But then it wasn’t her grandmother who was coming; besides, Patricia’s gray eyes danced mischievously, she didn’t know about the punchbowl.

Patricia decided to wait down by the gate—­explanations were such tiresome things.

Then, in a few moments, far down the quiet village street she caught sight of a familiar gig, duly attended by old Caesar, the pointer.

The gig was quite close now.  Patricia’s heart gave a great jump, then seemed to stand quite still.

She hadn’t come!

There was a lady in the gig with Daddy; but—­

Patricia turned sharply, and regardless of her shoes ran swiftly back up the driveway and through the garden to the meadow beyond; never stopping until she dropped, a little breathless heap, beside the brook.

Custard barked excitedly, thinking it some new move in this grandmother game; then suddenly he poked his cold black nose in under the tossed thatch of Patricia’s brown curls.  For Patricia was crying—­and doing it quite as earnestly and as thoroughly as she did most things.

At last she sat up, dabbing her eyes.

“She didn’t come!  And we were all ready—­and now it can’t be just the same—­when she does come.  Custard, do you suppose it’s a—­a judgment on me, for taking the punchbowl?”

Custard looked sober.

“I’ll go put it right back.  Oh, dear, I do hope that other person hasn’t stayed to supper!”

Patricia went back to the house, forlorn, bedraggled; very different from the Patricia whom Sarah had sent downstairs not an hour before, imploring her to “try and keep smarted up for once.”

On the back porch she met her father.

“Patricia,” he asked, “what does this mean?  Why did you run away when you saw your grandmother coming?”

Patricia gasped.  “But, Daddy, she didn’t come!  I didn’t see her!  Oh, do you mean, was that—­I expected she’d have on a bonnet tied under her chin—­and a shawl—­and glasses.”  Patricia was half crying again, her head on her father’s shoulder.

It was hard to relinquish the picture of the grandmother she had been carrying in her mind for the past fortnight; a sort of composite picture of all the grandmothers she knew in Belham.

And the doctor, understanding, comforted her, sending her to freshen herself up again for supper, with the promise that it would all come right—­she would see.

On the upper landing Patricia came face to face with grandmother; a grandmother who was tall and slender and dressed in some delicate gray material that rustled softly when she walked, and gave forth a faint scent of violets.  There was very little gray in the dark wavy hair, that framed a face altogether different from the placid wrinkled one of Patricia’s imaginings; but when Mrs. Cory said, “O Patricia!” and held out her arms, Patricia went to her at once.

They sat down on the broad window seat to get acquainted; Patricia hoped grandmother would not see she had been crying and how tumbled her clean dress was.  Though Mrs. Cory saw, she said nothing, she had the gift of knowing what questions not to ask; only asking instead, “Patricia dear, who put that delightful bowl of flowers in my room?”