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