CHAPTER FOURTH.

AGNES'S REWARD.

AGNES had been so excited that she had not bestowed a thought on the severity of the weather, but when she was once more in the parlour, she found herself shivering violently. The snow had found its way into her boots and clung to the hems of her skirt so that they were wet through. And instead of changing them at once, as she should have done, she contented herself with standing before the fire, till she felt tolerably warm again, when she was glad to resume her place upon the sofa, for the excitement had increased her headache, and she felt very unwell.

Now that it was over, she began to feel rather frightened at what she had done, for she knew how much her mother regarded Mr. and Mrs. Merriam, and how angry she would be at any affront offered to them or their children, and she almost wished she had allowed matters to take their course. She was not altogether void of conscience, though she seldom permitted the voice of that inward monitor to be heard, or listened to her when she did speak. But now, as she lay on the sofa with her head aching too much to allow her to fix her thoughts upon her books, the still small voice made itself audible.

"Agnes Warrington," it said, "you have been guilty of a very treacherous, wicked, and cruel action; treacherous and unkind toward your cousin who never injured you and whose kindness and forbearance have been unvaried towards you, since the first moment that she came a guest into your mother's house; and cruel to a harmless and defenceless little animal, as well as to the little girls who were joyfully looking forward to the recovery of their pet kitten. All this you have been guilty of, and you are now contemplating the telling of several lies to conceal your fault!"

This and much more did conscience whisper into the ear of Agnes Warrington on that Christmas morning, while she lay on the sofa—while thousands of God's people, all over the land, were gathered in His courts to praise Him for the gift of His dear Son, sent us on that day for the salvation of the world—born of a woman, and coming in the shape of a little child, that children might realize how the Son of God could feel for the peculiar trials of children.

When Mrs. Warrington came home from church, she found Agnes very unwell indeed, and suffering greatly both from headache and oppression of the lungs. Agnes herself tried to make light of it, and assured her mother that it was only a little cold and that her headache was caused by something she had eaten the night before.

"Some of the cake was very rich," remarked Barbara, "and I rather think Agnes ate a good deal."

"Perhaps it was Virginia's cake that disagreed with her," said Dora in a half-whisper to Theresa; "I should think it would."

Tessy took no notice of the unkind remark, but Agnes heard it, and gave her sister a look which told of anything but sisterly feelings.

"I think it is very wrong to give such rich cake to children," said Mrs. Warrington, "but I do not believe it is that which now troubles Agnes. She seems to have taken a severe cold, and I am really afraid it will make her sick. Had you not better go to bed, Aggy, and not try to sit up to dinner?"

"Oh no, mother, I would rather not. I think I shall feel better by and by." Agnes exerted herself to sit up as she said this, and began to talk quite gaily with her cousin and sisters about the party and the presents they had received, though her contracted brow and now and then a deep sigh, showed how much it cost her.

"Oh! And by the way!" exclaimed Tessy. "We saw Ella and Marian going into church, and they said they would call for the kitten this afternoon, when they came from their grandmother's, where they were going after church. Do you know where Tabby is, Agnes?"

"No," replied Agnes, putting her hand to her head, "I have not seen her since you went away."

"You had better find her and feed her, Tessy," said Mrs. Warrington, as she gathered up her bonnet and furs. "I should not like Mrs. Merriam think that we starved her while she was here."

Tessy hunted the house and barn all over, calling "Kitty! Kitty!" and seeking in vain for her favourite.

"Isn't it queer, Agnes?" she said, returning to the parlour where her cousin was now lying on the sofa, with her face turned away from the light. "I cannot find Tabby anywhere. I have called her all over the house and in the barn, and looked in the cellar and every place for her. I wonder where she can be. She was lying here, I thought, when we went away."

"She wanted to go out a little while ago," said Agnes, "and I got up and opened the door for her. She went out towards the barn, and I daresay she is curled up on the hay somewhere, or watching for a mouse."

If Tessy had suspected anything wrong, her suspicions might have been strengthened by two circumstances, first, from her cousin's very confused and hesitating manner, and secondly, from the fact that her two statements contradicted each other, for Agnes had declared in the first place that she had not seen Tabby. Thinking no evil, however, she attributed her cousin's manner to her obviously increasing illness, and went out to take another look for the missing kitten.

Not so Barbara. Accustomed to her sister's manner, she perceived that something was wrong, and guessed at once that Agnes was concerned in the kitten's disappearance. She said nothing, however, till she had herself looked all over the house and grounds, satisfying herself that Tabby was not upon the premises.

"How sorry I am!" said Tessy, as they were all assembled in the parlour, waiting for the bell to ring for dinner. "How disappointed Ella and Marian will be! I wish they had come for her this morning."

"It is very strange," remarked Mrs. Warrington. "The kitten seemed so happy and contented here, I should hardly think she would have gone away of her own accord."

"She has never gone away without hands, I am certain, mother," remarked Barbara emphatically.

"What nonsense!" said Agnes peevishly. "Who do you suppose would trouble themselves to put her out of the way?"

"Whoever it is, will be found out sooner or later," replied Barbara; "you may depend upon that." She was about to add more, but was interrupted by a ring at the door-bell.

"There is Ella now," said Dora, looking out of the window. "I see Fanny and Sophia in the carriage."

"Miss Fanny and Miss Sophia," corrected her mother.

"How often shall I tell you, Dora, not to speak in that familiar way of ladies older than yourself? Ask the little girls to come in, Tessy."

"Don't bring them up here, I beg of you," said Agnes. "My head aches so, their chattering will drive me crazy."

But she spoke too late, and in a moment Ella and Marian were ushered into the room. Like well-bred little girls as they were, they replied politely to Mrs. Warrington's greeting, and repeated a message from their mamma to her, but their eyes were wandering about the room in search of their favourite.

Mrs. Warrington remarked it, and said kindly:

"You are looking for Tabby, my dears, and I wish she were here to greet you, but I am sorry to say she is not to be found. She was here at church time, apparently perfectly contented and happy, but she has disappeared in the most mysterious manner, and I am afraid she has run away."

The girls' eyes filled with tears. They had so confidently counted on seeing their dear little Tabby again, that they could hardly keep from crying at the disappointment. They asked about the circumstances, and Agnes again repeated her story, but with such slight variations as more and more to convince Barbara that her suspicions were well founded.

"Well, never mind," said Ella, after they had heard all that was to be said on the subject of Tabby's disappearance, and Mrs. Warrington had exhausted her praises of Tabby's beauty and docility. "I am sure we are all very much obliged to you, for taking such good care of her while she was here. If I only knew that she had a good home somewhere, I should not care so much, but I cannot bear to think of her being lost in the snow, and perhaps—" But Ella's voice failed her, and the eyes of both sisters filled with tears, as they pictured to themselves their little petted favourite starved to death, or lying frozen stiff and stark under some fence or deserted building.

Agnes turned suddenly, as if stung with pain, and almost groaned aloud.

"Is your head so very bad, dear?" asked Marian, diverted at once from her own grief by the thought of another's suffering. "How sorry I am! I hope you are not going to be sick."

She put her hand into her little muff as she spoke, and after exchanging a look with her sister, she pulled out a very large and beautiful orange—a welcome sight at Christmas time.

"Please take this orange, Aggy," said she. "Perhaps it will do your throat good. Aunt Hastings gave it to us, but I am sure she would rather you had it. Such things taste so good when one is feverish."

She laid the orange down by Agnes, who uttered some indistinct words in reply, and then repeating their thanks to Mrs. Warrington, they took their leave.

"Well, I will say, Agnes, notwithstanding what you say about them, I do think they are two of the sweetest girls in town," exclaimed Dora, as soon as the door was shut.

"Wasn't it kind in them, mother, to give Aggy their orange?"

"Very kind indeed," replied Mrs. Warrington, with more than usual animation. "I perfectly agree with you, Dora, and only wish you and Aggy would imitate them. I am afraid neither of you would have been willing to do the same, if the case had been yours."

"I shouldn't, I know," said Dora, who was much more straightforward than her sister. "Not unless any one was very sick indeed, I mean."

Mrs. Warrington sighed, as she thought of the difference between her children and those of her friend, and wondered what could be the cause of it; for that it was in any degree owing to her she never imagined. Perhaps if she had considered longer, she might have come to some correct conclusion upon the subject, but it was always a great deal of trouble for Mrs. Warrington to think, and besides, she was interrupted by a call to dinner.

Agnes went down with the rest though her head was giddy, and she had such a sharp pain in her chest, that she could hardly breathe without crying out. But she was determined not to confess herself sick if she could help it. Pain was too much for her, however; she could eat nothing, and before dinner was over, she burst into tears and declared she could sit up no longer.

Nothing had power to rouse Mrs. Warrington so effectually as the illness of any of her children. She hastened to put Agnes to bed, and sent off an express for the doctor. While helping her sister to undress, Barbara chanced to feel the hem of her petticoat, which was still quite wet.

"Why, Aggy," she exclaimed, "how wet all your clothes are, and your stockings and boots are quite wet through! Where have you been to get them into such a state?"

"I am sure I don't know," said Agnes, now really speaking with difficulty. "Perhaps I got snow on them when I opened the door for the kitten. I wish you would not talk, Barbara, it hurts my head so."

Barbara said no more, but her suspicions were now fully confirmed. It was some time before the doctor arrived, and when he did come, Agnes was so much worse that her mother was very much alarmed about her, nor did the doctor's opinion tend to soothe her. He pronounced the disorder to be a violent attack of inflammation of the lungs, requiring the most

## active treatment. Agnes was bled, which somewhat relieved the pain and

oppression at her chest, but they returned with redoubled violence in the evening, and it seemed almost doubtful whether she would live through the night. Her head was very much disturbed, and her mind wandered at times, but though she was very anxious to talk, they could not understand what she said.

At last Tessy, who was sitting by her, distinguished the words, "Throw away the kitten."

"There is no kitten here, dear Aggy," she said soothingly, thinking that Agnes imagined the kitten to be on the bed. "That is only a fancy of yours; the kitten is not here."

But Agnes was not satisfied, and kept trying to make herself understood, repeating the word "kitten" again and again, with painful emphasis.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dora sprang up, and began to dress herself.

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

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

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

Dora promised, and went hastily down stairs.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dora did not like to think of that. How mean and little did all their quarrels appear to her now—how every malicious ill-tempered word and

## action appeared in their true colours! The very last words to her

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"But you don't know, Barbara."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[Illustration]

CHAPTER FIFTH.

THE HARD ROAD.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[Illustration: "Only see how she begs."]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Perhaps he can't!" suggested Tabby.

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

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