"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.
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