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Ebook has 637 lines and 19819 words, and 13 pages

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 prot?g? 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.

"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.

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.

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