Patricia sat on the back steps carefully arranging purple and white
asters in an old blue and white punchbowl, the pride of her Aunt Julia's
heart.

"It's the 'Washington bowl,' Custard," she explained to the small curly
black dog, watching her intently. "Daddy says it's called that because
it is just as easy to prove that Washington never did have punch from it
as that he did." Patricia paused to rearrange one particularly wobbly
aster, too short as to stem and too big as to head. "Anyhow, it's one
of the very nicest things we've got."

Custard sighed restlessly; to spend this breezy October afternoon in
fussing over flowers, when just beyond the gate a whole world waited to
be explored, seemed to him a most un-Patricia-like wasting of time.

Then as Patricia rose slowly to her feet, the bowl of flowers in her
hands, he sprang up at her with a sharp little bark of delight.

"Down!" she warned sharply. "Custard Kirby, if you make me drop this
punchbowl I don't know what Aunt Julia _will_ say!"

It seemed to Patricia as if that journey upstairs to the spare bedroom
never would be made in safety; but it was accomplished at last, and her
burden placed right in the center of the low reading-table, standing at
one side of the south window.

With a long breath of relief, Patricia sat down on the edge of the bed,
looking about the big pleasant room with approving eyes. It was exactly
the sort of room she should like to have when she got be a grandmother.