“I’m sure you’ll be happy there,” Patricia added.  “It’s funny there aren’t any children, or dogs, about.  There’s Mrs. Miller.”

Mrs. Miller was hanging out a wash.  “Patricia Kirby!” She pushed back her sunbonnet, the better to survey the child.  “Where is your hat?  You’re redder’n one of my big pinies!”

Patricia put her hand up to her head.  “Maybe I left it in the meadow; I’m not sure I’ve had it on at all this morning.”

“Well!” Mrs. Miller’s tone was emphatic.  “The children and the dogs’ve all gone off picnicking,” she added.  “I suppose you’ve come to see them?”

“N-no,” Patricia answered.  “I came to bring you a—­present, Mrs. Miller.  The nicest—­”

She stopped abruptly, as Mrs. Miller rushed by her, with a shriek, waving her apron frantically.

On the grass spread out to bleach, lay one of Mrs. Miller’s best tablecloths; and in the middle of the cloth Mrs. Miller’s present was rolling and twisting his damp, dusty little self, uttering all the while short, sharp little barks of satisfaction.

But he was on his feet before any one could reach him, and with one corner of the cloth caught in his mouth, had run gayly away.

“Head that dog off, Patricia!” Mrs. Miller screamed.  “What dog is it, anyway—­mischievous, good-for-nothing little scamp?  He doesn’t belong about here!  Ten to one, he followed you in.  I never knew such a child for taking up with stray dogs!”

After several strenuous moments the cloth was rescued.  “Is it hurt very much?” Patricia asked, anxiously.

Mrs. Miller held it up; one of the corners was torn and frayed rather badly, and the whole cloth was covered with grass-stains and dirt.  “You can see for yourself,” she said wrathfully; “and it a new cloth—­never used yet!”

“But it’ll wash, won’t it?” Patricia suggested.  “And the torn part won’t show when it’s on the table; and it won’t show when it’s folded up in the drawer.”  She stooped to lay a restraining hand on the wrongdoer, who already had an eye on various other articles scattered about the grass.  “I wouldn’t have thought he could run so, with a lame paw, would you, Mrs. Miller?”

“The sooner he runs out of my sight, the better for him,” Mrs Miller declared, warmly.  “If he don’t get started mighty quick I’ll help him along a bit with a broom handle.”

Patricia drew herself up.  “I—­I think I’ll be going.”

“But, Patricia,” Mrs. Miller called after her, “what was that about a present?  Something your aunt sent?”

“No, Aunt Julia didn’t send him.  I brought you a—­a dog, Mrs. Miller.”

“That little nuisance!  Well, well, of all—­”

Patricia waited to hear no more; not until she was some distance up the road did she turn to her charge, limping ostentatiously in the rear.

“That was another bad first impression, Dog!  It wasn’t my fault this time.  Really, I’m very much ashamed of you.”