"Anything more at present, Miss Patricia?"
"No, Mary."
The maid bowed again, and disappeared toward the kitchen, leaving an awe-struck group behind her.
The Major whistled softly. Uncle John seemed quite unconcerned. Patsy took out her handkerchief. The tears would come in spite of her efforts.
"I—I—I'm going to have a good cry," she sobbed, and rushed into the living-room to throw herself flat upon the divan.
"It's all right," said the Major, answering Uncle John's startled look; "the cry will do her good. I've half a mind to join her myself."
But he didn't. He followed Uncle John into the tatter's room and smoked one of the newly-discovered cigars while the elder man lay back in an easy chair and silently puffed his pipe.
By and bye Patsy joined them, no longer crying but radiant with glee.
"Tell me, Daddy," said she, perching on the arm of the Major's chair, "who gave me all this, do you think?"
"Not me," answered the Major, positively. "I couldn't do it on twelve a week, anyhow at all."