"Won't you go with me?" groaned Patience.
"One little gal is enough," spoke up Susan Elder. "He won't like it if two goes."
That settled it. Poor little Patience Mather crept meekly out of the house and down the hill to Squire Bean's, without even Martha's foreboding sympathy for consolation.
She looked ahead wistfully all the way. If she could only see her mother coming—but she did not, and there was Squire Bean's house, square and white and massive, with great sprawling clumps of white peonies in the front yard.
She went around to the back door, and raised a feeble clatter with the knocker. Mrs. Squire Bean, who was tall and thin and mild-looking, answered her knock. "The—Squire—sent—for—me"—choked Patience.
"Oh!" said the old lady, "you air the little Mather-gal, I guess."
Patience shook so she could hardly reply.
"You'd better go right into his room," said Mrs. Squire Bean, and Patience followed her. She gave her a little pat when she opened a door on the right. "Don't you be afeard," said she; "he won't say nothin' to you. I'll give you a piece of sweet-cake when you come out."
Thus admonished, Patience entered. "Here's the little Mather-gal," Mrs. Bean remarked; then the door closed again on her mild old face.