To beg a ride was, under the circumstances, out of the question; but Aunt Prue ventured to wave her satchel and to call out and ask him to drive the dogs away. But he was deaf to her entreaties, for the reason that he was stone deaf anyway; and as to the rest, he merely thought he saw a vigorous, stout, middle-aged woman on her return from market with an unusual lot of dogs, whose dinner she carried in her basket; and he drove on, trying to reckon how much it must cost to feed thirteen dogs, and set Aunt Prue down in his mind as “another fool woman.” At last she saw in the distance the stone wall that surrounded Happy Hall, and then a glimpse of the house through the trees revived her; but as she passed in the gateless entrance, two new and strange dogs greeted her,--Lily and Lumberlegs,--both rather objected to the visitors, and suddenly Lily fastened her wide jaws upon the basket. [Illustration] Then at last poor Aunt Prue screamed loud and long, and Waddles, who had at first discreetly surveyed the proceedings from the porch, threw back his head and bayed. It was a very funny scene, though of course not nice for Aunt Prue; but it often happens that funny things are disagreeable to somebody. At the double noise, doors flew open, Baldy ran from the stable, Anne, her father, mother, and one of the maids from the house, while Waddles danced about and issued dog orders with such good effect that by the combined efforts the intruders were dispersed, Aunt Prue was ensconced in a piazza rocker and was being fanned by her gentle sister-in-law, Anne brought iced ginger ale, Baldy bore Augusta Victoria, basket and all, to a retired room in the barn, where she could be fed and calm her nerves, while the father by degrees unravelled the history of the walk. At first Aunt Prue had cried, but now she sat bolt upright and severe in her chair, talking between sips of ginger ale that would get into her nose and give her a fuzziness of speech. “Yes--a most unparalleled--experience for a lone woman--in a civilized land--Woodlands you--call the place--faugh!--I say it’s nothing more or less than Dogtown, and it’s lucky I bought my return ticket. Poor Augusta Victoria’s nerves are shattered, not to speak of mine, and home we go by evening train.” She didn’t go, but stayed three weeks to a day, and had a very good time; when she felt in her moist gloves for the ticket, it was gone as usual. But her story and name of Dogtown stayed with the region, and it tickled Miss Jule so, that the very next Christmas she gave Anne a large wooden box shaped like a doghouse, full of note-paper with a group of dogs’ heads and the words _Happy Hall, Dogtown_, stamped across the top in blue and gold, which Anne always used when writing invitations to picnics and other excursions of which she was so fond.