harp,
eagle-like eyes. Her skirts swished softly as she walked, and the
little bunches of gray curls on each side of her face bobbed gently
under her imposing black bonnet.

"Aunt Patricia!" screamed little Elsie, darting forward and clasping
her arms around the astonished old lady's knees. "Oh, Aunt Patricia!
We're lost! _Please_ take us home!"

If a dirty little grizzly bear had suddenly sprung up in the path and
begun hugging her, Miss Patricia could not have been more amazed than
she was at the sight of the ragged child who clung to her. She pushed
back the old silk muffler from the tousled curls, and looked
wonderingly on the child's blood-stained face with the blue bump still
swelling on the forehead.

"Caroline Driggs," she called to the lady who stood waiting for her at
the carriage door, "am I dreaming? I never saw my nephew's children in
such a plight before. I can scarcely believe they are his."

"Oh, we are! We are!" screamed little Elsie. "I'll just _die_ if you
say we are not!"

Phil stood by, too shamefaced to plead for himself, yet fearful that
she might take Elsie and leave him to his fate, because he had refused
to apologise for his rude speech.

Miss Patricia had been spending the day with Mrs. Driggs, who was an
old friend of hers, and who was now about to take her home in her
carriage. Mrs. Driggs seemed to understand the situation at a glance.
"Come on," she said. "We'll put the children in here with us; the
monkey and the rest of the gypsy outfit can go up with the coachman.
Here, Sam, take this little beast on the seat with you, and lift up
the barrow, too."

If those children were half as glad to sink down on the comfortable
cushions as I was to snuggle under the coachman's warm lap-robe, then
I am sure that Mrs. Driggs's elegant carriage never held three more
grateful hearts. As we climbed to our places I heard Mrs. Driggs say,
kindly: "So the little ones were masquerading, were they? It is a cold
day for such sport."

Miss Patricia answered, in a voice that trembled with displeasure:
"Really, Caroline, I am more deeply mortified than I can say, to think
that any one bearing my name--the proud, unsullied name of
Tremont--could go parading the streets, in the garb of a beggar,
asking for alms. I cannot trust myself to speak of it calmly."

All the way home I felt sorry for Phil. I didn't envy him having to
sit there, facing Miss Patricia, with his conscience hurting him as it
must h