Chapter III: Part 3

"She must not talk so," said Barbara. "The doctor said she must not speak a word. Never mind, Aggy," she added, answering to the thought she believed to be in her sister's mind. "Don't talk about it now, I daresay we can find the kitten in the morning, and then it shall be sent home directly."

"And tell Ella I am sorry," said Agnes, more calmly.

"Yes, we will tell her so. Now do try to go to sleep like a good girl."

For a little time Agnes seemed more composed, but soon her delirium returned, and she kept begging Theresa and Barbara to go and find the kitten before it froze to death in the snow. She got no rest till nearly daylight, when she fell into a troubled slumber, and George coming in, sent the girls up stairs to take some rest.

"What made you speak so to Agnes?" asked Theresa, as they parted at the top of the stairs. "Do you think she knows anything about Tabby's disappearance?"

"I am quite sure of it," said Barbara. "Her stories about it did not agree at all, and her manner was very confused, which led me to suspect something wrong. And when I came to undress her, I found her clothes all wet round the bottom, as though she had been out in the snow. Poor child! I am afraid she will pay dearly for her malice. The doctor admitted to me that he thought her in great danger."

Barbara kissed Theresa, and turned into her own room, while Theresa went on to the apartment which she occupied together with her cousins. Her entrance aroused Dora.

"Why, Tessy, are you up already?" said she, sitting up and rubbing her eyes. "It must be ever so early."

"Half-past five," said Tessy, setting down her candle. "I am up because I have not been in bed; I have been sitting up with Aggy."

"Sitting up!" said Dora, rousing herself. "She is not very sick, is she? I thought it was only a cold."

"She is very sick, indeed, and the doctor says she has inflammation of the lungs," replied Theresa. "I am afraid—" She could not finish the sentence.

Dora sprang up, and began to dress herself.

"What are you going to do?" asked Tessy.

"I am going to Agnes," was the reply. "You ought to have called me before."

"If you go down, Dora, you must be very still," said Theresa, stopping her cousin, whose trembling hands showed her excitement, as she vainly endeavoured to fasten her frock. "You must be composed, and not speak one word to Agnes, nor let her talk to you. It is as much as her life is worth."

Dora promised, and went hastily down stairs.

Agnes was still in a troubled sleep, and George allowed her to come in and look at her sister, whose countenance was already very much changed. Dora thought she should hardly have known her.

"Can I do anything for her, George?" she asked in a choked whisper.

"I don't know that you can," replied George. "Nurse is here, and I shall stay till the doctor comes. But you can run and get what is wanted," he added kindly, seeing how distressed Dora looked. "I am afraid it won't do for you to stay in the room much, for Aggy begins to talk as soon as any one comes near her."

The event proved that George was right, for the moment Agnes waked and saw Dora, she began to talk again; sometimes about the kitten, sometimes going over the events of the party, and accusing her of unkindness about the cake. It was too much for Dora's fortitude; she left the room hastily, and burst into tears when she got into the passage. George followed her out, and shut the door.

"You must be very quiet, my dear Dora, if you want to be of use to Aggy or any one," he said kindly but firmly. "You can be of much service if you can control yourself, for there is a great deal to be done. Mother is down with nervous headache, and Tessy and Barbara were up all night."

"Do you think Aggy will die, George?" asked Dora, making a great effort to restrain her sobs.

"I don't know," replied George, turning away his face. "She is very ill, and nobody can tell how it may turn out, but we will hope and pray for the best. Will you go up to mother's door very quietly, and see if she is awake and wants anything?"

Dora glided up stairs, and listened at her mother's door, but all was still; so she went down again, and took her seat on the stairs to be ready if she should be wanted in the sickroom. It was yet early morning—the gaslights were burning in the hall, and the servants were just beginning to set about their duties. It seemed an age afterwards to Dora that she sat meditating upon the top of the stairs. Her head was bent down, and rested on her hands, and she sat so still that one might have thought her asleep, but it was not so. She was going over and over her past life and conversations with the sister who was now to all appearance fast passing away—where?

Dora did not like to think of that. How mean and little did all their quarrels appear to her now—how every malicious ill-tempered word and action appeared in their true colours! The very last words to her sister had been words of unkindness, and they had parted in anger. Now, Agnes did not even know her, and perhaps would never speak to her again—would go away into that other unknown world, where Dora felt they might never meet, and she would never have the opportunity of making it up—never, never see her any more. She did not cry now. She was too miserable for tears. She did not know where to look for comfort and support, and help to do better, for Dora was not a religious child. It is true she had been taught to say her prayers as soon as she could speak, and she had always been to church and to Sunday-school, but she had never thought of religion as anything that concerned herself personally. She had thought there would be time enough for that when she was grown up.

So had Barbara always thought, and now that she was grown up, she found less time than ever. George and Tessy were the only persons in the family who really made Christian principles the rule of their lives, and that sympathy was a bond of union between them, stronger even than Tessy's helplessness, and George's thoughtful kindness of disposition.

All that dreary day, Dora wandered about the house restless and miserable, finding her only comfort in running up and down stairs, and waiting upon her mother, who was almost prostrated by one of the severe attacks of nervous headache, to which she was subject.

Renewed search was made for the kitten, as Agnes still continued very anxious about it, but no trace of her was to be found.

Agnes continued to grow worse. And at night-fall, the doctor had almost given up the hope of saving her life.

Just before dark, Ella Merriam came in to inquire for her. Dora burst into tears as Ella came in, and in answer to her questions, could only shake her head and sob. Ella cried in sympathy.

"She will never get well, Ella—the doctor says so. Oh! What shall I do when she is dead?"

"I don't know what I should do if Marian were to die," said Ella.

"You would not feel so bad as I do," replied Dora, "because you and Ella never quarrel. I don't believe you ever struck one another in your lives."

"No, indeed!" said Ella, shocked at the very idea. "We have not quarrelled for ever so long—not since we were little children. Nobody could quarrel with Marian, she is so sweet tempered. But is Aggy very ill?"

"The doctor says he has very little hope of saving her," replied Dora sadly, "but it seems to me as though she must be better, because she is not crazy as she was this morning. She seems to know everything now." The little girls were talking in the hall, when the door of Agnes's room was opened for a moment, and she caught the sound of their voices.

"Is not that Ella Merriam's voice?" she asked of Barbara, who was with her. "Do let her come in a moment; I want to see her so much. Oh, do please!"

She pleaded so earnestly that Barbara was afraid to oppose her, and called Ella in, giving her a caution to be very quiet. The two girls came in together, and stood by the bedside. Ella was terrified by the change in her playmate's appearance. She had never seen any one so sick before, and as Agnes struggled for breath, she almost expected to see her expire before her eyes. She stooped and kissed her, but did not speak. Agnes held her hands fast.

"I want to tell you about the kitten," she began, but Barbara interposed.

"You must not talk, Agnes. I will tell Ella."

"But you don't know, Barbara."

"I know you did something to the kitten to put her away."

"Threw her away in the snow in the meadow," Agnes explained. "It was very wicked—I am so sorry. Won't you—"

Her voice failed, but she still held Ella's hand tightly, and looked earnestly in her face.

Ella did not think at first what she meant to say, till Theresa whispered to her, "She wants you to forgive her, Ella."

"Yes, yes," was all Agnes could say, fixing her eyes upon those of her companion, as though she would read her very soul. At such a time no one could be angry, and it was hard for Ella at any time. She stooped and kissed Agnes, saying earnestly, "I do forgive you, Aggy; and so I am sure will Marian, and I hope God will forgive you too. Yes, if you are sorry, He will. Mother says so, and it is in the Bible, I know. Don't you remember what the minister reads in church:

"'If we confess our sins, He is faithful and just to forgive us our
sins, and to cleanse us from all unrighteousness.'"

Barbara was afraid to have the little girls remain longer, and took them out of the room while Theresa stayed with Agnes. They were afraid the excitement might have injured her, but on the contrary, she seemed more quiet and composed than she had done before since the commencement of her illness. She had almost a comfortable night, and when the doctor called in the morning, he announced that there was a slight, but decided improvement in all her symptoms.

When Ella turned to go home, she could not help going round by the meadow to see if she could find any trace of poor Tabby. But it had snowed all the morning, and the common was all one sheet of unbroken white. Ella thought of the poor kitty lying stiff and cold under the drifted snow, and her tears started afresh, as she turned slowly away, convinced that search was hopeless. She did not feel quite so much like forgiving Agnes then as she had done when standing by her bedside, and holding her feverish hand, but she knew that the feeling was wrong, and struggled against it.

"After all, if poor dear Tabby is dead, that is the last of her," she said to herself. "She will never suffer any more, and she has had a very happy life of it so far—but for Agnes and Dora! Oh! How glad I am that Marian and I have never quarrelled, though I am sure it is no thanks to me that we have not."

Then she remembered an instance that very morning, when they were putting their room in order, in which she had insisted on having her own way, and Marian had quietly given up to her, and how only the day before she had been angry at sister Sophia, for showing her that she had not wiped the tea-cups dry. She felt very much ashamed as she recalled these and similar instances of unkind temper and feelings, and it no longer seemed so hard for her to forgive Aggy.

When Ella and Marian said their prayers that night, they did not omit to remember Agnes and Dora, nor did they forget to ask that they might always live as little children should, in peace and unity.

CHAPTER FIFTH.

THE HARD ROAD.

WE must now return to Tabby, of whom we have almost lost sight. She was at first so stunned and amazed by her sudden change of circumstances, as hardly to understand what had happened to her. But by degrees she collected her senses, and shaking the snow from her eyes, she raised herself on her hind legs and looked about her. She was almost in the midst of a wild lonesome common, which was covered with snow, now about a foot deep, but not frozen sufficiently hard to allow of travelling on the crust.

At one side of this piece of ground lay a street or alley, and on the other some barns and several small houses. It was towards these, after some consideration, that Tabby directed her course. She thought it probable that she might find some sort of a home in one of the houses, and if not, she believed she should be able to make her living in a barn, as she had lately acquired some experience in mousing.

The snow was deep and powdery, and the bleak wind sweeping over it whirled it into the face and eyes of the poor kitten. Her little paws ached with the cold, and her ears felt as though they were being burned off, but still she toiled painfully along, directing her course towards the best-looking of the houses. She had just got into something like a path, made by some one who had crossed a little before, and was congratulating herself on finding easier travelling, when she heard a voice exclaim:

"Look, Fred! What is that over in the snow?" And looking up she saw two lads watching her from the window of a barn not very far off.

"It is a cat," replied the other. "See how neatly I'll fetch her over." And taking aim at poor Tabby, he threw with all his force a hard apple which he held in his hand. His aim was only too true. The missile struck her on the side, and laid her breathless on the ground.

"There now, you have killed the poor thing, I hope you feel better," said the other boy. "I do wonder what pleasure any fellow finds in tormenting everything that comes within his reach."

"Oh, nonsense!" returned the other, looking rather ashamed. "It is not so easy to kill a cat, I can tell you. I daresay she is only pretending, and if she is dead, there are more cats in the world. Come, I am going into the house. It is cold enough to freeze a dog out here."

"And I am going home," said the boy who had spoken for Tabby; "I have got my lessons to prepare yet."

"I haven't any lessons to prepare, thank you," said Fred.

"Maybe it would be better for you if you had," returned his companion. "But I must get mine done; so, good-night."

Tabby was not killed, but it was some minutes before she recovered her senses, and still longer before she was able to walk or even stand. The hard apple had hurt her cruelly, and it was with difficulty that she pursued her way, drawing her breath with increased difficulty at every step she made. More than once she felt as though she must give up the attempt, and lie down and die where she was, but as we have said before, she had a remarkable amount of perseverance, and besides, she had not quite given up the hope of finding her way home again, though her chances of doing so were growing smaller and smaller every day.

She was often obliged to stop and rest, and the short day was drawing to a close by the time that she found herself close behind one of the houses she had been approaching. She made several attempts before she was able to jump over the low wall at the back of the yard, but succeeding at last, she went slowly up the walk, and ascended the steps. There was a smell of cooking perceptible, and a clatter of plates and knives told Tabby that some one was engaged in setting a table.

"The servants are getting their dinner 'at home,'" she thought, "and dear mother and Tody are having theirs. O dear! If I had only stayed with them. I would not mind anything if I could only see them, and tell them how much I love them, but, O dear! I am afraid I never shall."

With these thoughts passing through her mind, it is no wonder that her modest mew for admittance took a very piteous tone. A little girl opened the door.

"It is a little cat," said she, speaking to some one within. "Shall I let her in?"

"Oh! No, child," replied the woman's voice. "We don't want any cats around the house. Shut the door, it is as cold as Greenland."

"It looks very cold and hungry," said the little girl compassionately, "and it is a real pretty kitten. Just come and look at it, mother!"

The woman came to the door accordingly, and as soon as Tabby saw her, she stood on her hind legs and put her paws over her nose, as Ella had taught her to do when she wanted anything.

"Only see how she begs," said the little girl. "Do let her come in, mother, just for a little while."

Seeing the effect produced, Tabby lay down and rolled over, and then sneezed, which exhausted the list of her accomplishments. "O dear!" she said to herself, as she performed these feats: "How I do wish I had learned more of the other things Miss Ella used to try so hard to teach me. But it is too late now."

At this moment the cry of a baby was heard from the inner room, and the woman turned away without making any reply to the little girl, who, profiting by the implied permission, allowed Tabby to slip in, and then shutting the door, went on in haste with her occupation of setting the table. Tabby found herself in a kitchen, small but neat and comfortable. There was a cooking stove with a good coal fire, enough of plain furniture, and a general air of respectability. The next room was handsomely furnished for a parlour, and through the open door of a pantry Tabby could perceive a handsome set of china with nice glass dishes and other matters, such as she had been accustomed to see in daily use at home. But the dishes which her little friend was putting on the table were very different, being coarse, mismatched, and scanty, with bits broken out here and there, and an abundance of cracks.

The little girl, whose name she discovered was Polly, was clothed in a forlorn old merino dress which had once been handsome, with a good many patches and darns, and need of more, and her hair was tucked up behind with a broken horn comb. Her face was not very pretty, nor even very amiable in its expression, and yet there was something about it that Tabby liked.

She made all these observations as she was warming herself under the stove. Presently the woman made her appearance from the other room with a baby of ten months old, which she set down upon the floor, and then proceeded in her preparations for supper. She placed upon the table a moderate supply of bread and butter, the latter of very doubtful quality, some brown sugar in a bowl, and a small pitcher full of bluish milk. Then she put a very little black tea into a small tin teapot, which looked as if it might have seen service since the time of the last war, and having filled it up to the top with water, she set it on the stove. Hungry as she was, Tabby did not think the meal very inviting in its appearance, and Polly seemed to be of the same opinion.

"Father will want some cold meat," she said as her mother turned round. "He had nothing but bread and milk for his dinner."

"He cannot have what is not in the house," was the short reply.

"There is the dried beef, at any rate," persisted Polly, "and the smoked halibut that father brought home on Monday night. We haven't had a bit of that."

"I want that for tea to-morrow night," replied Mrs. Webster. "I am going to have company to tea, and I want something decent."

"And then I suppose we shall have down the china cups and all the rest, and make a grand display," muttered Polly to herself, as her mother went into the other room for something. "For my part, I should like to have something comfortable for ourselves once in a while. I don't see the use of keeping everything for company. Here comes father, mother," she added in a louder tone as the door opened. "Shall I put the tea on the table?"

Mr. Webster, a tall, thin, rather amiable-looking man, apparently several years younger than his wife, made his appearance as Polly spoke, with his dinner-pail in one hand, and several bundles in the other.

"Here, Polly, there's something for you," said he good-naturedly, as he chucked a good-sized bundle at her, which she caught with dexterity. "So don't say I didn't give you a Christmas present at last."

"What is it?" asked Mrs. Webster coming out of the bedroom, and looking on as Polly proceeded to unfold the parcel, and display to view a very pretty piece of dark calico. "Now, Mr. Webster, what in the world did you go and get that child a calico dress for? She doesn't want it the least in the world, and she does want a nice dress to wear to church and dancing-school. I meant to get her a silk dress this time, and her old frocks do well enough to wear about home. And what is the use of all those new school-books?" as another paper displayed several neat-looking volumes, at sight of which Polly's eyes sparkled. "She has more books now than she ever studies. I do wish you would let me spend the money. I can make it go twice as far as you do."

"Why, yes," replied Mr. Webster, unwinding his comforter and taking off his great-coat, "you make it go rather too far, quite out of sight, in fact. Now I like to see the girl look pretty about home, even if she is not quite so smart abroad, hey, Polly?"

"Yes, indeed," said Polly heartily. "Sarah Ann Bond never had a silk frock in her life, but she has real nice calico ones for every day, and always looks fit to be seen, and so does Mrs. Bond. She has not to run and change her dress if she sees any one coming. And I am sure I needed the new school-books. I have used Sarah Ann's till I am ashamed, and Miss Parker says we must all have books of our own after this."

"Well, well, that will do," said Mrs. Webster, not in the best humour. "I wish you would not be always quoting the Bonds, as if they were the eighth wonder of the world. I think you might find some other models than a policeman's wife and daughter."

"I don't care whose daughter she is," returned Polly. "She is the nicest girl I know, and the best scholar in our school. What else have you got, father?"

"There is some beefsteak—I should like a bit of that cooked for my supper, and there are the coffee and the sugar, and baby's dress. I believe that is all, wife. They will send the flour in the morning."

"You did not get the goblets then?" said his wife, a deep shade of disappointment coming over her face.

"Why, no, I could not buy them and Polly's things too, and still have the money to meet my payments. I think our glasses are good enough—too good for use, it appears," he added, looking at the cracked ones on the table.

"Mrs. Cox had beautiful goblets the last time I was there to tea," replied Mrs. Webster. "I should not have asked her here to-morrow, if I had not supposed I should have things as good as she had at home."

"Come, come, don't fret, wife: your friends, since you call them so, will take us as they find us, or leave us alone. When I get as good a salary as Cox, it will be time enough for you to spend as much as his wife. In the meantime, I want you to cook my steak, or let Polly do it. Oh! Come, take a good big piece," as his wife cut off what was a scanty allowance for one. "Enough for all round. I daresay Polly will be glad of a bit."

"Beefsteak is a very genteel dish for tea, isn't it?"

"Who cares for gentility? Not you, I think, considering the table furniture you use every day. Give the cat a bit too—here, puss, where did you come from?"

"Now, Mr. Webster, I won't have that," interposed Mrs. Webster. "I'll feed her after supper, if there is any left. Take up the baby if you can't find anything else to do. Polly, get the gridiron."

Mr. Webster was a printer, and earned good wages in the office of a daily paper. He had, when very young, married a young woman several years older than himself, with one child—the little girl to whom we have just been introduced. He was an industrious, easy, good-tempered man, very steady, and fond of his wife and children, especially of Polly, who, on her part, worshipped her step-father, and fully believed him to be the very best man in the world.

Mrs. Webster was an active, stirring woman, strong, neat, and economical, and they might have been one of the happiest families in the world, but for one circumstance. That circumstance was Mrs. Webster's intense desire to be fashionable—to make as much display on her husband's moderate salary as her friend and model, Mrs. Cox, did upon twice the sum. To this end, she pinched herself and her family in everything that did not make an outside show.

Mr. Webster loved his comfort, and would have enough to eat, such as it was, but Mrs. Webster "took it out," upon herself and Polly, who was kept at the lowest point, both of provisions and clothes when at home that she might go to church, Sunday-school, and dancing-school, in a silk frock, fine shoes, and worked skirts and drawers, and, as her mother expressed it, "look as if she was somebody." Now Polly cared nothing at all for worked skirts or silk frocks, and very little for dancing-school, but she did love books, both story-books and school-books, and she liked to be neat every day. She could not help feeling very much ashamed when her dear friend, Sarah Ann Bond, came in to see her of a morning before school, to be caught in a dirty old merino frock, worn and faded, and patched to the last degree, and shoes down at heels.

Sarah Ann had no silk dress. Her very best frock was a plaid merino, which cost two shillings and sixpence a yard: but she always wore nice calico frocks and white aprons every day, and subscribed for the 'Children's Magazine' and the 'Penny Gazette,' and she had a convenient satchel in which to carry her books to and from school. She had a nice collection of story-books, which Polly would have given all her nice frocks to possess, and she had a canary bird and a cat, and a play-house which her father had made for her out of an old cupboard.

When Polly asked for any of these things, her mother always said, either that it was too much trouble, or that she could not afford it. But she could afford to buy an expensive set of china, and a dozen of cut-glass tumblers, and a set of fine knives and forks, all of which were quite too good for family use, and never made their appearance except when she had company. And now she was out of conceit with her tumblers, because Mrs. Cox had goblets, and dissatisfied with her ivory-handled forks, because Mrs. Cox had silver ones; and she had been straining every nerve to accomplish the purchase of those very essential articles, when Mr. Webster disappointed all her calculations by subscribing for a daily paper, and buying two new frocks and a set of new and expensive school-books for Polly.

The first of these items she did not mind so much—it sounded genteel to take a daily paper, and Mrs. Cox had two, but the latter seemed perfectly useless to her mind, and she thought herself entitled to indulge in at least a week of sulkiness in consequence. Accordingly, she never spoke one word during supper except to reprove Polly, first for taking so much butter, and then for sharing her bit of steak with poor Tabby, who gratefully accepted her piece, small and gristly though it was, and purred over it as she had never done over her nice breakfasts and dinners at home.

"What a disagreeable woman," she thought to herself. "I don't see how such a nice man came to marry her." And then she remembered how often she had been sullen at home, when things did not go to please her, and how, the very day she came away, she had refused to play with dear little Miss Ella, who had always been so kind to her. And now she was far away from them all, and they would never know how much she loved them, though she had been so naughty. All her cheerfulness vanished as these thoughts passed through her mind; moreover, she was very tired and sleepy, and her side still gave her a good deal of pain; so she went and sat down under the stove, and was soon asleep.

But she was not destined to sleep long. The baby, who had been set down on the floor to amuse himself as he best could during supper-time, spied her place of refuge, and crawling to a convenient distance, he stretched out his little hand, and, grasping Tabby by the tail, attempted to pull her towards him. Suddenly aroused by this rough treatment, and by the pain it gave to her sore side, Tabby forgot both prudence and good temper, and thought only of defending herself; and extending her too-ready claws, she gave the little fellow a severe scratch on the hand. Baby screamed of course, and his mother hastened to take him up, and examine the extent of the mischief.

"There, Miss Polly, see what your fine new pet has done—scratched poor baby's hand almost off: that is always the way with cats—nasty, treacherous creatures, you can never tell when they are going to scratch. Scat, you hateful, cross thing." And opening the door, she took the broom and drove poor Tabby out into the snow, which was now falling fast, giving her a slap with the broom as a parting present.

Polly remonstrated, but her objections were met by a box on the ear, and a command to go to bed if she could not behave herself. Polly knew by experience there was no use in opposing her mother while in such a mood as this. So she washed up the dishes in silence, and then, taking a new book which Sarah Ann had lent her, she sat down to read, but was informed that there was enough to be done without wasting time over nonsensical story-books, and commanded to take her sewing till eight o'clock, when she was sent to bed in the dark.

Poor Tabby, meanwhile, after spending some time in vainly mewing at the door for admittance, began to look about her for some place of shelter for the night from the blinding snow and the keen north wind, which seemed to pierce her through and through. At last, after much searching, she found a hole in the wall under a barn, and was just crawling into it, when she was made aware that the place had another occupant, by hearing a growl, and the words, "Who's there?" from the farthest corner.

"It is only a kitten," answered Tabby, trembling both from cold and fear. "Please, do let me come in! I am so very cold."

"Come in, and welcome," said the cat who had spoken, rising and stretching himself. "There is room enough, and we can help to keep each other warm."

Tabby gladly availed herself of the permission, and snugged down by the side of her new acquaintance, who proved to be a very large and powerful Maltese cat, fat, and in good condition, but bearing the marks of more than one battle, in his scarred nose and ragged ears.

"Why, what a little thing you are!" said the big cat compassionately. "You are only a kitten, in good earnest, and you don't look like a wild one either. I should think your folks might have let you sleep in the house in such a bitter night as this."

"I only came to this house to-night," said Tabby. "At my own house, they would never have turned me out, but that is a very different place from this. I am afraid there are not many such people in the world."

"How did you come to leave your house if it was such a good one?" naturally inquired the grey cat.

"Because I was a discontented little fool, and did not know when I was well off," replied Tabby.

And in answer to some further questions, she proceeded to relate her whole history to her new friend, greatly cheered by his sympathy, and by his beginning to lick her all over as her own mother used to do.

"And what are you going to do now?" asked the grey cat, as he concluded.

"I am sure I don't know," replied Tabby, mournfully. "I have all the while been hoping to get home again, but I am afraid there is not much chance of it now. I suppose I must look-out for some place where I can have a home and be well-treated. I have learned to catch mice since I came from home, and I would do my best to be useful."

"I suppose it would be the best way for you," said the grey cat thoughtfully. "You are hardly old enough or strong enough to get your living in a barn. I prefer that way of life to any other, now that I am used to it; though I confess, on such a night as this, I cannot help longing for my old cushion by the fire."

"So you have not always lived in a barn!" remarked Tabby, in an inquiring tone.

"Oh! No, I was brought up in the house, and very much petted, till I was two years old and more. I used to have a cushion by the parlour fire, and another in the kitchen, and stayed where I pleased, and I always had a plate set down on the floor-cloth for me after dinner, besides what the cook gave me. Everybody was kind to me, and nobody could be happier than I was for those two years. Then the house was sold, and the family moved away, and there was the end of my comfort for a while."

"But I should have thought they would have taken you with them!" said Tabby. "Why didn't they?"

"Just on account of the silliest nonsense in the world," replied the grey cat. "My mistress was what is called a superstitious woman—that is, she believed in all sorts of stuff about signs, and things being lucky and unlucky—and some one as foolish as herself persuaded her that it was unlucky to move a cat. So she went away, and left me to take care of myself or to starve, whichever I liked best. I stayed about a good while, but the people that bought the place did not like cats, and drove me out whenever I attempted to make my way into the house. So at last, in despair, I took to the barns, and now that I am used to it and have learned to provide for myself, I like it very well."

"I do not think I should ever like to live in a barn," said Tabby.

"No, I daresay not. It 'is' pretty hard, especially as one has to fight one's way among the other cats, and some of them are very ugly. I think the best way for you will be to find a place in some nice family, where they want a cat to pet. How do you like the look of things here?"

"Not at all!" returned Tabby, and she described the views she had witnessed since her arrival.

"That is just the idea I had of her," said the Maltese cat, whose name, he told Tabby, was Bold. "She has such a sharp voice. Mr. Webster seems a nice man enough. I wonder why he doesn't make his wife behave herself."

"Perhaps he can't!" suggested Tabby.

"Very likely," returned the grey cat, yawning. "It is not so easy always to make people behave themselves, especially when they have not much sense to begin with. But come, Tabby, since that is your name, curl down here by me, and let us see if we can keep each other warm for the night."

Tabby was only too glad to obey, and soon forgot all her troubles and perplexities in sleep.

CHAPTER SIXTH.

THE RIVER.

THE next morning Tabby was awakened early by the cold, and at first could hardly remember where she was, but the stinging of her ears and paws soon brought her to her senses. Her companion had left her side, and on going to the entrance of the hole where she had passed the night, she saw by the footprints in the new-fallen snow that he had gone to a large barn at some distance, where he was probably engaged in catching his breakfast. At first she thought she would follow him, but she reflected that she might easily miss him, and fall in with some of those evil-disposed cats of which he had spoken the night before. At another time, perhaps, this idea would not have deterred her, but she felt weak and dispirited from the fatigues of the day before, and thought she would make one more effort to ingratiate herself with the mistress of the house, at least so far as to get some breakfast, after which she thought she might feel more like resuming her travels.

She reached the house-door accordingly, and congratulating herself on finding it ajar, she slipped in quietly, and took her seat on the floor under the stove, taking care to retreat into the farthest corner, out of reach of the baby. Having established herself safely, as she hoped, she looked eagerly round for some signs of breakfast, but none were to be seen except the dirty dishes, which Polly, with the signs of recent tears on her face, was washing up at the sink. Mrs. Webster herself was in the pantry, engaged in some cooking operations, to judge from the sound of stirring and beating of eggs which issued from the open door.

"Come, Polly, have you almost finished those dishes?" said she, coming into the kitchen with a dish in her hand. "You have been long enough about them to wash every dish in the house. I want you to go up to Martin's, and get some cinnamon and some essence of lemon."

"Father said he didn't want me to go to Martin's," said Polly.

"Never mind that," returned her mother. "You are my girl and not his, and you have got to do as I say: so make haste!"

This was one of Mrs. Webster's favourite modes of "aggravation," as Polly called it. Whenever she was particularly bent upon venting her ill-humour upon the child, she reminded her that she was not the father's own daughter. The fact was, though perhaps she hardly confessed it to herself, that she was exceedingly jealous of Polly's affection for her step-father, and thought it exceedingly unnatural in the child to like him better than herself. This was one of her "peculiar trials," as she was wont to say in her confidential conversations with her dear friend, Mrs. Cox. According to her own account, Mrs. Webster had a great many peculiar trials, and no one could say that she was not extremely liberal in sharing them with her friends.

"Come, make haste," repeated Mrs. Webster impatiently. "You get lazier and lazier every day. I have a great mind to keep you at home from school the rest of the winter, and try to teach you to work. You will never be good for anything at the rate you go on."

Polly wiped the suds from her hands, and put on her bonnet without replying to this threat, which she knew to be a vain one, as her father would never consent to her being kept out of school.

"You are not going in that old frock!" exclaimed her mother. "What if Mrs. Cox should see you? Put on your green dress."

"I thought you were in such a hurry," began Polly.

But her mother cut short her answer by a smart slap on the shoulder, and an injunction not to be impudent. The fact was, Mrs. Webster was in a thoroughly bad humour. She expected her friend and model, Mrs. Cox, to tea in the evening, and had been bent upon surprising her with the elegance of her entertainment, which she had intended should be fully equal to anything Mrs. Cox ever had at home. And now not only had her husband expended the money she had destined for plated forks and goblets in clothes and school-books, but that very morning he had absolutely refused to let her have a few shillings to purchase materials for plum-cake and macaroons, declaring that the times were too hard for poor people to indulge in such luxuries, and that he must put by every halfpenny he could spare from absolute necessaries to make the payments on his house and lot. In vain she had talked and reasoned, and even cried. Mr. Webster would not be convinced, but departed with his money folded in a paper with his savings-bank book, ready to be deposited at noon.

But more annoyance was in store for her. Polly presently returned with her hands empty. "Martin says that father told him not to let any one get things there unless they brought the money."

"Your father is enough to provoke a saint," said Mrs. Webster. "I declare, if I could contrive any decent excuse, I would send to tell Mrs. Cox not to come. We shall not have anything fit to be seen—nothing but plain pound-cake and sponge-cake, without a bit of seasoning, and no preserves but raspberry jam. I would not have done it for anything, if I had not supposed we could have things decent. Mrs. Cox is so observing, too, she is sure to see everything. As for Mrs. Randall, she never seems to know what she eats."

Tears of vexation actually stood in Mrs. Webster's eyes. Polly tried to console her.

"Why, mother, I was up at Miss Augusta's one night, and went into the dining-room just before tea. They had only then bread and butter, and sponge-cake, and a little dried beef on the table—no plum-cake or preserves at all; and they had company to tea, too, I know, for I saw the ladies in the parlour; and you know Mrs. Cox herself says they are the most elegant people in town."

"To be sure," said Mrs. Webster, a little comforted, "they ought to know what's what as well as anybody, and they are as rich as Jews too. But I suppose they had very handsome table furniture."

"It was just what they use every day," persisted Polly, "for I have been there before at meal-times."

"Well, they are queer folks, those Fords," said Mrs. Webster. "I don't pretend to understand them. Everybody looks up to them, and thinks them the grandest people in town, and yet they never seem to care a bit about style or fashion, or any such thing. They are very different from the Lambs; 'they' do make a dash worth while."

"Yes, and who thinks any more of them for it?" interrupted Polly. "Mr. Lamb is not half so much of a gentleman as father or Mr. Bond, and Mrs. Lamb does not look like a lady, with all her fine clothes; and as for manners, the Miss Lambs laugh and talk so loud on the street that people turn round to look at them. I would rather be Miss Augusta Ford than Miss Lamb, any day."

"Oh! You think Miss Augusta is perfect because she is your Sunday-school teacher. I must allow, though, that she has much manners, but I cannot understand how she can run about on foot to see all sorts of people as she does. I should not think her mother would let her."

"Her mother does just so," replied Polly. "So I would not mind about the cake, mother. I daresay everything will be nice enough, and Mrs. Cox knows that father does not get as high wages as her husband."

"Don't say wages—salary sounds far better. And another thing, Polly, while I think of it, I was quite ashamed the other afternoon, when Mr. Larned asked you your name, to hear you answer 'Polly Anne' so loud that every one in the church might hear you. Why didn't you say Marianne, as I told you?"

"Because you told me yourself that I was christened Polly Anne after grandma, and I didn't want to tell a lie in the church."

"Don't be impudent!" said her mother sharply. "Come, be smart now, and clean up the fireside before you sweep, and then I want you to put down the floor-cloth."

"Hadn't I better leave the fireside till after dinner?" asked Polly.

"I am not going to get any dinner," was the reply. "Your father has taken his, and it is not worth while to cook anything just for us two.—Turn that cat out! I am not going to have her near the fire."

"It is so cold," said Polly, pityingly. "Can't I put her down stairs? There is a rat down there, I heard him the other day, and he has gnawed some potatoes."

"Well, I don't care if you do, but I won't have her here. Come, be smart now; we shan't be through to-day."

Tabby was accordingly turned out of her warm corner, where she had been trying to forget that she was hungry, and soon found herself in a damp cold cellar in company with a heap of potatoes, and a coal-box. This last object renewed her home-sick longing, which seemed to grow stronger and stronger as the chance of reaching home grew more remote.

"O mother, mother!" she said to herself. "Shall I ever see you and dear Tody again, and do you ever think of poor, naughty Tabby?"

Overcome by these sad reflections, she sat down upon the lower stair, and cried a long time, and then, somewhat relieved by having given free vent to her sorrows, she set herself seriously about finding something to eat. But hour after hour of patient watching was all in vain. Neither rat nor mouse made its appearance, nor, though she searched in every corner, could she find so much as a dry crust of bread to satisfy the cravings of her appetite. What would she not now have given, even for some of the cold potatoes she used to disdain? She returned again and again to the only rat-hole she could find, but it was of no use; and faint with hunger and misery, she could not even forget her troubles in sleep. The cellar-door was opened once or twice, but it was always shut again so quickly that she had no chance of escape, and the windows were all tightly fastened.

She had finally fallen into a doze, and was just dreaming that she was at home with her mother and Tody, eating cold chicken off a plate under the dining-room table, when she was awakened once more by the opening of the door.

"Dear me!" she said peevishly. "It seems I am not even to sleep in peace."

But as she spoke, she looked up and saw by the light of a candle, which shot through the chink, that the door had been left ajar. She hastened up the stairs, and gently pawing against it, she succeeded in noiselessly pushing it open, and found herself again in the same kitchen, which had undergone such a change that she hardly knew it again. The grate had been blacked and polished, till it shone like the ebony shelves in Miss Sophia's cabinet; full white muslin curtains were up at the windows, and a handsome green and red floor-cloth covered the dingy rag carpet. The table was set with a fine damask cloth and handsome china, and furnished with an abundance of cakes, preserves, and dried beef, which looked so tempting to Tabby's hungry eyes that she could hardly keep her paws off them. There was no one in the room but Polly, who was tending the baby and keeping an eye on the biscuits, which were baking in the oven. The door was half-opened into the parlour, and lights and voices proclaimed that Mrs. Webster's company had arrived.

"Oh!" thought Tabby. "If I could only have a little bit of that cake or some of that beef, or even a scrap of bread!"

This was not a very good thought for a hungry kitten to cherish in sight of a well-furnished table; and the said table being left for the moment without any guard, she mounted upon a chair and carefully abstracted a small piece of beef, which she thought would not be missed. She had hardly jumped down with her prize, and secreted herself behind the closet-door, before Mrs. Webster entered the room. Tabby shrunk into the smallest possible compass, and was careful not to make the least particle of noise in devouring her morsel, which seemed, from its smallness, to increase her hunger, as it certainly did her thirst.

Mrs. Webster cast a vigilant eye upon the table, altered the arrangement of things a little, and then proceeded to take the biscuits out of the oven and to make tea. This done, she washed her hands, settled her very handsome silk dress and head-dress a little, and invited the ladies who were her guests to sit down. Polly did not make her appearance, but stayed in the bedroom to tend the baby, and Mr. Webster had not come in. Indeed, he rather avoided his wife's tea-parties, for he did not particularly like her fine friends, and could not help thinking that they sometimes amused themselves at her attempts to be genteel, in which conjecture he was perfectly right, at least so far as regarded Mrs. Cox.

"I had a call from one of your neighbours the other day, Mrs. Webster," said Mrs. Cox, as she was buttering her biscuit.

"From one of my neighbours?" repeated Mrs. Webster. "Who could it be? I did not know that there was any one here who visited you."

"Neither more nor less than Mrs. Bond, the policeman's lady," replied Mrs. Cox, laughing heartily. "Only think how honoured I felt!"

"You don't mean to say that woman actually came to call on you!" said Mrs. Webster, in a tone intended to express the utmost surprise at the said woman's audacity.

"She certainly did. I thought she came on an errand at first, of course, and waited patiently to find out what she wanted, not dreaming, of course, that she intended a visit. I did not even ask her to sit down, but she helped herself to a chair, and sat talking as freely as you please. Presently there was a ring at the door, and in walked Mrs. Lamb. I felt ashamed enough, I can tell you, especially as Mrs. Bond never offered to go, but sat talking in her calico frock and hood, as composedly as if she were the grandest lady in the land. However, I took care to tell Mrs. Lamb, after she had gone, that she was only a poor person who had come on an errand."