e that Washington never did have punch from it
as that he did." Patricia paused to rearrange one particularly wobbly
aster, too short as to stem and too big as to head. "Anyhow, it's one
of the very nicest things we've got."

Custard sighed restlessly; to spend this breezy October afternoon in
fussing over flowers, when just beyond the gate a whole world waited to
be explored, seemed to him a most un-Patricia-like wasting of time.

Then as Patricia rose slowly to her feet, the bowl of flowers in her
hands, he sprang up at her with a sharp little bark of delight.

"Down!" she warned sharply. "Custard Kirby, if you make me drop this
punchbowl I don't know what Aunt Julia _will_ say!"

It seemed to Patricia as if that journey upstairs to the spare bedroom
never would be made in safety; but it was accomplished at last, and her
burden placed right in the center of the low reading-table, standing at
one side of the south window.

With a long breath of relief, Patricia sat down on the edge of the bed,
looking about the big pleasant room with approving eyes. It was exactly
the sort of room she should like to have when she got be a grandmother.
There were fresh muslin curtains at the windows, the fine old-fashioned
mahogany furniture shone from its recent polishing; on the broad hearth
a light fire was laid ready for the lighting, and at one corner of the
fireplace stood a big chintz-covered armchair. Of course there was a
footstool beside it. Patricia had seen to the footstool herself, hunting
it out up garret that morning. She had wondered why Daddy's eyes
twinkled at sight of it--Daddy would tell her nothing about grandmother,
she must wait and see. And Patricia so hated waiting for anything, from
surprises to scoldings.

"Yes, it certainly does look grandmothery, Custard," she said; "and
the flowers help a lot. I know she'll love asters; they're such an
old-ladyish flower. Mind, sir, you're not to go rushing at her! And the
very first time you run off with any of her things you're going to get
your ears boxed."

Custard wagged tentatively; boxing his ears appeared to him to belong to
Miss Kirby's special department.

"Miss P'tricia!" Sarah stood in the doorway, indignation in the very
points of her knotted turban--"Miss P'tricia, ain't yo' never be'n tole
not to sit on beds? 'Tic'larly beds all ready fo' comp'ny!"

Patricia slipped hurriedly to her feet; but by this time Sarah had
caught sight of something else. "L