Her companion wagged agreeingly; he was, at any rate. The hot sun on his back felt exceedingly good; he began to entertain hopes of actually feeling really and thoroughly dry again—some time.
"That's the Millers' house—the brown one, beyond the curve," Patricia told him. And as it was the only house in sight, he had no trouble in locating it.
"I'm sure you'll be happy there," Patricia added. "It's funny there aren't any children, or dogs, about. There's Mrs. Miller."
Mrs. Miller was hanging out a wash. "Patricia Kirby!" She pushed back her sunbonnet, the better to survey the child. "Where is your hat? You're redder'n one of my big pinies!"
Patricia put her hand up to her head. "Maybe I left it in the meadow; I'm not sure I've had it on at all this morning."
"Well!" Mrs. Miller's tone was emphatic. "The children and the dogs've all gone off picnicking," she added. "I suppose you've come to see them?"
"N-no," Patricia answered. "I came to bring you a—present, Mrs. Miller. The nicest—"
She stopped abruptly, as Mrs. Miller rushed by her, with a shriek, waving her apron frantically.
On the grass spread out to bleach, lay one of Mrs. Miller's best tablecloths; and in the middle of the cloth Mrs. Miller's present was rolling and twisting his damp, dusty little self, uttering all the while short, sharp little barks of satisfaction.
But he was on his feet before any one could reach him, and with one corner of the cloth caught in his mouth, had run gayly away.