The woman took her name and address, in a quick, business-like way.
“One dollar a dozen,” she said. “Must be returned within the week. Deductions made for all imperfections.”
She handed Patty a large bundle done up in newspaper, and, with flaming cheeks, Patty walked out of the shop.
“Home, Miller,” she said, and though the man was too well trained to look surprised, he couldn’t keep an expression of astonishment out of his eyes when he saw Patty’s burden.
On the way home she opened the parcel.
There were in it twelve infants’ slips, of rather coarse muslin. They were cut out, but not basted.
Patty looked a little doubtful, then she thought:
“Oh, pshaw! It’s very different from that fine embroidery. I can swish these through the sewing-machine in no time at all.”
Reaching home, she threw the lap-robe over her bundle, and hurried into the house with it.
“Patty,” called Nan, as she whisked upstairs to her own room, “come here, won’t you?”