the back of a chair and studying her charge anxiously;
"Honey, dat Miss Susy's a stranger in dis yere part--why, she's come
clare from Phil'delphy. I'm told the chillerns down in Phil'delphy has
beau-ti-ful manners."

"I dare say," Patricia did not appear greatly interested.

"And Miss Julia, she done plan dis yere party jest for her."

"I know--I didn't ask her to--I--"

"Honey, you wouldn't--you shore wouldn't do anything to--to disbobulate
your aunt's plans?"

"May I have another piece of pie, Sarah, please?"

Sarah cast a pair of imploring eyes ceilingwards. "Of all the
ignoringest young uns! I isn't discoursing 'bout pie, Miss P'tricia."

"But it's mighty good pie, Sarah! Will there be cherry pie among the
refreshments this afternoon?"

"Miss P'tricia! And the cherry juice all a dripping down, like's not,
on you-uns clean white dresses," Sarah protested. However, she brought
Patricia a second piece, which was the important thing at the moment;
the future might very well be allowed to take care of itself.

Later, as she did up her dinner work, Sarah cast more than one anxious
glance out of the window to where Patricia lay on the back lawn, under
the shade of the big cherry tree. Patricia's very quietness was
alarming.

Was it too much cherry pie? Or was she plotting something.

"Honey," Sarah came out on the piazza, "it's getting time for you to get
dressed for the festiv'ties."

Patricia, tickling one of Custard's long ears with a blade of grass,
smiled serenely. "But I am dressed, Sarah."

Sarah sat down heavily on the piazza bench; "I knowed it! I jest
'spicioned you-un was shore up to something!"

Patricia rolled over on her back, stretching her wiry little frame out
lazily.

"You come right 'long into dis yere house, Miss P'tricia!" Sarah rose
commandingly.

"But what for?" Patricia questioned.

"What for? If you wasn't a white child, Miss P'tricia, I'd shore say you
was onery. I's going be 'bliged to disport you to your pa, if you
continues such disbehavior."

Patricia scrambled to her feet, and came slowly over to the edge of the
lawn. Then, lifting her apron, she asked quietly: "Is my frock torn,
Sarah, or isn't it?"

"You knows it is, Miss P'tricia!"

Patricia stretched out one slender leg. "Is my stocking torn, or isn't
it?"

Sarah groaned.

Wheeling suddenly round, and still holding up her apron, Patricia
demanded: "Is my frock dirty, or isn't it?"

"Miss P'tricia, you's s