Quickly she gathered the wee mite in her arms, wrapped the warm little
cloak around her, and walking softly to the door, slipped out, the baby
nestled close in her arms.

Across the lawn she trudged, past the summer-house, and on to the little
clump of trees and shrubs which the children called the grove.

In a little nook between the tall hedge and the shrubbery she sat down,
and took the baby on her lap. Fortunately it had no idea of crying; she
loved Flossie, and she cooed contentedly.

And now the shadows were long, and the light breeze, growing stronger,
swept in little chilly gusts across the treetops, and searching lower,
tossed the small shrubs as if trying to discover Flossie's hiding-place.

She drew the baby's cloak closer around it, and bending lower, kissed
it, and whispered lovingly:

"You're all safe with me, for I won't let that old doctor _quantine_
you. You're Uncle Harry's own baby, and I won't let anybody hurt you."




CHAPTER VII

PATRICIA'S PROMISE