddy."
"And Patricia, where are my scissors, and salve, and soap?"
"I'm afraid--down by the brook; so's the towel. I was glad I'd watched
you bandage Caesar's paw that time."
"That is all very well; but, Patricia, you are not to meddle with any of
the office things again without permission. And now, about this matter
of breaking bounds to-day?"
Patricia looked up quickly. "You--you'll 'take the intention into
consideration,' Daddy?"
The doctor smiled. "Yes, but," his face grew grave again, "I must also
take into consideration the fact that this is by no means the first time
you have gone wandering off, causing your aunt a great deal of anxiety."
"I can't think why she will worry so. I always come back all right."
"That is not the point. It must be only the yard for the rest of the
week, Patricia."
Patricia drew a long breath. "Well," she said, slowly, "I _am_ glad
it's Thursday night 'stead of Monday morning."
* * * * *
Patricia sat up in bed, rubbing her eyes. What had wakened her?
A second series of short, sharp little barks sent her hurrying to the
window. On the path below, a bit of frayed rope dangling from his neck,
stood Custard.
When the doctor came downstairs, twenty minutes later, he found Patricia
on the back steps, with Custard in her lap, busily placing a fresh
bandage on the hurt paw. "Daddy," she cried, lifting her face for his
morning greeting, "wasn't it too lovely of him to hunt me up. Isn't he
the most grateful dog ever was?"
The doctor patted the dog's rough head, then stooped to examine
Patricia's work. "Not a bad job for an eleven-year-old, Pat."
"I could do it better, only I had to make a strip from a piece I found
in Aunt Julia's scrap-bag," Patricia explained.
"Patricia!" Miss Kirby exclaimed from the doorway, "your dress is only
half buttoned, and your hair is--_Patricia Kirby_, have you gone
and hunted up another dog!"
"It's the same one, Aunt Julia. He has improved a lot, hasn't he? If
you'd seen how glad he was to see me! I suppose he'll have to be sent
back. Cæsar likes him pretty well; he didn't growl at him once when I
introduced them to each other."
"It's a question whether _sending_ back will do any good," the
doctor said. He was watching the two on the steps.
Patricia stroked the bandaged paw gently. "I can't take him--I can't go
out of the yard, can I, Daddy?"
"Decidedly not."
"Couldn't you take him in the gig with you, Patrick?" Miss Kirby felt
that she was playing a losing game.
"Going quite in the opposite direction."
"And Jim?"
"Goes with me." The doctor was still studying the two on the steps.
"If he stays one day we are doomed!" Miss Kirby declared.
"That only leaves you and Sarah, doesn't it, Aunt Julia?" Patricia
asked, cheerfully.
Miss Kirby was not without a sense of humor. "I am afraid Sarah is out
of the question," she said; "and if he waits for me to take him he will
stay here--altogether."
Patricia was quick to catch the longed-for concession in her aunt's
voice. Dropping Custard, she ran to hug Miss Kirby. "Oh, you darling!
But, Daddy," she turned anxiously, "oh, do you suppose Mr. Carr will
mind _very_ much?"
"I rather think he will be able to bear the disappointment," the doctor
answered.