he should be obliged to punish her. Patricia fanned herself with a
decidedly dingy pocket-handkerchief; she wished Daddy had
said--_how_.

"I'm not saying you're not a very nice dog," Patricia patted her
companion, curled up on the folds of her short skirts; "still, if
I hadn't met you this morning--"

The dog blinked sleepily, licking her hand. Perhaps he was thinking of
a poor, forlorn little animal who had until that morning been hunted and
driven, half starved, never caressed.

"I wonder," Patricia said, anxiously, "if Mr. Carr wouldn't like you?
We'll go see, at any rate."

Up the hill they trudged, to where, in his little cabin, lived old Carr,
the cobbler.

He was at his bench as usual, and he paused, needle in air, at sight of
his visitors.

Patricia was growing desperate; she went straight to the heart of her
errand.

She and Carr were great friends, and the latter was immensely
interested. Over his spectacles he surveyed the pair. Patricia's gray
eyes had lost their confidence; they were almost as unconsciously
pathetic as the dog's brown ones.

"Well," Carr said, slowly, "there's no denying a dog's company; and