Dog sat down, holding up a bandaged paw.  His whole dejected little body expressed penitence of the deepest dye.

Patricia softened.  “I’m not so sure whether, after all, you would have liked it at the Millers’.  I’m a good deal disappointed in Mrs. Miller, myself.”

She sat down on the grass beside the road to rearrange the loosened bandage.  “Puppies will be puppies, I suppose.  Daddy says you must always take the intention into consideration—­and I don’t suppose you intended to be bad.  It’s dreadfully easy to be bad, without intending to.  I certainly hope it won’t be washing-day at the next place.  The idea of having Thursday for a wash-day, anyhow!  Dear me, where is the next place?”

The dog crawled into her lap, trying to lick her face.  He was not in the least anxious to decide upon any “next place.”  Sitting there in Patricia’s lap, in the shade of a wide-spreading maple, seemed a very agreeable method of passing the time.

“I think,” Patricia said, stroking the little black head, “we’ll try Miss Jane.  You don’t know Miss Jane.  She’s awfully nice.  She and her sister haven’t any dog but they’ve got a cat; you wouldn’t mind that—­she’s a very intelligent cat; Miss Jane says so.”

To reach Miss Jane’s it was necessary to leave the highroad for a narrow, winding lane.  A quarter of a mile further on they came to the little white house.  Patricia thought it very lonely looking, but perhaps her companion might think otherwise.  “And I do think,” she said, gravely, “that it’s very good of me to bring them such a nice dog—­to keep the tramps off.”

A large gray cat, sunning herself on one of the gate-posts, was the only sign of life about the house.

But not for long.  The next moment an exceedingly astonished, irate cat was taking an unusual amount of exercise in the prim little garden, urged cheerily on by a small, curly dog, whose three legs seemed quite as effective as most dogs’ four.  While down the path from the house came Miss Jane and Miss Susan, also stout, elderly, and unaddicted to overmuch exercise, anxious for their cat, anxious for their garden, most of all anxious to get this strange intruder off the premises.

“Go away, little girl, and take that horrid dog with you,” Miss Jane commanded, shaking a stick she had picked up.

Patricia’s eyes flashed.  “I’m not ‘little girl.’  I’m Patricia Kirby!”

“Pa-tri-cia Kir-by!  Upon my word!”

Patricia’s bare curls were blown and tangled; her face, hot and dusty; her blue gingham frock, fresh that morning, between water and dust was a sight to behold.  She bore very little resemblance to the Patricia Kirby Miss Jane was accustomed to see in church on Sunday, or sometimes driving about with Dr. Kirby.

“Whatever are you doing alone so far from home, Patricia?” Miss Susan asked, coming up.  The cat had retired to the shelter of a tall tree, from a branch of which she glared down on her pursuer, who lay hot and panting on the ground below.