she always had dinner ready when, tired and frail,
Patricia appeared with that glad light in her eyes.

"You act as if I, not you, were going away, my lamb," Patricia often
said; "but you are a blessing! And Cuff"--she leaned down and gathered
the small, quivering dog in her arms--"and Cuff runs you a close
second."

Cuff wagged his stubby tail excitedly. He was a proud creature, a proof
of what could be done with a bad job, and he had all the snobbishness
that is acquired, not bred in the bone. He slept on the foot of
Patricia's bed and forgot back alleys. He selected tidbits with the air
of one who knew not garbage cans, but he redeemed all shortcomings by
his faithful love to her who had rescued him. The melting brown eyes
found their highest joy in Patricia's approval, and a harsh word from
her brought his diminutive tail between his legs for an hour.

It was April when Patricia came up the stairs, one night, laggingly.
Cuff was on the landing with his token of devotion. The girl picked him
up, kissed his smooth body and went on, more slowly. Joan had the table
set for the dainty dinner by the broad western window. She turned when
Patricia entered.

"What's the matter, Pat?" she asked.

"Nothing, only Cuff is growing heavy."

"Are you tired?"

"Not a bit. What a wonder you are, Joan! That table is a dream with
those daffodils in the green bowl. Old Syl was right--you put the punch
in home!"

"There's chicken to-night, Pat. I plunged on the strength of what my
Professor said to-day."

There were times when Joan wondered if Patricia was not insisting upon
home more for her sake than her own.

"What did she say, Joan?"

"That next winter I might--sing!"

"Bully! But you sing now--like several kinds of seraphs. Warble while I
make ready for dinner, Joan."

So Joan sang as she flitted from kitchen to dining room.

"I'll take the high road and you take the low road
And I'll get to Scotland before you----"

she rippled, and Patricia joined in:

"I'll get to Scotland before you!"

Then she said, from the bedroom beyond:

"I know what it is in your singing that gets us, Joan. It's the whole
lot more than words can express."

"Of course! That's high art, Pat! Come on, dearie-thing, you must
carve."

"Now, Scotland"--Patricia issued forth in a lovely gown and Joan dropped
her long apron and appeared a happy reflection of Patricia's
magnificence--"Scotland stands for everything your soul