












The Kitchen Cat, and other stories, by Amy Walton.

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There are three short stories in this little book, of which the first
is by far the longest.  Ruth is a poor little rich girl.  Her mother
had died some time before, and she lives with her father, a lawyer, and
an incredibly stupid, though outwardly competent, Nurse.  One day she
discovers that there is a thin, unfed cat also living in the house.
She befriends it, despite Nurse.  She becomes very ill for a week or
so.  Her father discovers her love for the cat, and it is elevated to
being the House Cat.

In the second story, a "toy" dog is missing.  When the dog, Sarah, is
found, she tells her young mistress of her adventures.

In the third and last story, two young girls are seeing what they can
find near a pond.  A toad is discovered, and he explains to them that
he lives in a hole, which is well covered up, so that he cannot see
out.  He says that some toads' holes are uncomfortable while some are
nice and snug.  The girls' attendant, Miss Grey, points out the moral,
that we all live in holes of our own making, some of which are
comfortable, and some not, but out of which we cannot easily see how
other people are living.

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THE KITCHEN CAT, AND OTHER STORIES, BY AMY WALTON.



CHAPTER ONE.

THE VISITOR FROM THE CELLAR.

The whole house in London was dull and gloomy, its lofty rooms and
staircases were filled with a sort of misty twilight all day, and the
sun very seldom looked in at its windows.  Ruth Lorimer thought,
however, that the very dullest room of all was the nursery, in which she
had to pass so much of her time.  It was so high up that the people and
carts and horses in the street below looked like toys.  She could not
even see these properly, because there were iron bars to prevent her
from stretching her head out too far, so that all she could do was to
look straight across to the row of tall houses opposite, or up at the
sky between the chimney-pots.  How she longed for something different to
look at!

The houses always looked the same, and though the sky changed sometimes,
it was often of a dirty grey colour, and then Ruth gave a little sigh
and looked back from the window-seat where she was kneeling, into the
nursery, for something to amuse her.  It was full of all sorts of toys--
dolls, and dolls' houses elegantly furnished, pictures and books and
many pretty things; but in spite of all these she often found nothing to
please her, for what she wanted more than anything else was a companion
of her own age, and she had no brothers or sisters.

The dolls, however much she pretended, were never glad, or sorry, or
happy, or miserable--they could not answer her when she talked to them,
and their beautiful bright eyes had a hard unfeeling look which became
very tiring, for it never changed.

There was certainly Nurse Smith.  She was alive and real enough; there
was no necessity to "pretend" anything about her.  She was always there,
sitting upright and flat-backed beside her work-basket, frowning a
little, not because she was cross, but because she was rather
near-sighted.  She had come when Ruth was quite a baby, after Mrs
Lorimer's death, and Aunt Clarkson often spoke of her as "a treasure."
However that might be, she was not an amusing companion; though she did
her best to answer all Ruth's questions, and was always careful of her
comfort, and particular about her being neatly dressed.

Perhaps it was not her fault that she did not understand games, and was
quite unable to act the part of any other character than her own.  If
she did make the attempt, she failed so miserably that Ruth had to tell
her what to say, which made it so flat and uninteresting that she found
it better to play alone.  But she often became weary of this; and there
were times when she was tired of her toys, and tired of Nurse Smith, and
did not know what in the world to do with herself.

Each day passed much in the same way.  Ruth's governess came to teach
her for an hour every morning, and then after her early dinner there was
a walk with Nurse, generally in one direction.  And after tea it was
time to go and see her father--quite a long journey, through the silent
house, down the long stairs to the dining-room where he sat alone at his
dessert.

Ruth could not remember her mother, and she saw so little of her father
that he seemed almost a stranger to her.  He was so wonderfully busy,
and the world he lived in was such a great way off from hers in the
nursery.

In the morning he hurried away just as she was at her breakfast, and all
she knew of him was the resounding slam of the hall door, which came
echoing up the staircase.  Very often in the evening he came hastily
into the nursery to say good-bye on his way out to some dinner-party,
and at night she woke up to hear his step on the stairs as he came back
late.  But when he dined at home Ruth always went downstairs to dessert.
Then, as she entered the large sombre dining-room, where there were
great oil paintings on the walls and heavy hangings to the windows, and
serious-looking ponderous furniture, her father would look up from his
book, or from papers spread on the table, and nod kindly to her:

"Ah!  It's you, Ruth.  Quite well, eh?  There's a good child.  Have an
orange?  That's right."

Then he would plunge into his reading again, and Ruth would climb slowly
on to a great mahogany chair placed ready for her, and watch him as she
cut up her orange.

She wondered very much why people wrote him such long, long letters, all
on blue paper and tied up with pink tape.  She felt sure they were not
nice letters, for his face always looked worried over them; and when he
had finished he threw them on the floor, as though he were glad.  This
made her so curious that she once ventured to ask him what they were.
They were called "briefs", he told her.  But she was not much wiser;
for, hearing from Nurse Smith that "brief" was another word for short,
she felt sure there must be some mistake.

Exactly as the clock struck eight Nurse's knock came at the door, Ruth
got down from her chair and said good-night.

Sometimes her father was so deeply engaged in his reading that he stared
at her with a faraway look in his eyes, as if he scarcely knew who she
was.  After a minute he said absently: "Bed-time, eh?  Good-night.
Good-night, my dear."  Sometimes when he was a little less absorbed he
put a sixpence or a shilling into her hand as he kissed her, and added:
"There's something to spend at the toy-shop."

Ruth received these presents without much surprise or joy.  She was used
to buying things, and did not find it very interesting; for she could
not hope for any sign of pleasure from her dolls when she brought them
new clothes or furniture.

It is a little dull when all one's efforts for people are received with
a perfectly unmoved face.  She had once brought Nurse Smith a small
china image, hoping that it would be an agreeable surprise; but that had
not been successful either.  "Lor', my dear, don't you go spending your
money on me," she said.  "Chany ornaments ain't much good for anything,
to my thinking, 'cept to ketch the dust."

Thus it came to pass that Ruth never talked much about what interested
her either to her father or to Nurse Smith, and as she had no brothers
and sisters she was obliged to amuse herself with fancied conversations.
Sometimes these were carried on with her dolls, but her chief friend
was a picture which she passed every night on the staircase.  It was of
a man in a flat cap and a fur robe, and he had a pointed smooth chin and
narrow eyes, which seemed to follow her slyly on her way.  She did not
like him and she did not actually fear him, but she had a feeling that
he listened to what she said, and that she must tell him any news she
had.  There was never much except on "Aunt Clarkson's day", as she
called it.

Aunt Clarkson was her father's sister.  She lived in the country, and
had many little boys and girls whom Ruth had seldom seen, though she
heard a great deal about them.

Once every month this aunt came up to London for the day, had long
conversations with Nurse, and looked carefully at all Ruth's clothes.

She was a sharp-eyed lady, and her visits made a stir in the house which
was like a cold wind blowing, so that Ruth was glad when they were over,
though her aunt always spoke kindly to her, and said: "Some day you must
come and see your little cousins in the country."

She had said this so often without its having happened, however, that
Ruth had come to look upon it as a mere form of speech--part of Aunt
Clarkson's visit, like saying "How d'ye do?" or "Good-bye."

It was shortly after one of these occasions that quite by chance Ruth
found a new friend, who was better than either the dolls or the man in
the picture, because, though it could not answer her, it was really
alive.  She discovered it in this way.

One afternoon she and Nurse Smith had come in from their usual walk, and
were toiling slowly up from the hall to the nursery.  The stairs got
steeper at the last flight, and Nurse went more slowly still, and panted
a good deal, for she was stouter than she need have been, though Ruth
would never have dreamed of saying so.  Ruth was in front, and she had
nearly reached the top when something came hurrying towards her which
surprised her very much.  It was a long, lean, grey cat.  It had a
guilty look, as though it knew it had been trespassing, and squeezed
itself as close as it could against the wall as it passed.

"Pretty puss!" said Ruth softly, and put out her hand to stop it.

The cat at once arched up its back and gave a friendly little answering
mew.  Ruth wondered where it came from.  It was ugly, she thought, but
it seemed a pleasant cat and glad to be noticed.  She rubbed its head
gently.  It felt hard and rough like Nurse's old velvet bonnet; there
was indeed no sleekness about it anywhere, and it was so thin that its
sides nearly met.

"Poor puss!" said Ruth stroking it tenderly.

The cat replied by pushing its head gently against her arm, and
presently began a low purring song.  Delighted, Ruth bent her ear to
listen.

"Whoosh!  Shish!  Get along!  Scat!" suddenly sounded from a few steps
below.  Nurse's umbrella was violently flourished, the cat flew
downstairs with a spit like an angry firework, and Ruth turned round
indignantly.

"You _shouldn't_ have done that," she said, stamping her foot; "I wanted
to talk to it.  Whose is it?"

"It's that nasty kitchen cat," said Nurse, much excited, and grasping
her umbrella spitefully.  "I'm not going to have it prowling about on my
landing.  An ugly thieving thing, as has no business above stairs at
all."

Ruth pressed her face against the balusters.  In the distance below she
could see the small grey form of the kitchen cat making its way swiftly
and silently downstairs.  It went so fast that it seemed to float rather
than to run, and was soon out of sight.

"I should like to have played with it up in the nursery," she said, with
a sigh, as she continued her way.  "I wish you hadn't frightened it
away."

"Lor', Miss Ruth, my dear," answered Nurse, "what can a little lady like
you want with a nasty, low, kitchen cat!  Come up and play with some of
your beautiful toys, there's a dear!  Do."

Nevertheless Ruth thought about the cat a great deal that afternoon, and
the toys seemed even less interesting than usual.  When tea was over,
and Nurse had taken up her sewing again, she began to make a few
inquiries.

"Where does that cat live?" she asked.

"In the kitchen, to be sure," said Nurse; "and the cellar, and
coal-hole, and such like.  Alonger the rats and mice--and the beadles,"
she added, as an after-thought.

"The beadles!" repeated Ruth doubtfully.  "_What_ beadles?"

"Why, the _black_ beadles, to be sure," replied Nurse cheerfully.

Ruth was silent.  It seemed dismal company for the kitchen cat.  Then
she said:

"Are there many of them?"

"Swarms!" said Nurse, breaking off her thread with a snap.  "The
kitchen's black with 'em at night."

What a dreadful picture!

"Who feeds the cat?" asked Ruth again.

"Oh, I don't suppose nobody _feeds_ it," answered Nurse.  "It lives on
what it ketches every now and then."

No wonder it looked thin!  Poor kitchen cat!  How very miserable and
lonely it must be with no one to take care of it, and how dreadful for
it to have such nasty things to eat!  And the supply even of these must
be short sometimes, Ruth went on to consider.  What did it do when it
could find no more mice or rats?  Of the beetles she could not bear even
to think.  As she turned these things seriously over in her mind she
began to wish she could do something to alter them, to make the cat's
life more comfortable and pleasant.  If she could have it to _live_ with
her in the nursery for instance, she could give it some of her own bread
and milk, and part of her own dinner; then it would get fatter and
perhaps prettier too.  She would tie a ribbon round its neck, and it
should sleep in a basket lined with red flannel, and never be scolded or
chased about or hungry any more.  All these pictures were suddenly
destroyed by Nurse's voice:

"But I hope you'll not encourage it up here, Miss Ruth, for I couldn't
abide it, and I'm sure your Aunt Clarkson wouldn't approve of it
neither.  I've had a horror of cats myself from a gal.  They're that
stealthy and treacherous, you never know where they mayn't be hiding, or
when they won't spring out at you.  If ever I catch it up here I shall
bannock it down again."

There was evidently no sympathy to be looked for from Nurse Smith; but
Ruth was used to keeping her thoughts and plans to herself, and did not
miss it much.  As she could not talk about it, however, she thought of
her new acquaintance all the more; it was indeed seldom out of her mind,
and while she seemed to be quietly amusing herself in her usual way, she
was occupied with all sorts of plans and arrangements for the cat when
it should come to live in the nursery.  Meanwhile it was widely
separated from her; how could she let it know that she wanted to see it
again?  When she went up and down stairs she peered and peeped about to
see if she could catch a glimpse of its hurrying grey figure, and she
never came in from a walk without expecting to meet it on her way to the
nursery.  But she never did.  The kitchen cat kept to its own quarters
and its own society.  Perhaps it had been too often "bannocked" down
again to venture forth.  And yet Ruth felt sure that it had been glad
when she had spoken kindly to it.  What a pity that Nurse did not like
cats!

She confided all this as usual to the man in the picture, who received
it with his narrow observant glance and seemed to give it serious
consideration.  Perhaps it was he who at last gave her a splendid idea,
which she hastened to carry out as well as she could, though remembering
Nurse's strong expression of dislike she felt obliged to do so with the
greatest secrecy.

As a first step, she examined the contents of her little red purse.  A
whole shilling, a sixpence, and a threepenny bit.  That would be more
than enough.  Might they go to some shops that afternoon, she asked,
when she and Nurse were starting for their walk.

"To be sure, Miss Ruth; and what sort of shops do you want?  Toy-shops,
I suppose."

"N-no," said Ruth; "I think not.  It must be somewhere where they sell
note-paper, and a baker's, I _think_; but I'm not quite sure."

Arrived at the stationer's, Ruth was a long time before deciding on what
she would have; but at last, after the woman had turned over a whole
boxful, she came to some pink note-paper with brightly painted heads of
animals upon it, and upon the envelopes also.

"Oh!" cried Ruth when she saw it, clasping her hands with delight.
"_That_ would do beautifully.  Only--_have_ you any with a cat?"

Yes, there _was_ some with a nice fluffy cat upon it, and she left the
shop quite satisfied with her first purchase.

"And now," said Nurse briskly, whose patience had been a good deal
tried, "we must make haste back, it's getting late."

But Ruth had still something on her mind.  She _must_ go to one more
shop, she said, though she did not know exactly which.  At last she
fixed on a baker's.

"What should you think," she asked on the way, "that a cat likes to eat
better than anything in the world?"

"Why, a mouse to be sure," answered Nurse promptly.

"Well, but _next_ to mice?" persisted Ruth.

"Fish," said Nurse Smith.

"That would never do," thought Ruth to herself as she looked at a
fish-shop they were passing.  "It's so wet and slippery I couldn't
possibly carry it home.  Perhaps Nurse doesn't _really_ know what cats
like best.  Anyhow, I'm sure it's never tasted anything so nice as a
Bath bun."  A Bath bun was accordingly bought, carried home, and put
carefully away in the doll's house.  And now Ruth felt that she had an
important piece of business before her.  She spread out a sheet of the
new writing-paper on the window-seat, knelt in front of it with a pencil
in her hand, and ruled some lines.  She could not write very well, and
was often uncertain how to spell even short words; so she bit the end of
her pencil and sighed a good deal before the letter was finished.  At
last it was done, and put into the envelope.  But now came a new
difficulty: How should it be addressed?  After much thought she wrote
the following:

  The Kitchen Cat,
  The Kitchen,
  17 Gower Street.



CHAPTER TWO.

HER BEST FRIEND.

After this letter had been dropped into the pillar-box just in front of
the house, Ruth began to look out still more eagerly for the kitchen
cat, but days passed and she caught no glimpse of it anywhere.

It was disappointing, and troublesome too, because she had to carry the
Bath bun about with her so long.  Not only was it getting hard and dry,
but it was such an awkward thing for her pocket that she had torn her
frock in the effort to force it in.

"You might a' been carrying brick-bats about with you, Miss Ruth," said
Nurse, "by the way you've slit your pocket open."

This went on till Ruth began to despair.  "I'll try it one more
evening," she said to herself, "and if it doesn't come then I shall give
it up."

Once more, therefore, when she was ready to go downstairs, she took the
bun out of the dolls' house, where she kept it wrapped up in tissue
paper, and squeezed it into her pocket.  Rather hopelessly, but still
keeping a careful look-out, she proceeded slowly on her way, when
behold, just as she reached the top of the last flight, a little
cringing grey figure crossed the hall below.

"It's come!" she exclaimed in an excited whisper.  "It's come at last!"

But though it had come, it seemed now the cat's greatest desire to go,
for it was hurrying towards the kitchen stairs.

"Puss!  Puss!" called out Ruth in an entreating voice as she hastily ran
down.  "Stop a minute!  _Pretty_ puss!"

Startled at the noise and the patter of the quick little feet, the cat
paused in its flight and turned its scared yellow-green eyes upon Ruth.

She had now reached the bottom step, where she stood struggling to get
the Bath bun out of her small pocket, her face pink with the effort and
anxiety lest the cat should go before she succeeded.

"_Pretty_ puss!" she repeated as she tugged at the parcel.  "Don't go
away."

One more desperate wrench, which gashed open the corner of the pocket,
and the bun was out.  The cat looked on with one paw raised, ready to
fly at the first sign of danger, as with trembling fingers Ruth managed
to break a piece off the horny surface.  She held it out.  The cat came
nearer, sniffed at it suspiciously, and then to her great joy took the
morsel, crouched down, and munched it up.  "How good it must taste," she
thought, "after the mice and rats."

By degrees it was induced to make further advances, and before long to
come on to the step where Ruth sat, and make a hearty meal of the bun
which she crumbled up for it.

"I'm afraid it's dry," she said; "but I couldn't bring any milk, you
know, and you must get some water afterwards."

The cat seemed to understand, and replied by pushing its head against
her, and purred loudly.  How thin it was!  Ruth wondered as she looked
gravely at it whether it would soon be fatter if she fed it every day.
She became so interested in talking to it, and watching its behaviour,
that she nearly forgot she had to go into the dining-room, and jumped up
with a start.

"Good-night," she said.  "If you'll come again I'll bring you something
else another day."  She looked back as she turned the handle of the
heavy door.  The cat was sitting primly upright on the step washing its
face after its meal.  "I expect it doesn't feel so hungry now," thought
Ruth as she went into the room.

The acquaintance thus fairly begun was soon followed by other meetings,
and the cat was often in the hall when Ruth came downstairs, though it
did not appear every evening.  The uncertainty of this was most
exciting, and "Will it be there to-night?" was her frequent thought
during the day.  As time went on, and they grew to know each other
better, she began to find the kitchen cat a far superior companion to
either her dolls or the man in the picture.  True, it could not answer
her any more than they did--in words, but it had a language of its own
which she understood perfectly.  She knew when it was pleased, and when
it said "Thank you" for some delicacy she brought for it; its yellow
eyes beamed with sympathy and interest when she described the delights
of that beautiful life it would enjoy in the nursery; and when she
pitied it for the darkness of its present dwelling below, she knew it
understood by the way it rubbed against her and arched up its back.
There were many more pleasures in each day now that she had made this
acquaintance.  Shopping became interesting, because she could look
forward to the cat's surprise and enjoyment when the parcel was opened
in the evening; everything that happened was treasured up to tell it
when they met, or, if it was not there, to write to it on the pink
note-paper; the very smartest sash belonging to her best doll was taken
to adorn the cat's thin neck; and the secrecy which surrounded all this
made it doubly delightful.  Ruth had never been a greedy child, and if
Nurse Smith wondered sometimes that she now spent all her money on
cakes, she concluded that they must be for a dolls' feast, and troubled
herself no further.  Miss Ruth was always so fond of "making believe."
So things went on very quietly and comfortably, and though Ruth could
not discover that the kitchen cat got any fatter, it had certainly
improved in some ways since her attentions.  Its face had lost its
scared look, and it no longer crept about as close to the ground as
possible, but walked with an assured tread and its tail held high.  It
could never be a pretty cat to the general eye, but when it came
trotting noiselessly to meet Ruth, uttering its short mew of welcome,
she thought it beautiful, and would not have changed it for the
sleekest, handsomest cat in the kingdom.

But it was the kitchen cat still.  All this did not bring it one step
nearer to the nursery.  It must still live, Ruth often thought with
sorrow, amongst the rats and mice and beetles.  Nothing could ever
happen which would induce Nurse Smith to allow it to come upstairs.  And
yet something did happen which brought this very thing to pass in a
strange way which would never have entered her mind.

The spring came on with a bright sun and cold sharp winds, and one day
Ruth came in from her walk feeling shivery and tired.  She could not eat
her dinner, and her head had a dull ache in it, and she thought she
would like to go to bed.  She did not feel ill, she said, but she was
first very hot and then very cold.  Nurse Smith sent for the doctor; and
he came and looked kindly at her, and felt her pulse and said she must
stay in bed and he would send some medicine.  And she went to sleep, and
had funny dreams in which she plainly saw the kitchen cat dressed in
Aunt Clarkson's bonnet and cloak.  It stood by her bed and talked in
Aunt Clarkson's voice, and she saw its grey fur paws under the folds of
the cloak.  She wished it would go away, and wondered how she could have
been so fond of it.  When Nurse came to give her something she said
feebly:

"Send the cat away."

"Bless you, my dear, there's no cat here," she answered.  "There's
nobody been here but me and Mrs Clarkson."

At last there came a day when she woke up from a long sleep and found
that the pain in her head was gone, and that the things in the room
which had been taking all manner of queer shapes looked all right again.

"And how do you feel, Miss Ruth, my dear?" asked Nurse, who sat sewing
by the bedside.

"I'm quite well, thank you," said Ruth.  "Why am I in bed in the middle
of the day?"

"Well, you haven't been just quite well, you know," said Nurse.

"Haven't I?" said Ruth.  She considered this for some time, and when
Nurse came to her with some beef-tea in her hand, she asked:

"Have I been in bed more than a day?"

"You've been in bed a week," said Nurse.  "But you'll get along finely
now, and be up and about again in no time."

Ruth drank her beef-tea and thought it over.  Suddenly she dropped her
spoon into the cup.  The kitchen cat!  How it must have missed her if
she had been in bed a week.  Unable to bear the idea in silence, she sat
up in bed with a flushed face and asked eagerly:

"Have you seen the cat?"

Nurse instantly rose with a concerned expression, and patted her
soothingly on the shoulder.

"There now, my dear, we won't have any more fancies about cats and such.
You drink your beef-tea up and I'll tell you something pretty."

Ruth took up her spoon again.  It was of no use to talk to Nurse about
it, but it was dreadful to think how disappointed the cat must have been
evening after evening.  Meanwhile Nurse went on in a coaxing tone:

"If so be as you make haste and get well, you're to go alonger me and
stay with your Aunt Clarkson in the country.  There now!"

Ruth received the news calmly.  It did not seem a very pleasant
prospect, or even a very real one to her.

"There'll be little boys and girls to play with," pursued Nurse, trying
to heighten the picture; "and flowers--and birds and such--and medders,
and a garding, and all manner."

But nothing could rouse Ruth to more than a very languid interest in
these delights.  Her thoughts were all with her little friend
downstairs; and she felt certain that it had often been hungry, and no
doubt thought very badly of her for her neglect.  If she could only see
it and explain that it had not been her fault!

The next day Aunt Clarkson herself came.  She always had a great deal on
her mind when she came up to town, and liked to get through her shopping
in time to go back in the afternoon, so she could never stay long with
Ruth.  She came bustling in, looking very strong, and speaking in a loud
cheerful voice, and all the while she was there she gave quick glances
round her at everything in the room.  Ruth was well enough to be up, and
was sitting in a big chair by the nursery fire, with picture-books and
toys near; but she was not looking at them.  Her eyes were fixed
thoughtfully on the fire, and her mind was full of the kitchen cat.  She
had tried to write to it, but the words would not come, and her fingers
trembled so much that she could not hold the pencil straight.  The
vexation and disappointment of this had made her head ache, and
altogether she presented rather a mournful little figure.

"Well, Nurse, and how are we going on?" said Aunt Clarkson, sitting down
in the chair Nurse placed for her.  Remembering her dream, Ruth could
not help giving a glance at Aunt Clarkson's hands.  They were fat, round
hands, and she kept them doubled up, so that they really looked rather
like a cat's paws.

"Well, ma'am," replied Nurse, "Miss Ruth's better; but she's not, so to
say, as cheerful as I could wish.  Still a few _fancies_, ma'am," she
added in an undertone which Ruth heard perfectly.

"Fancies, eh?" repeated Aunt Clarkson in her most cheerful voice.  "Oh,
we shall get rid of them at Summerford.  You'll have real things to play
with there, Ruth, you know.  Lucy, and Cissie, and Bobbie will be better
than fancies, won't they?"

Ruth gave a faint little nod.  She did not know what her aunt meant by
"fancies."  The cat was quite as real as Lucy, or Cissie, or Bobbie.
Should she ask her about it, or did she hate cats like Nurse Smith?  She
gazed wistfully at Mrs Clarkson's face, who had now drawn a list from
her pocket, and was running through the details half aloud with an
absorbed frown.

"I shall wait and see the doctor, Nurse," she said presently; "and if he
comes soon I shall _just_ get through my business, and catch the three
o'clock express."

No, it would be of no use, Ruth concluded, as she let her head fall
languidly back against the pillow--Aunt Clarkson was far too busy to
think about the cat.

Fortunately for her business, the doctor did not keep her waiting long.
Ruth was better, he said, and all she wanted now was cheering up a
little--she looked dull and moped.  "If she could have a little friend,
now, to see her, or a cheerful companion," glancing at Nurse Smith, "it
would have a good effect."

He withdrew with Mrs Clarkson to the door, and they continued the
conversation in low tones, so that only scraps of it reached Ruth:

"--Excitable--fanciful--too much alone--children of her own age--"

Aunt Clarkson's last remark came loud and clear:

"We shall cure that at Summerford, Dr Short.  We're not dull people
there, and we've no time for fancies."

She smiled, the doctor smiled, they shook hands and both soon went away.
Ruth leant her head on her hand.  Was there no one who would understand
how much she wanted to see the kitchen cat?  Would they all talk about
fancies?  What were Lucy and Cissie and Bobbie to her?--strangers, and
the cat was a friend.  She would rather stroke its rough head, and
listen to its purring song, than have them all to play with.  It was so
sad to think how it must have missed her, how much she wanted to see it,
and how badly her head ached, that she felt obliged to shed a few tears.
Nurse discovered this with much concern.

"And there was master coming up to see you to-night and all, Miss Ruth.
It'll never do for him to find you crying, you know.  I think you'd
better go to bed."

Ruth looked up with a sudden gleam of hope, and checked her tears.

"When is he coming?" she asked.  "I want to see him."

"Well, I s'pose directly he comes home--about your tea-time.  But if I
let you sit up we mustn't have no more tears, you know, else he'll think
you ain't getting well."

Ruth sank quietly back among her shawls in the big chair.  An idea had
darted suddenly into her mind which comforted her very much, and she was
too busy with it to cry any more.  She would ask her father!  True, it
was hardly likely that he would have any thoughts to spare for such a
small thing as the kitchen cat; but still there was just a faint chance
that he would understand better than Nurse and Aunt Clarkson.  So she
waited with patience, listening anxiously for his knock and the slam of
the hall door, and at last, just as Nurse was getting the tea ready, it
came.  Her heart beat fast.  Soon there was a hurried step on the
stairs, and her father entered the room.  Ruth studied his face
earnestly.  Was he tired?  Was he worried?  Would he stay long enough to
hear the important question?

He kissed her and sat down near her.

"How is Miss Ruth to-day?" he said rather wearily to Nurse.

Standing stiffly erect behind Ruth's chair, Nurse Smith repeated all
that the doctor and Mrs Clarkson had said.

"And I think myself, sir," she added, "that Miss Ruth will be all the
better of a cheerful change.  She worrits herself with fancies."

Ruth looked earnestly up at her father's face, but said nothing.

"Worries herself?" repeated Mr Lorimer, with a puzzled frown.  "What
can she have to worry about?  Is there anything you want, my dear?" he
said, taking hold of Ruth's little hot hand and bending over her.

The moment had come.  Ruth gathered all her courage, sat upright, and
fixing an entreating gaze upon him said:

"I want to see my best friend."

"Your best friend, eh?" he answered, smiling as if it were a very slight
affair.  "One of your little cousins, I suppose?  Well, you're going to
Summerford, you know, and then you'll see them all.  I forget their
names.  Tommie, Mary, Carry, which is it?"

Ruth gave a hopeless little sigh.  She was so tired of these cousins.

"It's none of them," she said shaking her head.  "I don't want any of
them."

"Who is it, then?"

"It's the kitchen cat."

Mr Lorimer started back with surprise at the unexpected words.

"The kitchen cat!" he repeated, looking distractedly at Nurse.  "Her
best friend!  What does the child mean?"

"Miss Ruth has fancies, sir," she began with a superior smile.  But she
did not get far, for at that word Ruth started to her feet in
desperation.

"It isn't a fancy!" she cried; "it's a _real_ cat.  I know it very well
and it knows me.  And I _do_ want to see it so.  _Please_ let it come."

The last words broke off in a sob.

Mr Lorimer lifted her gently on to his knee.

"Where is this cat?" he said, turning to Nurse with such a frown that
Ruth thought he must be angry.  "Why hasn't Miss Ruth had it before if
she wanted it?"

"Well, I believe there _is_ a cat somewhere below, sir," she replied in
an injured tone; "but I'd no idea, I'm sure, that Miss Ruth was
worritting after it.  To the best of my knowledge she's only seen it
once.  She's so fond of making believe that it's hard to tell when she
_is_ in earnest.  I thought it was a kind of a fancy she got in her head
when she was ill."

"Fetch it here at once, if you please."

Nurse hesitated.

"It's hardly a fit pet for Miss Ruth, sir."

"At once, if you please," repeated Mr Lorimer.  And Nurse went.

Ruth listened to this with her breath held, almost frightened at her own
success.  Not only was the kitchen cat to be admitted, but it was to be
brought by the very hands of Nurse herself.  It was wonderful--almost
too wonderful to be true.

And now it seemed that her father wished to know how the kitchen cat had
become her best friend.  He was very much interested in it, and she
thought his face looked quite different while he listened to her to what
it looked when he was reading his papers downstairs.  Finding that he
asked sensible questions, and did not once say anything about "fancies",
she was encouraged to tell him more and more, and at last leant her head
on his shoulder and closed her eyes.  It would be all right now.  She
had found someone at last who understood.

The entrance of the kitchen cat shortly afterwards was neither dignified
nor comfortable, for it appeared dangling at the end of Nurse's
outstretched arm, held by the neck as far as possible from her own
person.  When it was first put down it was terrified at its new
surroundings, and it was a little painful to find that it wanted to rush
downstairs again at once, in spite of Ruth's fondest caresses.  It was
Mr Lorimer who came to her help, and succeeded at last in soothing its
fears and coaxing it to drink some milk, after which it settled down
placidly with her in the big chair and began its usual song of
contentment.  She examined it carefully with a grave face, and then
looked apologetically at her father.

"It doesn't look its _best_" she said.  "Its paws are white _really_,
but I think it's been in the coal-hole."

This seemed very likely, for not only its paws but the smart ribbon Ruth
had tied round its neck was grimy and black.

"It's not _exactually_ pretty," she continued, "but it's a _very_ nice
cat.  You can't think how well it knows me--generally."

Mr Lorimer studied the long lean form of the cat curiously through his
eye-glass.

"You wouldn't like a white Persian kitten better for a pet--or a nice
little dog, now?" he asked doubtfully.

"Oh, _please_ not," said Ruth with a shocked expression on her face.  "I
shouldn't love it half so well, and I'm sure the kitchen cat wouldn't
like it."

That was a wonderful evening.  Everything seemed as suddenly changed as
if a fairy had touched them with her wand.  Not only was the kitchen cat
actually there in the nursery, drinking milk and eating toast, but there
was a still stranger alteration.  This father was quite different to the
one she had known in the dining-room downstairs, who was always reading
and had no time to talk.  His very face had altered, for instead of
looking grave and faraway it was full of smiles and interest.  And how
well he understood about the kitchen cat!  When her bed-time came he
seemed quite sorry to go away, and his last words were:

"Remember, Nurse, Miss Ruth is to have the cat here whenever she likes
and as long as she likes."

It was all so strange that Ruth woke up the next morning with a feeling
that she had had a pleasant dream.  The kitchen cat and the new father
would both vanish with daylight; they were "fancies", as Nurse called
them, and not real things at all.  But as the days passed and she grew
strong enough to go downstairs as usual, it was delightful to find that
this was not the case.  The new father was there still.  The cat was
allowed to make a third in the party, and soon learned to take its place
with dignity and composure.  But though thus honoured, it no longer
received all Ruth's confidences.  She had found a better friend.  Her
difficulties, her questions, her news were all saved up for the evening
to tell her father.  It was the best bit in the whole day.

On one of these occasions they were all three sitting happily together,
and Ruth had just put a new brass collar which her father had bought
round the cat's neck.

"I don't want to go to Summerford," she said suddenly.  "I'd much rather
stay here with you."

"And the cat," added Mr Lorimer as he kissed her.  "Well, you must come
back soon and take care of us both, you know."

"You'll be kind to it when I'm gone, won't you?" said Ruth.  "Because,
you know, I don't think the servants _understand_ cats.  They're rather
sharp to it."

"It shall have dinner with me every night," said Mr Lorimer.

In this way the kitchen cat was raised from a lowly station to great
honour, and its life henceforth was one of peace and freedom.  It went
where it would, no one questioned its right of entrance to the nursery
or dared to slight it in any way.  In spite, however, of choice meals
and luxury it never grew fat, and never, except in Ruth's eyes, became
pretty.  It also kept to many of its old habits, preferring liberty and
the chimney-pots at night to the softly-lined basket prepared for its
repose.

But with all its faults Ruth loved it faithfully as long as it lived,
for in her own mind she felt that she owed it a great deal.

She remembered that evening when, a lonely little child, she had called
it her "best friend."  Perhaps she would not have discovered so soon
that she had a better friend still, without the kitchen cat.



CHAPTER THREE.

"Who saw Sarah last?"

It was Hester who had seen her last when she had said good-bye to a
friend at the hall door.  That was at eleven o'clock in the morning; now
it was one o'clock in the afternoon, and there was no Sarah to be found
anywhere.  Not in the nursery, not in any of the bedrooms, not upstairs,
not downstairs; every hole and corner and crevice much too small to hide
Sarah was thoroughly searched.  Her name was called in the fondest tones
by every member of the family from father and mother down to little
Diana, and by all the servants, but there was no answer.  There could be
no doubt about it--Sarah was lost!

Little Diana was heart-broken.  It was dreadful to think of Sarah out
alone in the noisy London streets, where she knew no one and no one
would know her, where she would soon get confused and lose her way, and
where all the houses looked so much alike that she would never, never be
able to find her home again.  Perhaps even some wicked person might
steal Sarah, or she might be run over by a carriage, or bitten by a dog,
or--there were no end of misfortunes which might happen to her, for it
made it all the more sad to remember that Sarah could not speak.

Who was Sarah?

Perhaps you may have been thinking that she was a little girl.  Nothing
of the kind.  She was the dearest little dog in the world, with a yellow
and white silky coat, and a very turned-up nose, and goggling,
affectionate dark eyes.  She was a gay-tempered little creature, full of
playful coaxing ways, and a great pet with everyone; but she was fondest
of her mistress, Diana.  She went everywhere with her, knew her step
from that of any of the other children, and would prick up her ears and
listen for it a long way off.  Her whole name was "Sarah, Duchess of
Marlborough", and she was a Blenheim spaniel.

As befitted her rank, Sarah led a life of luxury, and had a great many
possessions of her very own.  Smart collars and bells, a box full of
different coloured ribbons, a travelling trunk with her name upon it, a
brush and comb, a warm coat for cold weather, and a comfortable basket
to sleep in.  Everything that heart could desire for comfort or
adornment was hers.  She had never been used to the least roughness or
hardship, and certainly was too delicate to fight her own way in the
world.

And now Sarah was lost!  All through that Sunday everyone was very much
disturbed, and talked of nothing but how they could find her.  If a
visitor came in, the conversation was all about Sarah; but no one seemed
to be very hopeful that she would be brought back.  There were
dog-stealers about, they said, and such a little dog would be easily
picked up and hidden.  Poor Diana listened to all this, and got more and
more miserable as the day went on, for she began to feel quite sure that
she should never see her dear little dog again.  She moped about, got
very pale, would not eat her dinner, and would have been in utter
despair if Mother had not given her some comfort.  For Mother was the
only person who thought there was a chance of Sarah's return, and this
cheered Diana, because she had a feeling that Mother knew everything.

Nevertheless when Monday morning came and there was no Sarah, Diana went
downstairs in the lowest spirits.

"Immediately after breakfast," said her mother, "I shall put on my
bonnet and go out to look for Sarah."

"Will you _promise_ to bring her back?" asked poor little Diana
earnestly.

Even Mother could not _promise_, but she would do her very best, and
when she had started Diana went up to the nursery somewhat comforted, to
wait as patiently as she could for her return.

Long, long before that could possibly happen she stationed herself at
the window, and fixed her eyes on the busy street below.  Carts,
carriages, cabs, people, how they all went on and on without a pause,
full of their own business or pleasure!  So many ladies, but not Mother;
so many dogs, small and big, but not one quite like Sarah.  Diana's
mouth began to droop more and more with disappointment, and she was very
near crying.  Even Mother could not bring Sarah back!

"A watched kettle never boils, Miss Diana," said Nurse.  "You'd much
better come away from the window and play, and then the time'd pass
quicker."

But Diana would not move.  Just as Nurse spoke she caught sight of a
bonnet in the distance just like Mother's, but she had been so often
deceived that she hardly dared to hope.  It came nearer--it was opposite
the house.  Oh, joy!  Mother's face, with an expression of triumphant
satisfaction upon it, looked up to the nursery window.  No wonder it was
triumphant, for under her arm there appeared a yellow and white head,
with silky ears and large dark eyes.  Sarah was found!  It seemed almost
too good to be true.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

You may imagine how Diana rejoiced over Sarah and petted her, and how
interested she and everyone else were to hear how the little dog had
been traced to a coachman's house in a mews close by.  Sarah, on her
side, seemed very glad to be with her dear little mistress again, and
after returning her caresses curled herself up and went to sleep on the
sofa, no doubt tired with her adventures.  How Diana wished she could
tell her all she had done and seen on that Sunday when everyone had been
so unhappy about her!

"Where did you go, you darling?" she asked her over and over again, but
Sarah never answered.  She only wagged her fringy tail, and licked her
mistress's hand, and goggled at her with her full dark eyes.  And yet
Diana felt quite sure that she had many strange and interesting things
to tell, if she only could.

One afternoon she was lying on the schoolroom sofa with Sarah by her
side.  It was a very hot day, the blinds were down and the windows wide
open, so that the distant rumble of the carts and carriages came up from
the street below.  There was an organ playing too, and as Diana listened
dreamily to these noises, and stroked Sarah's head with one hand, she
began to wonder again about those wonderful adventures.

"Tell me where you went on Sunday," she whispered once more.

To her great surprise, she plainly heard, among all the other noises,
the sound of a tiny voice close to her.  She listened eagerly, and this
is what it said:

"You must know, my dear mistress, that I have long had a great wish to
see more of the world.  The park is pleasant enough, but after all if
you are led on a string and not allowed to speak to other dogs, it soon
becomes dull and tiresome.  I wanted to go out alone, into the busy
street, to stay as long as I liked, to take whatever direction I
fancied, and to join in the amusements of other dogs.  In short, I
wanted more freedom; and although I never gave way to temper or became
snappish, I grew more and more discontented with my safe and pleasant
life.  I was so closely watched, however, that I could never get an
opportunity for the least little stroll alone, and I began to despair,
when, at last, on Sunday, the chance really came.  I was alone in the
hall, Hester opened the door, I slipped out unseen, and there I was--
free!

"It was delightful to find myself alone on the door-step, and to hear
the door shut behind me; not that I did not fully intend to go back, for
I love my mistress and am not ungrateful for the kindness shown me, but
it was so pleasant to think that for a short time I could do just as I
liked.  I soon found, however, that this was very far from the case.

"At first I trotted along the pavement in the best spirits, meeting very
few dogs, and those of a very rough kind, so that I did not care to
speak to them.  It was, as you remember, a very hot day.  The ground
felt quite burning under my feet, and soon I should have been thankful
to be carried a little while.  I got thirsty too, and I began to look
about for a shady place where I could lie down and rest out of the sun.
Presently I came to a narrow turning, which looked dark and cool
compared to the bright hot streets.  It was quiet too, for there was
only a man in the yard washing a cart, and a rough-coated grey dog
sitting near.  I made up my mind to try this, and trotting up to the dog
made a few remarks about the heat of the weather.  From his replies I
soon perceived that he was quite a common dog, though very good-natured
in manner, and he shortly told me he belonged to the green-grocer and
that his name was `Bob.'

"We continued to talk, and before long I learnt a good deal about his
way of life, which interested me extremely from its great contrast to my
own.  In spite of its hardships there was something attractive about it
too, though quite out of the question for anyone of delicacy and
refinement.  For Bob was a working dog.  He had to be at Covent Garden
by daybreak with his master, to go on all his rounds with him, and to
take care of the vegetables in the cart while he called at the different
houses.

"`And what do you get for all that?'  I asked.

"`I get my food, and a good many kicks sometimes,' he answered.

"`Poor dog!'  I exclaimed, for my heart was filled with pity for him,
and I no longer thought his an attractive life.  `Why don't you run
away?'

"Bob grinned.  `I'm not so stupid as that,' he replied.  `Dogs that run
away come to bad ends.  Besides, I'm happy enough.  I get a holiday
sometimes, and a walk in the park, and on Sunday I can do what I like.'

"`Dear me!'  I exclaimed languidly.  `What a dreadful life!  Now, _I_
have nothing to do but to please myself every day in the week, and as
for the park, I go there so often I'm perfectly sick of it.'

"`Do you get your Sundays out?' asked Bob.

"I hesitated.  `This is really my first Sunday out,' I replied at
length, `but I intend in future--'

"`What's your name?' rudely interrupted Bob.

"He certainly had no manners at all, but what could you expect from a
dog of low degree?

"`My name,' I replied, holding up my head with a slight sniff of
disdain, `is--Sarah, Duchess of Marlborough!'

"I had no time to notice the effect of these words, for they were hardly
out of my mouth when I felt myself seized by a large hand, lifted into
the air, and thrust into someone's coat pocket.  From this humiliating
position I heard the voice of the man washing the cart:--

"`That _your_ dorg?'  And someone answered, `It belongs to the lady.'

"You may judge, my dear mistress, how frightened I felt.  Here was a
sudden end to my freedom!  Imprisoned in a strange man's pocket, from
which escape was impossible, nearly stifled with the smell of tobacco,
and filled with dread as to what would happen next.  I managed to
wriggle my head out of the corner, but saw at once that it would be
useless to think of jumping out, the distance from the ground being far
too great.  I remained still therefore, and as the man walked out of the
yard had a faint hope that he knew where I lived and was taking me home.
Alas!  I was soon disappointed.  He turned down a mews, went into a
house I had never seen before, up some narrow stairs without any carpet,
and entered a room where there sat a large fat man in his shirt sleeves,
smoking and reading a newspaper.  I was placed trembling on the table by
his side, and he took the pipe out of his mouth and turned his head to
look at me.

"`Nice little sort of a fancy dorg,' he said at last.  `What they call a
"Blennum".'

"`Strayed into the yard,' said the man who had picked me up.  `I'm going
to show it to the missus presently.'

"`Worth a tidy sum,' said the fat man, and went on smoking.

"Was ever a dog of my rank and position brought down so low?  No one
took any more notice of me, or seemed to think me of any importance, and
I remained shivering on the table with large tears rolling down my
cheeks.  How I repented my folly!  I had wanted to see the world, and
here it was, a miserable contrast to my happy life at home, where I was
fondled and admired by everyone.  Foolish, foolish little dog that I had
been!  I began to think too how my dear little mistress would miss me,
and how they would search everywhere and call for me in vain, and the
more I thought the more painful it all seemed.  A long and wretched time
passed in this way, during which the fat man, who was a coachman I
afterwards heard, puffed at his pipe and read his newspaper, sometimes
shaking his head and talking to himself a little.  He hardly seemed to
know I was there, and I believe if the door had been open I could easily
have escaped, for the other man had gone out of the room.  But there was
no chance of that; by and by he came back, took me under his arm and
went out into the street again.  Where was he going, I wondered.  He had
talked of the missus, but if the missus was any friend of his I had no
hope that she would prove agreeable.  It was a great surprise,
therefore, to find myself a little later in a large house where there
were soft carpets, and pictures, and flowers, and everything I have been
used to see around me.  Not only this, but I was most warmly received by
a lady, who called me a duck, a darling, a love, and a beauty.  These
familiar names, which I had been accustomed to hear from my birth, made
me feel somewhat at home, and I began to take comfort.  At any rate, I
was now with people who knew how to behave to me, and would treat me
with consideration.  I passed the rest of the day, therefore, in peace,
though I still sighed for my own mistress, and had no appetite for the
new roll and cream offered me.

"All my fears returned, however, for to my distress I was sent back to
sleep at the coachman's house, where I passed the night full of anxiety
and the most dismal thoughts.  How would all this end?  Who can picture
my ecstasy of delight the next morning when I heard the sound of your
mother's voice talking to the coachman below?  I need not tell you how
she had succeeded in tracing me through the green-grocer, who had seen
me picked up in the yard, for that you know already.  I cannot help
feeling that Bob may have had something to do with my recovery, for I am
sure though rough in his manners he was a well-meaning dog.  If so, I am
grateful to him.  To end a long story, my dear mistress, I must remark
that I have no longer any wish to know more of the world.  It is far too
rough and noisy a place for me, and you need have no fear, therefore,
that I shall try to repeat my experience, or shall ever forget the
lesson taught me by `my Sunday out'."



CHAPTER FOUR.

"When is she coming?"

"To-morrow."

"Are you glad?"

"No.  Are you?"

"I don't care.  I wonder how long she will stay.  I know Mother said a
week, but I dare say she'll ask her to stay longer as she did last
year."

"Well, I know she'll be tiresome, and I shall be glad when she goes
away."

"I'm going to sleep now."

"Oh, Martha, how soon you always do go to sleep!  I'm not a bit sleepy
yet."

A snore from the other little bed soon showed Betty that further talk
was hopeless.  She would have liked to chatter longer, but Martha had a
way of falling asleep at the most interesting points, and Betty knew it
would be useless to try and rouse her now.

So she resigned herself to her own thoughts with a sigh.  Kitty was
coming to-morrow!  Coming before Martha and she had had any enjoyment of
their country life together, for the children had only just left London.
Coming to spoil all their plans and games with her tiresome ways, just
as she had done last year.  Of course she would insist on being first in
everything, on ruling everyone, and would be as pushing and disagreeable
as possible.  It was all very well to say that she was a visitor and
must do as she wished, but that did not make it any the less provoking.

And then Martha took it all so quietly.  It was almost impossible to
rouse her to be angry, and that was annoying too in its way.  "I
suppose," thought Betty, very sleepily now, "that I ought to try to be
patient too, but sometimes I really _can't_."  She fell asleep here, and
dreamed that Kitty was an immense "daddy-long-legs" flapping and buzzing
about in her hair.

The next afternoon Kitty arrived, full of excitement, and ready to be
more than delighted with everything.

She was eleven years old, just Martha's age, and Betty was two years
younger.  Fresh from her life in London, where there always were so many
lessons to be learned and so little "fun" of any kind, this beautiful
country home was a sort of paradise to her.  To have no one to scold
her, no lessons to learn, no tiresome straight walks with her governess,
and above all, to have two playfellows always ready to join in pleasures
and games!  Kitty was an only child, and her life was often dull for
want of companionship.  Everything went on very well at first, for there
was so much to do and see that there was no time for disputes.  True,
Kitty commanded as much as ever, and had a way of setting people to
rights which was distinctly trying; but she and Betty did not come to
any open disagreement until she had been at Holmwood for nearly a week.
Nevertheless there had been many small occasions on which Betty had felt
fretted and irritated; for Kitty, without the least intending it, seemed
often to choose just the wrong thing to say and do.

And then she always wished to do _exactly_ the same as Martha and
herself, and that was _so_ tiresome.

For instance, all the children were very fond of dear Miss Grey.  But
now it was always Kitty who must sit next to her, Kitty who rushed to
supply her with roses to wear and strawberries to eat, Kitty who kissed
her repeatedly at the most awkward moments.  Martha and Betty, who
naturally felt that Miss Grey was their _own dear_ Miss Grey, could
hardly get near her at all, and Betty resented this very much.  In fact,
she gradually got to dwell so entirely on these annoyances that she
could not think of Kitty's good qualities at all, and was quite unable
to remember that she was generous and affectionate, and that her faults,
though tiresome, were partly the result of a longing to be loved.

At last, the clouds having gathered, the storm came.

One morning, almost as soon as she got up, Betty felt that every single
thing Kitty did or said was silly.  It did not occur to her that perhaps
she was a little bit cross herself, which was the real explanation.

After breakfast they all three went down to the pond, and, dividing the
water into shares, began to fish for frogs and newts.

"In a minute," said Betty to herself as she watched Kitty, "she'll say
Martha and I have the best places."

It happened just so.

"I say," said Kitty, throwing down her net and coming close up to Betty,
"I've got the worst place of all, there's nothing to catch in this
part!"

"You haven't tried long enough," said Martha.

"Let's change," was Kitty's next suggestion as she stood looking eagerly
over Betty's shoulder.

"All right," said Betty moodily, and she went round to the part of the
pond Kitty had left, where she almost immediately caught two tadpoles
and a newt.

"Look there!" she cried, holding up her net triumphantly.

"Oh!" screamed Kitty, "you _are_ lucky.  _Do_ let me try," and she
rushed up to Betty's side and seized hold of the net.  But this was too
much.  Betty let go of the handle and said indignantly, "I shan't fish
any more.  You're so unfair; you always are!"  And she walked away in a
rage.  "Kitty is more tiresome than ever," she said to herself.  "She
spoils everything.  I wish she would go away!"

All that day she preserved an attitude of dignified sulkiness in spite
of Kitty's frequent attempts to make it up.  When she came and threw her
arm round her, Betty shook it off impatiently.

That evening the three little girls were in the woods with dear Miss
Grey and baby Susie, who was just three years old.  Betty was walking a
little behind the others with her eyes fixed on the ground.  It was damp
and mossy, and there was a thick growth of ferns and underwood at the
side of the path.  Suddenly she saw something move quickly through this,
and disappear down a hole.  She stopped and moved aside the ferns and
moss.  What do you think she saw sitting comfortably in the hole and
staring at her with its moist bright eyes?

A large speckled toad!

"Look, look, Miss Grey!" she cried, and everyone gathered round to see
what she had found.  Even Susie peered into the hole, and poked a bit of
fern gently at the toad, which sat there gazing quietly at them.

"What a jolly little home he's made for himself!" said Martha.  "All
soft and moist, and just exactly to fit him."

"He can't see out much," said Betty as she put back the moss gently over
the top.

"I don't think he wants to," said Miss Grey.  "He is quite satisfied,
like many other people who live in holes."

The children ran on through the wood, except Betty, who kept back and
took hold of Miss Grey's hand.

"What do you mean about living in holes?" she asked presently.

"Well, you know, we all live in holes of one kind or another.  Some are
rough and some smooth, some fit us exactly, and some don't fit us at
all.  Some are softly-lined with all sorts of comforts, and some are
full of pricks and troubles.  And it is always very difficult to see out
of them."

"Why?" asked Betty.

"Because, like the toad's hole we saw just now, our own lives are so
near us and surround us so closely, that it is only by making an effort
that we can get out of them and understand other people's lives at all.
The only thing that can really make us do that is sympathy."

"What does that mean?"

"It is that which makes us able to put ourselves in thought into other
people's holes, and feel what it is like to live there.  When we do that
it makes us remember to be patient and gentle with our friends and
companions, for if they live in uncomfortable holes it must be difficult
for them to be unselfish and amiable.  If we had their troubles and
vexations we might not be half so pleasant as they are."

Betty was silent.

"Do you think Martha's hole and mine is nicer than Kitty's?" she said at
last.

"Well, I think in some ways it may be.  At any rate you know Kitty has
no sisters to play with, and very little of this country life you all
enjoy so much.  While her holiday lasts I should try to make it as
pleasant as possible for her, if I were you."

"I do," said Betty, "generally.  Only sometimes she makes me feel so
cross."

At this moment up rushed Kitty, and elbowed Betty away from Miss Grey's
side.

"You've had her long enough!" she shouted.  "It's my turn now!"

And Betty was thinking so much about the toad in the hole, that she did
not even frown.







