Half an hour earlier she had appeared back from one of her desultory
rambles, accompanied by this most forlorn of all forlorn dogs,
explaining that she had met him on the road, and he had followed
her home.

It was no unusual occurrence, but when Patricia added that he didn't
seem to belong to anybody, and she thought she would keep him, Miss
Kirby promptly and firmly protested.

To Patricia's pleading, that he was poor and lame and homeless, that
Cæsar, the pointer, was the only dog they had now, and he was too old
to play much, Miss Kirby had proved adamant. Patricia might give her
foundling a good meal, but keep him she _could not_.

Whereupon, Patricia, having given the wanderer what was in reality
several meals condensed into one, had retired with him to think things
over.

"It really seems as if you'd been meant for me," she told him now;
"I found you. I can't see why Aunt Julia won't look at things in a
proper light. I'm afraid she hurt your feelings. Aunt Julia generally
means pretty well, but she's apt to speak out sort of quick. We Kirbys
mostly do. I wonder what your name is?"

The dog stretched comfortably out in the warm grass, quite as happy and
contented as if he had been everything he wasn't, sat up suddenly, with
a short little bark, as if trying to give the desired information.

Rolling over, Patricia, her chin in her hands, surveyed him carefully.
"You aren't very handsome just now; but then, I know lots of people who