Patricia went back to the house, forlorn, bedraggled; very different
from the Patricia whom Sarah had sent downstairs not an hour before,
imploring her to "try and keep smarted up for once."

On the back porch she met her father.

"Patricia," he asked, "what does this mean? Why did you run away when
you saw your grandmother coming?"

Patricia gasped. "But, Daddy, she didn't come! I didn't see her! Oh, do
you mean, was that--I expected she'd have on a bonnet tied under her
chin--and a shawl--and glasses." Patricia was half crying again, her
head on her father's shoulder.

It was hard to relinquish the picture of the grandmother she had been
carrying in her mind for the past fortnight; a sort of composite picture
of all the grandmothers she knew in Belham.

And the doctor, understanding, comforted her, sending her to freshen
herself up again for supper, with the promise that it would all come
right--she would see.

On the upper landing Patricia came face to face with grandmother; a
grandmother who was tall and slender and dressed in some delicate gray
material that rustled softly when she walked, and gave forth a faint
scent of violets. There was very little gray in the dark wavy hair,
that framed a face altogether different from the placid wrinkled one
of Patricia's imaginings; but when Mrs. Cory said, "O Patricia!" and
held out her arms, Patricia went to her at once.