Chapter IV: Part 4

"I suppose you will hardly return her visit," said Mrs. Webster, and both the "ladies" laughed, as though the idea was a very ridiculous one. "She is always running in here," continued Mrs. Webster, "and, I am sorry to say, my Marianne has got up a wonderful intimacy with her oldest daughter. I have tried to break it up, but find it difficult, as they go to school together, and are in the same class in Sunday-school. I think it has a very unfavourable effect upon Marianne's manners."

"I never allow 'my' children to associate with 'common' children," said Mrs. Cox, drawing herself up. "There are only two families in the street that I permit them to play with at all. I should not think I was performing the duties of a parent if I allowed them to form improper associations."

"I saw your Fred out in the barn with Tom Bond the other day," said the other lady, who had hitherto been rather silent. "They were amusing themselves with stoning a kitten that was making its way through the snow—at least Fred was, for I did not see Tom throw anything. I think the Bond children very nice well-trained little things, for my part."

"I think you must be mistaken, Mrs. Randall," said Mrs. Cox, colouring, and looking extremely offended. "My Frederick is too obedient to his parents' commands to form improper associations, and he and his brothers have been particularly enjoined to avoid any intimacy with the Bonds."

"I think I shall take some more decided steps to break off Marianne's intimacy with them," remarked Mrs. Webster; "and I certainly shall discourage Mrs. Bond's running in here as often as she does. It is very disagreeable."

"What a mean woman!" thought Tabby. "Just as if I did not hear her send Polly over there to borrow things, at least three times this morning."

But if even Tabby's indignation was roused, we may be sure Polly's was to the boiling-point. She could only find relief by talking to herself.

"Yes, it is all very well to talk about breaking off with the Bonds. I wonder who went over to Mrs. Bond's yesterday to get her to cut out a cap for Tommy, and stayed all the morning, though Mrs. Bond's baby was sick, and she was just as busy as she could be washing? And who sends to her for all sorts of things every day in the week? I should think they would be ashamed."

But Mrs. Cox was again holding forth in her oratorical tones:

"Yes, we always dine late—at four o'clock. I would not dine a moment earlier on any account. Mr. Cox comes home from the counting-house at that time, and I always intend to have my dinner ready, and of the best quality. We usually have soup. Mr. Cox is exceedingly fond of soup and dessert;" which Mrs. Cox pronounced "desert," as though she had meant a sandy waste. "Mr. Cox says he enjoys his dessert more than all the rest of his dinner. Mrs. Lamb dines at six o'clock, but as Mr. Cox is obliged at present to return to the counting-house at five, that hour is not convenient for him."

"There she goes!" said Polly. "I never saw Mrs. Cox in the world that she did not say something about dinner. I must say, I don't think it is very genteel to talk so much about eating and drinking."

Mrs. Webster now offered her guests a bit of the smoked halibut which she had been reserving for this grand occasion. Mrs. Randall accepted it, and expressed herself fond of it, but Mrs. Cox declined.

"I never eat such things at tea," she said in her emphatic and decided manner. "Relishes for tea are entirely out of fashion, quite out of date in fact, and so are warm biscuits. They are considered by many very unwholesome, and Mr. Cox never eats them at tea. This bread and butter is all the go," she concluded elegantly. "Mrs. Lamb has this bread and butter."

"Well, I call that polite!" thought Tabby. "Just after she has been eating them!"

Poor Mrs. Webster! The want of the goblets and silver forks was nothing to this. After she had taken such pains to provide nice light biscuits, and had cut her dried beef so thin, and cooked her halibut to a turn, to be told upon a Mrs. Lamb's high authority, indorsed by a Mrs. Cox, that relishes were out of fashion, and that nobody ate hot rolls! She felt herself reduced to the level of a nobody at once.

"Indeed, I think the biscuits are very nice," said quiet Mrs. Randall, helping herself to another, "and so is the fish. What signifies whether things are fashionable or not, so long as they are good and convenient?"

But Mrs. Webster was not to be consoled by one who held such views as these, and applied herself to Mrs. Cox with the intention of gaining such further information as should prevent her making such fatal mistakes in future.

"And for breakfast, Mrs. Cox? What do you think about breakfast?"

"Oh! Hot rolls for breakfast by all means, and toast and eggs."

"I like that woman," said Tabby to herself. "I wish I knew where she lived, and I would go there to-morrow. As for that other woman, she is just fit to be the mother of that hateful boy who threw the apple at me."

"Much she knows about gentility!" was Polly's comment. "Mrs. Bond is as good as she is, any day, and ten times as much of a lady. I should like to know why she should not call on Mrs. Cox if she wants to do so, though why she should I can't imagine. And for mother to talk so about her, when she is for ever sending there for things, and getting Mrs. Bond to do things for her, and to help her about her work! I would not ask favours of people that I was ashamed of associating with, for my part."

Polly's soliloquy was interrupted by a call to supper, and having at last succeeded in getting the baby to sleep, she laid him on the bed, sitting by him a few moments to pat and hush him; for she loved her little brother dearly, and never grudged the time she spent in tending him.

Meanwhile Tabby was left alone in the kitchen. The table was still standing, with its attractive-looking plates of meat and cakes, and the cellar-door was open. The temptation was too much for Tabby. She sprang upon the table, and Mrs. Webster, coming in from the other room, was just in time to see Tabby finish a drink out of the cream-jug, and seize the piece of fish in her mouth. She sprang forward, but the four feet were too nimble for her two, and puss and fish vanished through the cellar-door.

"What a naughty kitten!" some of my young readers will doubtless exclaim. "I don't care what becomes of such a little thief."

It is doubtless very naughty to steal, but let me ask you one question: Were you ever in all your life very hungry? I daresay you have been hungry enough to have your dinner or supper taste very good to you, but did you ever go without food till your head turned round with giddiness, and ached as though it would split, and your limbs trembled, and your eyes seemed full of black and green spots, and there was a pain in your stomach as though a rat was gnawing through it? Unless you have experienced a sensation like this, you can hardly form a correct estimate of the temptation presented to poor Tabby, who had been almost entirely without food for thirty-six hours. Suppose you had eaten nothing since yesterday morning at breakfast, and had been more than half that time out of doors, with the thermometer below zero! And then suppose that, under such circumstances, you had been left alone in the room with a piece of cake, what do you suppose would become of the cake?

I am not saying that it was not wrong for Tabby to steal. It was very wrong, and very short-sighted besides; for Polly had fully intended to divide her supper with the kitten, in which case not only would she have fared better, but she would have escaped the consequences of her theft, which, as we shall see, very nearly cost her her life. Some misgivings, indeed, passed through Tabby's own mind, as she was devouring her prize behind the pork-barrel, whither she had fled for safety.

"I know mother would say I ought not to have taken it," she said to herself, "but I was so hungry, it seemed as though I could not wait another minute. Well, they will not do anything to me to-night, because of the company, and to-morrow I will surely find some way of escape."

But Tabby reckoned without her host. Mrs. Cox and Mrs. Randall took their leave about half-past seven; and no sooner were they gone, than Mrs. Webster went down to the cellar, armed with broom and candle, drove Tabby from her place of refuge, and after more than once chasing her round the cellar, seized her by the back of the neck, and despite her struggles and scratches, bore her to the upper air. Tabby mewed piteously, and Polly cried and expostulated, but all in vain.

Mrs. Webster carried her to the fence, and shouted "David!"

A rough-looking man, with a pipe in his mouth, made his appearance from the next house, which was not much more than a hut.

"Here, I want you to take this cat, and throw her over the bridge. I will give you an old bag to tie her in, and be sure you put a good heavy stone in it. Do it directly, and I will give you sixpence."

The bag was produced and handed to David, who promised to execute the command, and poor Tabby soon found herself enveloped in a warm, ill-smelling old bag, and going she knew not whither, or rather, alas she knew too well. In all her previous adventures, she had never given up the expectation of reaching home, and seeing all her dear friends again, but now hope itself seemed to forsake her. Her head whirled round. All sorts of confused thoughts and images passed through her mind: the happy home she had deserted so wilfully; the kind and self-sacrificing mother whom she had rewarded with such base ingratitude, though she had so carefully tended her, and never thought she could do too much for her; the dear little brother, who loved her in spite of her unkindness to him.

She seemed to see herself a little helpless being, unable to move a limb in her own defence, or even to get her eyes wide open, and her good mother watching and guarding her with the tenderest solicitude. Then when she began to creep out of her basket, and play about with Tody, how careful her mother was to keep her out of danger, and how many hours she had spent in amusing her, and teaching her the use of her limbs; how she had always given her the best morsels on their common plate, and how much pains she had taken to teach her to catch mice for herself. Remembrances of Ella and Marian and all their kindness, of Tessy's affection and Agnes Warrington's cruelty, mingled with these reflections, and all seemed confusedly mixed up with Carlo's bark and the neighing of horses, with the conversation she had lately heard, and the sobs and entreaties of Polly, interceding with her hard-hearted mother for the life of her favourite. In the midst of it all, she heard a rushing sound—knew that the river was near—felt a sudden shock, and a swift descent, and lost all consciousness as the cold waters closed over her head, apparently for ever.

CHAPTER SEVENTH.

THE POLICE OFFICE.

IN a few moments Tabby recovered her senses, astonished to find herself still alive. Alive she certainly was, though thoroughly wet and cold, and entirely in the dark. She heard the water rushing around her, and at first she thought she was floating down the stream, but a minute or two of observation convinced her that she must be stationary, and, with her usual energy of character, she began to make some desperate struggles to get out. After much fruitless scratching and biting, she at last succeeded in making a hole, through which she thrust first her paws, then her head, and finally her whole body. As soon as she was out of her prison, she looked around, and discovered to what she owed her preservation. David, who as usual was more than half-tipsy, had forgotten to put a stone in the bag, which had consequently floated instead of sinking, and being swept down by the rapid current, had lodged upon a long tongue of ice which projected from the shore.

But Tabby did not spend much time in observation, for she felt that her situation was a very precarious one; and miserable as she was, the instinct of self-preservation was strong within her. After two or three ineffectual attempts, she got upon her feet, and began slowly and cautiously to make her way toward the land. The ice was wet and slippery, and perhaps no other animal than a cat could have kept footing upon it; even Tabby found some difficulty in doing so, and had several falls, at each of which she gave herself up for lost, till, finding that she was not in the water, a renewed effort was made again to struggle on. She had almost reached the shore, when a terrible crack and a violent concussion caused great alarm, and the piece of ice slowly separated from the bank, and floated down the stream. Tabby made one more effort for life. Collecting all her little strength, she made a desperate spring, and, much to her astonishment, found herself safely on dry land, while the ice which had been the means of saving her life went rapidly down with the current.

"Well done, little pussy!" said a not unkind voice near her. "That wasn't a bad jump. A moment more, and it would have been all over with you."

Tabby looked up in amazement.

The speaker was a boy of twelve or thirteen years old, very poorly dressed in ragged and coarse clothes, and with an indescribable forlorn air about him. He was sitting on a log by the river side, and seemed to have been employed in watching her efforts, for he added: "I didn't think, when I first spied you out there, that you would ever get safe to land. Come here and let me dry you off, or you'll freeze to death. Poor little toad! It isn't so nice to be out in a winter's night with nothing to eat, and no place to go to—is it, pussy?"

Rough-looking subject as the boy was, his tone of sympathy attracted Tabby at once. She crept up to him with some difficulty, for she was growing very cold and stiff, and made a feeble attempt to jump up on his knee. He took her up tenderly enough, and after rubbing her as dry as he could with a very ragged handkerchief, he put her in his breast, and buttoned his loose jacket over her. His kindness and the genial warmth revived poor Tabby's fast-failing strength, and as the chill passed off her benumbed limbs, she began feebly to purr her thanks.

"I daresay you are as hungry as I am," said the boy, patting her head, which she was rubbing against his chin: "but I have nothing to give you, pussy. But never mind, I guess we can stand it till morning, and then if I get anything to eat, you shall go shares. Hallo!"

At this moment a hand was laid upon his shoulder, and looking up, he saw a policeman standing behind him. He rose rather hastily, and Tabby shrank into her place of concealment.

"Now, my lad, what are you doing here?" was the policeman's first question.

"Nothing!" was the short answer.

"You have chosen a cold place to do it in, seems to me. Why don't you go home?"

"For the best reason in the world: because I have no home to go to."

"That's bad, certainly," said Mr. Bond, not unkindly. "But haven't you any place where you stay?"

"No," was the answer, in a voice which trembled a little. "I don't know a living soul in this place."

"How did you come here, then?" was the natural question.

"I came here from Buffalo yesterday. My father and mother are dead, and I haven't got any one to take care of me, or teach me anything, and I want—" he paused a little, and then went on more firmly—"I want to go to the House of Refuge."

"To the House of Refuge," repeated the policeman, rather taken aback. "Well, I have taken a good many boys to the House of Refuge in my time, but I don't remember of any one's wanting to go of his own accord. But you know that's where they take the bad boys—you're not a bad boy, are you?"

"I suppose I am," said the child, without looking up. "Everybody says so, and when I come to think about it, I guess they are about right."

"You come along with me," said Mr. Bond, "and we'll see what can be done for you. You can't stay out all night, that's certain, because you'll freeze to death, and we can't have people freezing to death in our streets."

"So you want to get an education, do you?" said he, as they trudged along together, the boy having some trouble to keep up with the long strides of his tall companion. "Well, an education is a first-rate thing, there's no doubt about that; I tell my boys and girls so when they get a little tired of going to school. If I had had the chance that you have, says I, I should have been glad enough of it."

"If I had had any one to send me to school, I don't think I should ever have been tired of it," said the boy rather sadly.

"Oh! Well, cheer up. Maybe there's better days coming. It never rains always, you know, and I'll tell you what—what did you say your name was?"

"Jack Fletcher," was the answer.

"Well, Jack, it's half the battle with a boy, or a man either, for that matter, to make a good resolution. You say you're not a good boy,—eh?"

"No," replied Jack. "I haven't had much chance to be good. My father and mother both drank," he continued, after a little pause, and lowering his voice, "and one day my mother drank so much that she got crazy and killed herself. Then my father was taken up for murdering her, and put in jail, and there he took sick and died. He was sober then, of course, and when I went to see him, he—he told me to go off to some place where I wasn't known, and try to make an honest living. I knew a boy who had been to the House of Refuge, and he told me how they learned trades there, and what kind of times they had, and I thought that would be just the place for me. So I begged a passage on a waggon, and got here yesterday."

"But suppose you could get a place to learn a trade without going there, wouldn't you like that better?" asked Mr. Bond.

"I don't know about that," replied Jack thoughtfully. "I am afraid I should not be steady. You see I have been brought up to run in the street all day long, and it's not easy to settle down to work, unless one must. It is likely I should get into some scrape, and do something bad, and so have to be put there, and I would rather go of my own accord."

"That's very sensible, too," replied Mr. Bond. "Well, here we are at the police office, and I daresay you won't be sorry to get warm. It is a bitter night."

"Hallo, Bond, what have you got there?" was the salutation that greeted them as they entered the room, where the gas-light and coal fire gave out an amount of light and warmth which seemed little short of miraculous to Tabby, who had all the time remained close under Jack's arm. "He doesn't look like a very dangerous customer."

"It's a boy that says he wants to go to the House of Refuge," said Mr. Bond, setting a stool by the side of the fire as he spoke. "Here, Jack, sit down and get warm. You must be about frozen through, I should think."

Jack was glad to sit down, for his knees trembled, and he felt a strange sensation creeping over him which was not exactly sleepiness or fatigue. He had been seated only a moment, when the lights seemed to grow dim and the voices indistinct—his head dropped on his bosom, and one of the men sprang forward and caught him just in time to prevent his falling on the floor. The boy had fainted away. They laid him on a seat that stood at a distance from the fire, brought water and sprinkled his face, and one of them unbuttoned his jacket.

"Hallo, here's two of them," said he, as poor Tabby became visible, vainly trying to shrink out of sight. "He's got his cat here. Whittington and his cat. Well, I've seen lots of cats out at nights, but this is the first time I ever heard of one being taken up for a vagrant."

"Don't hurt her, please," feebly pleaded Jack, who was now recovering his senses.

"Don't you be frightened! Who wants to hurt her? But I say, Bond, you'll make a great figure in the report to-morrow. Officer Bond arrested a tortoise-shell kitten on a charge of vagrancy. The kitten was accompanied by a small boy—how do you feel now, Jack?"

"Better," said Jack faintly, but he could not raise his head without turning giddy.

Mr. Bond and his companion exchanged glances.

"Have you had any supper, Jack?"

"No, sir."

"Nor dinner either, perhaps?"

"No, nor breakfast either," said Jack, exerting himself to speak. "I haven't had anything to eat since yesterday noon, when a lady gave me some bread and butter."

"You just hand me that pan behind you, Foster. My wife put me up some soup for my supper, and it will be just the thing for him." He set the pan on the fire, and proceeded to break some sticks into it. "But why didn't you go in somewhere, and ask for something to eat? Almost any one would have given you a dinner."

"I didn't want to beg if I could help it," said Jack rather shortly. "I have had enough of that way of living."

"That's a good principle, too," said Mr. Bond, taking his cookery from the fire and tasting it. "Now see if you can sit up and eat something."

"May I feed the kitten?" asked Jack, after he had taken a couple of mouthfuls of the savoury soup. "I expect she is as hungry as I am."

"You eat your supper and I'll take care of the cat," said Mr. Foster, taking down his own dish, and apparently greatly amused by the whole affair—"Here, Puss, Puss!"

Tabby had been sadly frightened at first on finding herself in the police office, a place which she had learned to connect with all manner of harm, but she had by this time made up her mind that police officers were very kind-hearted people, and worthy of confidence. She came forth from her hiding-place under Jack's arm, and sat up on her hind legs to beg, greatly to the amusement of the two men, who fed her with bread and cold meat till she could eat no more. She then set seriously about the task of washing herself, and having put her fur in as neat order as she could, proceeded to make herself as agreeable as she knew how, playing off for the entertainment of her hosts all the antics that her mother and the children had taught her, till finally, wearied out by her adventures, she crept up to the side of Jack, who was now snoring on the sofa, and was soon fast asleep.

"O my dear mother!" was her last waking reflection. "What would you say if you knew that your daughter was spending the night in the police office?"

"Well, Jack, have you had your sleep out?" asked Mr. Bond, about half-past six the next morning. "If you have, I think you had better come home with me, and get some breakfast, and then we will see what is to be done with you. Never mind your clothes," he added, seeing Jack carefully surveying his torn and ragged garments. "We will find a way to set that to rights before long."

"May I take the cat?" asked Jack, looking wistfully at Tabby, who sat purring by the stove. "I don't like to leave her. When I saw her crawling over the ice last night, trying to make her way to land, I thought she was a good deal like myself, trying to make a living, and when she made that last jump from the water and got safe to shore, I felt encouraged, as though things would go right with me yet."

"Oh! Yes, bring her along," said Mr. Bond, who seemed all once to have got something in the corner of his eye. "My children like nothing better than a kitten. Children have got to play with something, and I have a notion that it makes them tender-hearted to have animals about."

"Unless they abuse them," remarked Jack as he once more fastened Tabby under his jacket. "Some young ones are so awful cruel to cats and dogs."

"Not mine!" said Mr. Bond emphatically. "I never would let any child abuse an animal if I could help it. But my children are pretty good children, though I say it."

Jack thought within himself that they had no excuse for being otherwise, and intimated as much.

"Well, I don't know about that. There is a wonderful deal in bringing up, no doubt, but there are many children who have good and kind mothers and fathers, and yet turn out anything but well. We have had young chaps brought to the office as drunk as beasts, whose parents are some of the first as well as the best people in this town."

"They must be great fools," said Jack.

"That they are, and worse than fools. Some of them reform and make pretty decent sort of men, after all, but the chances are very much against it. A great many go to swift destruction, and even if they seem to do well for a time, they easily fall into bad courses again. We hear a good deal about young fellows sowing their wild oats. I have seen too much of that kind of farming, and I can tell you, that folks that sow wild oats have got to reap wild oats, and a bitter harvest it is too. A reformed drunkard is never safe. The first temptation overcomes him, and there are plenty of rascals who want no better fun."

"I know that," said Jack. "My father broke off drinking several times, and was as steady as any one for two or three months. Then we did pretty well, for he was an excellent workman, and could always have plenty to do. But sooner or later his old cronies would get hold of him, and coax or force him to drink, and the moment he tasted a drop, he was gone. I think he might have done better, if things had been different at home, but there was not much encouragement, when all he earned was wasted, and worse. Many's the time I've wished there was not a drop of spirits in the world."

"Many a one has wished that besides you," said Mr. Bond. "But here we are at home in good time. I smell the coffee and fried pork even here."

Mr. Bond, as he spoke, stopped at the gate of a neat little white house, with green blinds, and a garden in front, every inch of which seemed to be under cultivation. Three or four little heads were visible at the front windows, all of which disappeared on the instant, each one trying to be first to tell mother that father had come, and a strange boy with him. Mrs. Bond met them at the door, and the first glance at her kind motherly face reassured poor Jack, who had had many misgivings as to the reception he was likely to meet with. Mr. Bond spoke a few words to her in a low tone, and then turning to Jack invited him to enter.

"Yes, come in, boy, and get some breakfast," said Mrs. Bond heartily. "You'd like to wash yourself first, I daresay—well, come in here," opening, as she spoke, the door of a small bedroom, already put in neat order for the day. "I'll give you some hot water and soap directly. Tom, get that suit of clothes I mended up the other day. I think they will fit him."

Washed and combed, and dressed in a suit of old but neatly patched clothes, Jack was a very different-looking boy from the forlorn vagrant who had been brought to the police office the night before. The consciousness of having found friends, and being treated with kindness, had brought a light to his eye and a different expression to his mouth, and Mr. Bond felt his first impression confirmed, that he was a very good-looking boy.

"You see," he had just been saying to his wife, "I have had a good deal of experience with these subjects, and I think I can tell pretty well when a boy is telling the truth, and when he is not. Now, I took a liking to this fellow from the first, and I did not think any the worse of him for his kindness to the kitten. Come, Jack, if you are ready; put the cat down for the present."

All the children were seated in the neat kitchen, where the breakfast table was already set, each with a New Testament in his hand, and the large family Bible was laid open on the table, ready for the father's use.

"You can look on with Tom," said Mrs. Bond, pointing Jack to a seat next a boy of about his own age. "Never mind," she added, seeing a flush rise to Jack's face, and guessing at once that he could not read, "you can listen to the rest."

Each of the children read a verse in turn from the Gospel of St. Matthew, and their father finished the chapter. Then all together sang a couple of verses from a hymn to a familiar tune, and all kneeled down while Mr. Bond prayed, every little voice joining in the Lord's Prayer at the last. It was the first time Jack had ever seen family worship, though he had heard of such a thing; and when in the course of the prayer he heard himself alluded to in terms that he could not mistake, his eyes filled, and he had hard work to keep from sobbing aloud.

"Come now, Sarah Anne, let's have breakfast," said Mrs. Bond, in the same cheerful tones, after prayers were over. "I am rather behind, for I was over at Mrs. Cox's till about three o'clock, and I slept too long this morning."

"What took you over to Mrs. Cox's?" asked Mr. Bond. "I thought you said you would never go into the house again."

"Neither I would, to visit," said Mrs. Bond, busily turning her cakes, "because the last time I was there she showed me plainly that she didn't want me, and of course I wouldn't visit where it was considered an intrusion. But one of her children was taken with the croup, and she thought he was going to die directly. So she sent the girl over for me, and of course, under such circumstances, I went."

"Taking the bottle of goose-grease?" interrupted her husband, laughing.

"Certainly," said Mrs. Bond, laughing in her turn. "That's my cure for the croup, you know, and it answered a good purpose, for the boy was relieved very soon. But she was so frightened, and so helpless, that I did not like to leave her alone with him, till he seemed entirely out of danger. You would be surprised to see how little presence of mind she had. She did nothing but talk, and cry, and wring her hands, till I was out of patience with her."

"I should not be surprised at all," replied Mr. Bond. "I should not expect her to be good for much. She is too grand a talker for that. But I am glad you were able to be of use to her. Now let us have our breakfast, if it is ready."

There was much merry chat at the table between the children and their parents, the uplifted finger of the mother serving as a check if any of the little ones seemed likely to become too noisy.

Meantime, Tabby, seated near the fire, made her observations upon the family, and compared them in her own mind with other groups of children she had seen in her travels. They were all nicely but plainly dressed, the girls in dark woollen or calico frocks, with white aprons, the boys in coarse grey cloth, with here and there a patch on knee or elbow. Mrs. Bond herself was as nice as any lady Tabby had ever seen, in her dark calico frock, muslin cap, and plain white linen collar. No slip-shod shoes, or stockings out at the heel, had a place in her morning toilet; as she expressed it, she liked to be always fit to be seen. Her table furniture was all cheap, but neat and well-matched, and the brown cloth was without a stain.

Tabby thought of the Warringtons, where the beautiful French china and shining silver of the breakfast table were surrounded by cross faces and angry voices, and again of Mrs. Webster, with her cracked tea-cups and battered tin-ware for her own family, and the fine china and glass for company. And she decided that if she could not go home, she would rather live here than in any family she had seen in her wanderings.

When breakfast was over, each child set about his or her several tasks, with an alacrity and cheerfulness that showed they did not consider work any hardship. The mother took up the baby, and dressed her by the fire; Sarah Anne and Jenny put on their long checked pinafores, pinned up their sleeves, and washed the dishes; Samuel cleaned the knives and swept the front steps and side-walk, and Tom set himself about sawing wood. A plate was set down for Tabby, who made a hearty breakfast, and then began, after the custom of cats, to explore her new abode.

"Can't I help you to do that?" said Jack, going into the shed where Tom was at work. "I know how to saw wood. Suppose you let me saw while you split."

"You may do so," returned Tom, resigning the saw and taking up the axe. "I should like to get it all done to-day if I can, for school begins again to-morrow, and then I shall not have so much time."

"Do you go to school?" said Jack. "I wish 'I' did."

When two boys are at work together, it does not generally take them very long to become acquainted. Before the wood was finished and piled up, and the chips disposed of, they had learned all of each other's history from first to last, and made their own reflections thereon. Jack had made up his mind to be a good boy at any rate, and try to get such an education as should enable him to make his way in the world; while Tom secretly came to the conclusion that he had not valued his advantages as highly as they deserved, and resolved that he would never again complain of being kept in school all the term, and not allowed to be in the street of an evening, which he had sometimes thought rather a hard case.

Meantime, Mr. Bond had been holding a consultation with his wife, as to what was to be done with Jack, in whom he felt more and more interested, the more closely he observed him. Mrs. Bond thought it rather a pity the boy should go to the House of Refuge, and believed some place might be provided, where he could have a home and be out of harm's way, without submitting to quite so severe a rule. Mr. Bond, on his part, considered that Jack took the right view of the case.

"You have not seen so much of these street children as I have," he remarked. "They get so much attached to their wandering way of life, miserable as it seems, that it appears almost impossible to give it up. This boy has probably many bad habits, which it will take some time, and very likely some pains, to cure. He will be well off there as far as food and clothes are concerned, and out of the way of bad associates, and at the same time he will be learning what will be useful to him afterwards."

"He seems inclined to work," said Mrs. Bond. "See how much he is engaged about helping Tom with the wood."

"True; he works well, but you must remember that it is a new thing to him, and hard labour will seem very different after the novelty is worn off and it becomes an every day matter. You know it is much easier to work for one day or two than for a month or a year."

"That's true," assented Mrs. Bond. She sat thinking a few moments, while her fingers were busily engaged upon the shoe she was binding. "I think if I were you, husband," she added after a little, "I would go and consult Mr. Merriam. You know he has had a great deal of experience in such matters, and he is one of the Governors of the House of Refuge. I think he will be able to tell you what is the best course to take."

Mr. Bond thought this a very good idea, and acted upon it at once, first exacting a promise from Jack, that he would not leave the premises till his return. Jack gave the required pledge very readily, for he felt in no hurry to leave a place where he had been so kindly treated. Tabby, for her part, felt in a tremor of undefined expectation. She had heard Mr. Bond say where he was going, and she could not help hoping that it would in some way come to pass that she should be returned to her home.

CHAPTER EIGHTH.

CONCLUSION.

WHEN Mr. Bond arrived at Mr. Merriam's, the family were at breakfast, and he was invited into the dining-room. He knew Mr. and Mrs. Merriam well, having often had business with them relating to street children, for whom they were much interested, and Sarah Anne and the little girls were in the same class in Sunday-school.

"Will you take a cup of coffee, Mr. Bond?" asked Mrs. Merriam kindly. "This is a cold morning."

Mr. Bond thanked her, but declined upon the ground of having just risen from the breakfast table, and then entered upon the subject of his errand, to which the little girls listened with as much attention as their parents, for they had been early accustomed to take an interest in whatever concerned the welfare of poor people and their children, and Ella and Marian had their own little girl, as they called her, a little coloured orphan at the Home for the Friendless, for whom they made clothes, and sometimes bought playthings.

"It is a singular case," said Mr. Merriam, as Mr. Bond concluded his story. "I never met with one exactly like it in all my experience. Certainly the boy's resolution shows a great deal of strength of character."

"Especially as he knows what to expect," remarked Miss Fanny. "Mr. Bond says he has talked with a boy who has been in the house, so that he understands that it is a place of strict discipline and hard labour."

"That seems to be just what attracts him," replied Mr. Bond. "He says very honestly that he is not a good boy, and that he knows he will be likely to get into mischief if left without superintendence."

"What do you think of his appearance?" inquired Mrs. Merriam. "You are pretty well accustomed to judge of such cases."

"I like his looks very well," replied Mr. Bond. "He looks one straight in the face when he speaks, which is a very good sign, and he seems ready enough to take hold of any work that comes along. I left him helping my son to saw and split wood, and working very hard, though, of course, there is no knowing how long it will last. One little thing which happened last night gave me a good idea of his disposition—" And he proceeded to relate the story of his saving the kitten, to which the children listened with much interest.

"What sort of kitten was it?" asked Ella, as the account was concluded.

"Why, I am not learned about cats," replied Mr. Bond, smiling, "but I believe I heard my little girls call it a tabby, or tortoise-shell."

Ella and Marian looked at each other, and Ella gave a little jump in her chair, as she was apt to do under any excitement.

"O mamma! Perhaps it is our very own kitten."

"That is not very likely," said Mrs. Merriam. "Poor Tabby's troubles are probably all at an end long before this time."

"But it might be, mamma—it is possible," argued Ella. "You know kittens live through a great deal, and Tabby had so much spirit."

And the two little girls began to overwhelm Mr. Bond with inquiries about the kitten's ears, feet, and tail,—questions which he could not answer very minutely, being more accustomed to observe the outward appearance of vagrants than of cats.

"But I will tell you what you can do," he said good-naturedly, seeing how much the children were interested, "you can go down to my house, and see the kitten, and if it turns out to be yours, you can bring it home. I think that will be the best way to manage."

"May we, mamma?" asked both the children at once.

"You know you have the double-gown to finish for little Chloe," said Mrs. Merriam. "You were going to take it to her to-day, and she really needs it very much, for Mrs. S. tells me she is not able to sit up a great deal now."

"But that will not take long, mamma, and we will sit right down to it as soon as we have finished our work. Then we can carry it to her after dinner, you know, and come home by the way of Mr. Bond's. It is only a very little bit farther."

The kind mother consented to this arrangement, and Mr. Bond took his leave, promising to bring Jack Fletcher to Mr. Merriam's office in the course of the morning.

No sooner was breakfast over, and their daily task of sweeping and dusting completed, than Ella and Marian sat down to finish the double-gown. And though they were both reasonably good seamstresses for their years, their little fingers never flew faster than now.

"Oh! If it should be our own precious darling kitten, how glad I should be!" said Ella. "I wish we knew for certain, for you know in a city like this there may be a great many tabby cats besides ours."

"We won't tell the old cat anything about it till we are sure," said Marian considerately; "and then she won't be disappointed. I wonder if she will be glad to see her again?"

"To be sure she will," returned Ella rather indignantly. "You don't suppose she is going to forget her own kitten in a week, do you? How glad I shall be to see them all together at play again! O you dear little Tody! You don't know what a nice New Year's present you are going to have perhaps—"

And Ella suspended her work for a moment to hug Tody who had just that moment come in, and wondered what in the world his little mistress could mean. However, he was used to her ways, and did not trouble himself much about the matter. But as soon as he was released went to chasing a spool into the corners, and pretending it was a rat, while Ella worked with renewed diligence to make up for the moment she had lost.

The garment was finished before dinner, and neatly folded into a bundle with two pairs of warm stockings which Mrs. Merriam had found time to knit, and sundry playthings old and new, all destined for the little orphan.

The wind was cold, and drifted the snow in little clouds round the corners of the streets and into the faces of the little girls as they went on their errand, but they were warmly wrapped up, and their hearts were too full of joyous and kindly thoughts to care if their noses did smart a little. Merrily they proceeded on their way, laughing and talking, and stopping occasionally to exchange a few words with a companion or school-mate.

"Oh, there is Dora Warrington across the street," exclaimed Marian, as they turned a corner, "let us go over and ask how Agnes is."

Dora was thin and pale, but she had a pleasanter expression than when we last saw her, though she looked sad and subdued.

"She is better," she said in answer to Ella's inquiries about her sister, "but we do not think her out of danger yet. She has some very bad turns, and whenever she is out of her mind, she is always talking about that kitten. I suppose you have not heard anything of her, have you?"

"We don't know," replied Marian. "We have heard of a tortoise-shell kitten that was found last night, and we are going now to see if it is the same. Mother thinks Tabby must be dead by this time, but I cannot help hoping we shall find her after all."

"I hope you will," said Dora. "I have always felt very sorry about it, and so has Agnes, I know. I don't see what possessed her to do such a spiteful thing, though, to be sure, I have been just as bad myself. I hope we shall both be better girls after this: I am sure we have had a lesson. But, girls, if you do find her, will you come round by our house, and let us know? Agnes will be so relieved."

The girls promised to do so, and went on their way.

"How thin Dora is!" remarked Ella. "She looks as though she had been sick herself."

"She stays with Agnes a great deal," said Marian, "and runs to wait on her mother." She was silent a few moments, and then added abruptly, "Ella, are you not glad that Mrs. Warrington is not our mother?"

"Yes, indeed," said Ella heartily. "I should not like her at all. She is so idle. But, Marian," she added, correcting herself, "you know mother does not like us to talk about the faults of older people."

"I should not object to having Miss Barbara for a sister," said Marian. "I like her very much."

"Surely there will be greater harmony between Agnes and Dora after this," remarked Ella. "Dora seems changed a good deal, and it must make a difference in the family having Theresa there. How neat she is, and she goes about so nicely with her little crutch. Mother says she never saw any grown person more useful in a sickroom than Theresa was that night they sat up with Agnes. She seemed to know just what was wanted before it was asked for, and she was never in the way. I should like to be just like her when I am as old."

"You would not like to be lame," said Marian.

"Of course not; I mean like her in disposition. And after all, she does not seem to mind her lameness much. She is almost always in good spirits."

Thus chatting, they beguiled the length of the road, and reached the Home for the Friendless. They found little Chloe very glad to see them, much delighted with the new clothes, and still more with a large linen doll which the girls had covered and painted over, till it was as good as new, or better.

Chloe had been found by some kind ladies in an alley in one of the worst parts of the city, not seeming to belong to anybody, but handed about from one to another among the wretched people who lived there, sometimes getting something to eat, and sometimes not, as it happened, often cold and hungry, and always miserable. They took her to the Home, where she was washed and dressed, and tended as carefully as any lady's child, but it was too late to save her. Her constitution was destroyed by the hardships she had undergone, and all they could do for her was to make the last hours of her short life as happy as possible. And very happy poor Chloe was. She could not play much herself, but she liked to watch the frolics of the other children, and as she never cried or was cross, she was a pet and favourite with every one in the Institution.

Even Ella and Marian, inexperienced though they were, could see a great alteration in their little friend's appearance since they had last visited her, and it was with rather saddened hearts that they bade her good-bye, thinking that they might very possibly never see her again.

They turned down the street which led to Mr. Bond's, and walked on almost in silence, till they found themselves perplexed, not being quite sure about the number of the house.

"This is a nice-looking place," said Ella as they passed a neat and somewhat ornamented dwelling. "Perhaps the people will know where the Bonds live. Let us ring and ask."

Mrs. Cox herself came to the door, and immediately recognised the children, whom she had often seen in church with their parents. Ella politely asked her if she could tell them where Mr. Bond lived.

"Mr. Bond!" repeated Mrs. Cox in surprise. "You don't mean Bond the policeman, do you?"

"Yes, ma'am, he is a policeman. Does he live near here?"

"He lives in that white house just across the street," replied Mrs. Cox. "Did your mother send you there?"

Ella felt the impertinence of the question, and coloured a little, but she answered politely, "Yes, ma'am; we never go anywhere she does not let us."

And before Mrs. Cox could frame another question, the little girls were gone.

"Well, if that isn't curious," said Mrs. Cox to herself. "I should like to know their mother's object in sending them to Mrs. Bond's. Something about poor people, I daresay."

She stood and watched them as they crossed the street, and to her amazement, she saw Sarah Anne run out to meet the sisters, kiss them, and draw them into the house, with every sign of affectionate and long-standing acquaintance.

"Well, if ever! I should like to see Sarah Bond kiss one of 'my' children like that. It is all very well to be kind to poor people, but I must say I think something is due to one's social position. I don't believe in being so friendly with everybody, just because one happens to go to church with them. I daresay it was all Mrs. Merriam's doings that Mrs. Bond was made a society visitor. But I am determined to find out what those children are after, some way or other." With which praiseworthy resolution she turned into the house, finding it too cold to stand at the door with the thermometer at zero, even when engaged in the engrossing pursuit of watching her neighbours and their visitors.

Meantime, the children had been hospitably received and seated by the fire, and their furs and overshoes taken off, lest, as Mrs. Bond expressed it, they should not feel the benefit of them when they went out.

A pale and poorly dressed girl was sitting in the corner, whom the sisters did not recognise till Mrs. Bond said: "Don't you know Polly Webster? I believe she is in your class at Sunday-school."

"Why, Polly," said Ella, at once getting up to kiss her, "how odd that we should not know you! But we are used to seeing you with your bonnet on. I suppose that must be the reason."