Then, in a few moments, far down the quiet village street she caught
sight of a familiar gig, duly attended by old Cæsar, the pointer.

The gig was quite close now. Patricia's heart gave a great jump, then
seemed to stand quite still.

She hadn't come!

There was a lady in the gig with Daddy; but--

Patricia turned sharply, and regardless of her shoes ran swiftly back up
the driveway and through the garden to the meadow beyond; never stopping
until she dropped, a little breathless heap, beside the brook.

Custard barked excitedly, thinking it some new move in this grandmother
game; then suddenly he poked his cold black nose in under the tossed
thatch of Patricia's brown curls. For Patricia was crying--and doing it
quite as earnestly and as thoroughly as she did most things.

At last she sat up, dabbing her eyes.

"She didn't come! And we were all ready--and now it can't be just the
same--when she does come. Custard, do you suppose it's a--a judgment
on me, for taking the punchbowl?"

Custard looked sober.

"I'll go put it right back. Oh, dear, I do hope that other person hasn't
stayed to supper!"