“Jane would love it.  She likes to work with Miranda—­she says Miranda’s such a nice lady.  Do you think she is, Paul?”

“I’m thinking about other things just now.”

“I don’t—­There’s mother.  Goodness, Miranda’s got the cloth on!” And away sped the child.

To Patience’s astonishment, nothing was said at supper, either of Uncle Paul’s letter, or the wonderful things it was to lead to.  Mr. Shaw kept his wife engaged with parish subjects and Pauline appeared lost in thoughts of her own.  Patience fidgeted as openly as she dared.  Of all queer grown-ups—­and it looked as though most grown-ups were more or less queer—­father was certainly the queerest.  Of course, he knew about the letter; and how could he go on talking about stupid, uninteresting matters—­like the Ladies’ Aid and the new hymn books?

Even the first strawberries of the season passed unnoticed, as far as he was concerned, though Mrs. Shaw gave Patience a little smiling nod, in recognition of them.

“Mother,” Pauline exclaimed, the moment her father had gone back to his study, “I’ve been thinking—­Suppose we get Hilary to pretend—­that coming home is coming to a new place?  That she is coming to visit us?  We’ll think up all the interesting things to do, that we can, and the pretty places to show her.”

“That would be a good plan, Pauline.”

“And if she’s company, she’ll have to have the spare room,” Patience added.

“Jolly for you, Patience!” Pauline said.  “Only, mother, Hilary doesn’t like the spare room; she says it’s the dreariest room in the house.”

“If she’s company, she’ll have to pretend to like it, it wouldn’t be good manners not to,” Patience observed.  The prospect opening out ahead of them seemed full of delightful possibilities.  “I hope Miranda catches on to the game, and gives us pound-cake and hot biscuits for supper ever so often, and doesn’t call me to do things, when I’m busy entertaining ‘the company.’”

“Mother,” Pauline broke in—­“do keep quiet.  Impatience—­couldn’t we do the spare room over—­there’s that twenty-five dollars?  We’ve planned it so often.”

“We might make some alterations, dear—­at least.”

“We’ll take stock the first thing to-morrow morning.  I suppose we can’t really start in before Monday.”

“Hardly, seeing that it is Friday night.”

They were still talking this new idea over, though Patience had been sent to bed, when Mr. Shaw came in from a visit to a sick parishioner.  “We’ve got the most beautiful scheme on hand, father,” Pauline told him, wheeling forward his favorite chair.  She hoped he would sit down and talk things over with them, instead of going on to the study; it wouldn’t be half as nice, if he stayed outside of everything.

“New schemes appear to be rampant these days,” Mr. Shaw said, but he settled himself comfortably in the big chair, quite as though he meant to stay with them.  “What is this particular one?”