Patricia pointed to the dog.  “Why, I came on purpose to bring you him—­for a present, you know.”

Miss Jane gasped.

“He’s a very nice dog,” Patricia went on.  “I’d love to keep him for myself; only Aunt Julia—­Aunt Julia seemed to think one dog was enough.  I don’t think Aunt Julia is particularly—­enthusiastic, about dogs.  You would like him, wouldn’t you?”

Not dust, heat, nor weariness could hide the persuasive charm of Patricia’s quick upward smile.

Before that smile Miss Jane, who was very soft-hearted, wavered; but Miss Susan shook her head resolutely.  “Augusta would never hear of it for one moment!”

“Is Augusta your cook?” Patricia asked.  Cooks were that way sometimes; even Sarah had her moments of revolt—­so far as Patricia was concerned.

“Augusta is our cat,” Miss Jane explained.  She felt grateful to Susan, and sorry for Patricia.

Patricia sighed; she had recognized the finality in Miss Susan’s tone.  “Do you know of any one who would like a dog,” she asked, “a very nice dog?”

“You might try the Millers’,” Miss Jane suggested.

“I—­I don’t believe Mrs. Miller would care for him,” Patricia answered, hurriedly.  She turned to go.  “Why, where is he?”

“Perhaps he’s waiting outside in the road for you.”  Miss Susan was not ordinarily so inhospitable, but the minister was coming to supper that evening; and, like Martha of old, Miss Susan was burdened with many cares.

Patricia sighed again; the road outside the low white fence seemed suddenly very long and sunny.  She was tired and discouraged; above all, she was hungry.

“Before you go, Patricia,” Miss Jane said, kindly, “come round to the kitchen and have a glass of cool milk and a cookie.”

The kitchen door had been left open in the excited rush of a few moments before.  As the three neared it now, Miss Susan darted forward, with very much the same shriek of horrified dismay as Mrs. Miller had uttered not long since.

Mounted on a chair, his feet firmly planted on the kitchen-table was a small black dog, just finishing the contents of a large glass dish standing at the edge of the table.

“It’s my custard,” Miss Susan wailed, “and the minister coming to supper!”

The “very nice dog” turned round, licking his chops contentedly.  It almost seemed as if he winked at Patricia.

The next instant, skilfully dodging Miss Susan, he had retired to the side yard, to finish licking his chops.  Truly, it was a red-letter day for him.  He wagged affably at the eloquent Miss Susan; surely he had paid her the highest compliment in his power.

“Oh, I am so sorry,” Patricia declared.  “He must have been very hungry—­I couldn’t have given him nearly enough breakfast.”  Then she brightened.  “After all, Miss Susan, I don’t suppose he’s ever had custard before; and I know Dr. Vail has—­lots of times.”