“Miss Julia, she done left word for you-un to do everything like you know she’d want you to, Miss P’tricia.”

Patricia selected a pair of earrings from the finest of Sarah’s bowl of cherries.  “Don’t you worry, Sarah.”

“You ain’t ’xplained yet how you come to be in such a disrepec’ble condition, Miss P’tricia.  If the rag man was to see you, he’d just up and toss you into his cart—­he shore would.”

“Have I got a clean gingham apron, Sarah?” Patricia was a past-mistress in the art of ignoring what she considered inconvenient, or personal, remarks.

“Looks to me like you’s got more clean gingham aprons than you’s got manners,” Sarah said severely.

Patricia went indoors to the telephone, shutting the door behind her as she went.  Sarah was too fat and too heavy on her feet to get out of a chair, once comfortably settled in it, unless the call were really urgent.

Patricia first called up Mrs. Hardy.  Quite unconsciously—­being on her dignity and feeling, besides, very important—­she spoke more slowly than was usual, and with more than a trace of her aunt’s formality.

Back over the line came a prompt:  “Why, good morning, Miss Kirby!”

Patricia’s eyes sparkled and the demon of mischief, always lurking in her neighborhood, immediately put idea number two into her head.  Her imitation of her aunt’s voice and manner this time was perfect.  “Good morning, Mrs. Hardy, I just called you up to let you know that the little party we are giving this afternoon is to be a gingham apron party.”

“A w-what?” Mrs. Hardy questioned.

“Miss Kirby” gave herself vigorous mental treatment for a moment or so—­one giggle and the game was up.  As if Aunt Julia ever giggled!

“A gingham apron party,” she repeated; “it is Patricia’s suggestion, so that the children may have a nice jolly time.”

“That sounds exactly like Patricia,” Mrs. Hardy commented, laughing.  “I’ll tell Nell; I’m sure she will approve.”

“Miss Kirby” said thank you, then she hung up the receiver; after which, seizing Custard, she hugged him ecstatically.  “I really am ‘Miss Kirby,’ you know,” she explained.  “Daddy’s only got me—­and I didn’t say a word that wasn’t perfectly true.  And Mr. Baker, out at Long Farm, always calls me that.  Now, I’ll have to finish ’phoning.”

Mrs. Lane and Mrs. Blake were next informed as to the kind of party under way for that afternoon; then came Mrs. Vail, with her Patricia made a break.  “And if Susy hasn’t any gingham—­” she began.

“If Susy hasn’t what?” Mrs. Vail interrupted.  “Why, of course—­”

“I only thought—­I mean,” Patricia felt herself floundering—­and Aunt Julia never floundered.  “Then we may look for Susy,” she said hastily.

“Why, certainly,” Mrs. Vail answered.

“That is well.  Good-by.”

“Miss Kirby” hung up the receiver hastily.

“I think she almost suspected—­something, Custard; I reckon she’s the suspiciony kind—­Susy Vail looks the kind of girl to have a suspiciony mother.  But the rest didn’t.”  Patricia danced the interested Custard down the hall.