Chapter Four.

Chapter Four.Philippa’s Birthday.The three kittens were just a month old on the last day of March, and this was also Philippa Trevor’s birthday. She would have liked her birthday to be in the summer, because an out-of-doors party was so much nicer than an indoors one, but even Philippa could not arrange everything in the world as she wished. So she was obliged to put up with a birthday which came in the spring, when there were very few leaves on the trees, and the grass was generally too wet to walk on, and the sky often cold and grey. Philippa had found that she could get most things by crying for them, but still there remained some quite beyond her reach, and unmoved by her tears, and it was just these that she most wanted and wailed for when she was in a perverse mood. These were times of discomfort throughout the house, and of great distress to her mother and Miss Mervyn, for with the best will in the world they could not make the rain stop nor the sun shine, nor time go quicker. Yet, if Philippa cried herself ill, as she often did for some such unreasonable whim, it was so very bad for her.“We must keep the child cheerful, my dear madam,” Dr Smith had said to Mrs Trevor. “The nerves are delicate. She must be amused without excitement, and never allowed to work herself into a passion, or to be violently distressed about anything. It will be well to yield to her, if possible, rather than to thwart her.”But though he said “we,” the doctor went away, and it was those who lived with Philippa who had to carry out this difficult task. The last part of it was easy, only it did not seem to produce the desired result. Philippa was yielded to in everything, but instead of being cheerful and contented, she became more fretful and dissatisfied, had less self-control than ever, and flew into passions about the very smallest trifles. This was the case on the morning of her birthday, when there were two things which seriously displeased her. One was the weather, for, instead of being fine and sunshiny, it rained so hard that it seemed doubtful whether her little friends would come to the party. The other was, that the musical box which her mother had promised her, and which was to play twelve tunes, did not arrive as early as she expected.“It’s all as horrid as it can be,” she said sulkily when Miss Mervyn tried to comfort her. “I don’t care a bit for the other presents if the musical box doesn’t come.—And it’s raining harder than ever. Everything’s horrid.”“It will clear up very likely by the afternoon,” said Miss Mervyn.“But if it does,” whined Philippa, “and if they all come, I shan’t have my musical box to show them.”“Perhaps it will come before then,” said Miss Mervyn patiently, and at that minute a small covered hamper was brought into the room.“A parcel from Fieldside for Miss Philippa,” said the servant.“Then it’snotthe musical box,” said Philippa, who had looked up with renewed hope.“I wonder what it can be,” said Miss Mervyn. “Something alive, I think. Come, Philippa, let us open it.”She cut the cord as she spoke, and Philippa advanced languidly to the table to see what the hamper contained. When the lid was lifted, however, her expression changed to one of interest and surprise, for there, on a bed of straw, its fur beautifully clean, and a blue ribbon round its neck, lay the white kitten. It yawned as the light fell on it, and looking up at the strange faces, uttered a tiny mew.“What is that card on its neck?” said Miss Mervyn.“‘From Maisie and Dennis, with love and good wishes,’” read Philippa, in a pleased and excited voice. For the moment the musical box had quite gone out of her head.“I like it best of all the presents I’ve had yet,” she said, and just then Mrs Trevor came into the room.“Look, mother!” she exclaimed.Seizing the kitten, she rushed forward and held it up to Mrs Trevor, whose gown was trimmed with an elegant ruffle of lace down the front; in this the kitten’s sharp little claws at once entangled themselves.“Ah, my lace!” she cried. “Take care, my love; it will scratch you.—Miss Mervyn, pray remove the creature.—Yes, very pretty, my darling. Who sent it to you?”“Dennis and Maisie,” said Philippa, squeezing the kitten under her arm. “May I have it to sleep on my bed?”“Ah no, dear,” said Mrs Trevor absently, examining her torn lace with a slight frown; “that’s not the proper place for kittens. Dear me, what sharp claws the little thing has, to be sure! I must let Briggs mend this at once.”She went out of the room, leaving the question to be further argued between Miss Mervyn and Philippa.“I’m sure Dennis and Maisie don’t have kittens to sleep with them,” said the former.“Then you’re just wrong,” said Philippa triumphantly, “because Dennis’s dog Peter always sleeps in his room, and that’s just the same.”The white kitten had now struggled out of her clutches, and was wandering sadly round the room in search of its old friends and relations. It seemed likely to make one more subject for dispute at Haughton Park, where from the time Philippa got up till she went to bed, there was already no end to the wrangling. Confused by finding itself in a strange land where nothing familiar met its eye, it at last took refuge under a book-case, and when Philippa looked round, it was nowhere to be seen.“Oh, my darling little kitten is lost!” she exclaimed.Miss Mervyn, who did not like cats or any other animals, would not have been sorry if this had been the case, but Philippa was preparing to shed a torrent of tears, and this must be avoided at any cost.“Hush, my dear,” she said, folding her gown closely round her; “we will find it. It cannot have gone far.”Cats, in Miss Mervyn’s experience, were shy treacherous things which always hid themselves, and jumped out from unexpected places. So she now proceeded cautiously round the room, peeping into dark corners and behind curtains, as if some dangerous animal were lurking there. There was no place too small or too unlikely that she did not thoroughly examine, but it was Philippa who at last caught sight of a pair of green eyes gleaming in the darkness under the book-case.“There it is!” she cried, and casting herself flat on the floor, she stretched out her arm and dragged it out by one leg. But she did not hold it long, for the white kitten, frightened, and quite unused to such rough treatment, put out its sharp little claws to defend itself.“Oh!” screamed Philippa at the top of her voice. She flung the kitten from her, and stretched out her arm piteously; on it there was a long scratch, just beginning to bleed a little.“The nasty, spiteful thing!” exclaimed Miss Mervyn. “My darling Philippa! what will your mother say? Come, my love, we will bathe it, and it will soon be better, and the savage little kitten shall be sent away.”But Philippa would not have her arm bathed, and the kitten should not be sent away. She would show Dennis and Maisie what a bad scratch it was, and what a cross kitten they had sent her for a present, and meantime she would stand and sob.“We’ll ask them to take it back to Fieldside, won’t we?” said Miss Mervyn soothingly; “we shall be glad to get rid of it.”The more Miss Mervyn suggested this, the more determined Philippa was to keep it. She even began to make excuses for it between her sobs. It did not mean to scratch; it was a dear little kitten. She was very fond of it. It should not be sent away. It should stay and sleep on her bed.At last she submitted to have her arm bathed, and discovered that it was not such a very bad scratch after all, and soon the arrival of the musical box gave her something else to think of. For the time the white kitten was forgotten, and it took the opportunity of crawling behind the curtains, where it curled itself up and went to sleep.But though the musical box had come, the rain still continued to fall, and as there was no possibility of going out, it was settled that Philippa should play with her friends in the long gallery.The long gallery was a very delightful place to amuse one’s self in on a rainy day. It was the only old part of Haughton which remained, and it was much prettier than the new. Six tall latticed windows stood in recesses all down one side, and facing them were dark old portraits of straight-nosed ladies with powdered hair, and gentlemen in wigs. These had the gallery all to themselves, for there were no furniture or ornaments in it, except some great china vases in the window-seats. At either end there was a high stone mantelpiece, carved all over in quaint patterns. The ceiling was oak, and so was the floor—this last very slippery, so that it was as good as ice to slide upon.Dennis and Maisie were glad to hear that they were to go into the long gallery when they arrived, and they found all Philippa’s visitors assembled there, with the musical box tinkling out its tunes in one of the window-seats. Miss Mervyn, who felt the long gallery very cold and draughty, was there too; she had brought in a chair from the play-room, and sat shivering by the huge fireplace, where a fire had been lighted; but the children, warmed with their games, looked merry and gay.“Let’s have a dance!” exclaimed Philippa, as the musical box began a lively waltz tune; “Dennis shall be my partner.”All the little figures in their bright dresses went whirling down the long shining floor, two and two, skirts fluttering and hair streaming out with the rapid movement. At the end of the long gallery the musical box was quite invisible, and its little thin voice could hardly be heard.“It’s like a fairy tune being played up in the air,” said Maisie.The musical box finished its waltz, and almost immediately struck up a solemn march.“Now we’re soldiers,” said Dennis, “marching to the funeral of one of our comrades killed in battle. I’m captain.”All the games suggested by the musical box were successful: even Philippa was pleased and happy, and Miss Mervyn began to think that the party might pass off without any quarrels or disturbance. But, unfortunately, Philippa at last had an idea which led to the overthrow of this pleasant state of things. This idea was that they should join in with the musical box when it played the “Bluebells of Scotland,” and have a concert. She herself would conduct, and play the violin. One child could sing the tune, another could whistle it, another could play it on a comb, another was provided with a small drum. Every one thought it a beautiful idea, and Philippa, very much excited, mounted on the window-seat by the musical box, violin in hand, with her band disposed round her.But alas! Instead of the sweet sounds she hoped to hear, the most terrible discords arose at the first tinkling notes of the musical box. It was wonderful that such a small band could produce such a great noise, but perhaps this was because each child wanted to be heard above the rest. The whistling, screaming, squeaking, and banging, all in different keys and different time, quite overpowered the gentle plaintive notes of the violin and the correct melody of the musical box. Miss Mervyn at the end of the room covered her ears, and Philippa dropped her bow, and exclaimed angrily: “Stop! it’s a horrid noise.”That was easily said, but no one paid any attention to it. The band went on screaming, banging, tootling, and whistling harder than ever.“Stop, I say!” cried Philippa again, stamping her foot. “I’m the conductor. I say stop!”But it had no result. She threw down her violin, and shook the musical box angrily, but there was no way of stopping that either: it went steadily on, regardless that she was beside herself with rage. In another moment she would have dashed it on the floor; but, fortunately, just at that instant Mrs Trevor appeared at the door. The sight of her had more effect than all Philippa’s rage. The band suddenly stopped, the din ceased, peace was restored. Miss Mervyn took her hands from her ears, and advanced from the other end of the room. Philippa flew to her mother, and hid her face in her gown.“What is it, my darling?” said Mrs Trevor, looking fondly at her daughter, and severely at Miss Mervyn. “Why have you been making this dreadful noise?”Philippa poured forth her complaints. She had wanted to have a concert—a proper concert—and they had done it all wrong, and they wouldn’t stop when she told them, and—“Poor darling,” said Mrs Trevor, stroking Philippa’s hair caressingly, “she has such a sensitive ear.—It was hardly wise, I think, Miss Mervyn,” turning to that lady, “to allow such a noise. Really, when I opened the door, it was quite like a number of cats quarrelling. Quite enough to give Philippa one of her bad headaches for the rest of the day.”Miss Mervyn looked as if that were likely to be her own case, but she only murmured that she had thought Philippa was enjoying herself, and that she had not liked to put a stop to the children’s amusements. The band meanwhile stood disconsolate. Philippa’s face had its fretful look, and everything was rather uncomfortable. Mrs Trevor glanced round in despair, and it was at this moment that Maisie gave things a welcome turn by stealing up to her cousin’s side, and saying softly, “Where’s the white kitten?”The kitten had been on her mind ever since she arrived: she had not seen it, and did not even know that it had been received, for in the excitement of her party Philippa had quite forgotten to thank her cousins for their present.“Ah!” said Mrs Trevor, in a tone of relief, “the kitten, to be sure.—Take Maisie to find the kitten, my darling, and have a quiet little game together in the schoolroom. I daresay Dennis will like to stay here, and play with the others until tea-time.”For a wonder, Philippa was quite ready to do what was proposed, and the two little girls went away together.“Did you like it?” asked Maisie anxiously. “It’s pretty, isn’t it? And it keeps itself very white. It’s the prettiest of all the kittens—next to ours.”“I like it very much,” said Philippa graciously, “but it scratches. Miss Mervyn says it’s a savage kitten.”“They all scratch, you know,” said Maisie seriously, as they entered the schoolroom; “when they’re quite little, they don’t know better. You’ll have to teach it to be good.”“How?” asked Philippa, looking round the room for the kitten, which was nowhere to be seen.“Entirely by kindness,” said Maisie, using an expression she had seen in one of her books.“It’s hidden itself again,” said Philippa discontentedly; “it’s always hiding itself.”This time the kitten had found a good hiding-place, and the little girls searched everywhere in vain for a long while. At last Maisie thought of lifting the silk cover on the top of Miss Mervyn’s work-basket, and there, snugly coiled in the midst of wools, knitting, and fancy work, lay the white kitten fast asleep! This was not the worst, for it had evidently amused itself first by a game of play. All the skeins of wool were twisted up in a tangle, and a quantity of silk was wound tightly round its claws.“There!” said Philippa, “that’s the third wrong thing it’s done to-day! It’s torn mother’s lace, and scratched my arm, and tangled up all Miss Mervyn’s wool. Now she’ll want it to go away more than ever.”Maisie looked at the white kitten with dismay. It did not seem to have made a good beginning in its new home.“Will Miss Mervyn beveryangry?” she said. “Can’t we try to put the wool straight?”“Oh,thatdoesn’t matter,” said Philippa coolly; “but itisa naughty kitten, isn’t it?”Maisie lifted the kitten carefully out of its warm bed, and gently disentangled its claws from the silk.“Well,” she said, “I don’t really believe itmeantto be naughty. Kittens always like to play, and then, you see, it always slept in a basket, so perhaps it thought this was its own. You must give it a ball or a cork, and then it won’t want to play with the wrong things.”Philippa generally looked down upon Maisie and thought her babyish, but she had such motherly ways with the kitten, and gave advice with so much gravity, that she now listened with respect to what she said.“Now you take it and nurse it a little,” she continued, putting the kitten, still half asleep, into Philippa’s arms, “and I’ll try to get the wool straight. What shall you call it? We call ours ‘Darkie,’ because he’s all black, you see. Dennis wanted to call him ‘Nigger,’ but I didn’t like that, and Aunt Katharine says Darkie means just the same.”Philippa thought of a good many names, but was not satisfied with any of them, and still less with those suggested by Maisie.“Iknow,” she exclaimed at last; “I’ve got a beautiful name that just suits it. I shall call it ‘Blanche.’ That’s French for white, you know,” she added for Maisie’s instruction. Maisie did not know, for she had not begun to learn French, but she quite agreed that Blanche was a lovely name, and seemed made for the white kitten.After much patient effort she succeeded in untwisting Miss Mervyn’s wool from most of the knots and tangles, and putting the contents of the basket into something like order.“There!” she said; “that’s as straight as I can make it.”“I don’t see why you took so much trouble over it,” said Philippa; “it wasn’t your fault—it was the kitten’s.”“Well, the kitten couldn’t put it straight,” replied Maisie. “It wasn’t half so mischievous as Darkie at home, but I expect it feels strange here just at first. When it gets to know you, it won’t be so naughty.”She looked a little anxiously at the kitten, who was purring contentedly in Philippa’s arms.“I hope,” she added, “it will be a nice, well-behaved cat when it grows up.”“Itoughtto be the nicest of the three,” said Philippa; “that’s very certain.”“Why?” asked Maisie.“Well, you see,” said Philippa, with her chin in the air, “it will have such advantages here. It will sleep on my bed, and have cream for its tea, and it will always wear a lovely ribbon on its neck, or perhaps a collar with a bell. And it will have nothing to do but play, and never be with common, low people.”Maisie looked thoughtful.“The grey kitten’s very nice and affectionate,” she said, “though it isn’t pretty. It won’t have advantages though, because it’s got to go and do hard work.”“What hard work?” asked Philippa.“It’s going to catch mice for old Sally’s Eliza,” replied Maisie, “so of course it can’t sleep in any one’s bed—it will have to be up all night. And I don’t suppose it will have meals exactly except what it picks up. And I’msureit won’t wear a collar and a bell, because that would frighten the mice away.”“Blanche will be better off than that,” said Philippa; “she’ll be a lady.”“We shall be able to see, shan’t we,” said Maisie, “what sort of cats they are when they grow up. And then we can settle which is the best—Darkie, or Blanche, or the grey one.”“What do you mean by the best?” said Philippa. “Do you mean the prettiest?”“Oh dear, no,” said Maisie. She pondered the question for some minutes, and then added seriously: “I mean the one that’s the greatest comfort to the person it belongs to.”

The three kittens were just a month old on the last day of March, and this was also Philippa Trevor’s birthday. She would have liked her birthday to be in the summer, because an out-of-doors party was so much nicer than an indoors one, but even Philippa could not arrange everything in the world as she wished. So she was obliged to put up with a birthday which came in the spring, when there were very few leaves on the trees, and the grass was generally too wet to walk on, and the sky often cold and grey. Philippa had found that she could get most things by crying for them, but still there remained some quite beyond her reach, and unmoved by her tears, and it was just these that she most wanted and wailed for when she was in a perverse mood. These were times of discomfort throughout the house, and of great distress to her mother and Miss Mervyn, for with the best will in the world they could not make the rain stop nor the sun shine, nor time go quicker. Yet, if Philippa cried herself ill, as she often did for some such unreasonable whim, it was so very bad for her.

“We must keep the child cheerful, my dear madam,” Dr Smith had said to Mrs Trevor. “The nerves are delicate. She must be amused without excitement, and never allowed to work herself into a passion, or to be violently distressed about anything. It will be well to yield to her, if possible, rather than to thwart her.”

But though he said “we,” the doctor went away, and it was those who lived with Philippa who had to carry out this difficult task. The last part of it was easy, only it did not seem to produce the desired result. Philippa was yielded to in everything, but instead of being cheerful and contented, she became more fretful and dissatisfied, had less self-control than ever, and flew into passions about the very smallest trifles. This was the case on the morning of her birthday, when there were two things which seriously displeased her. One was the weather, for, instead of being fine and sunshiny, it rained so hard that it seemed doubtful whether her little friends would come to the party. The other was, that the musical box which her mother had promised her, and which was to play twelve tunes, did not arrive as early as she expected.

“It’s all as horrid as it can be,” she said sulkily when Miss Mervyn tried to comfort her. “I don’t care a bit for the other presents if the musical box doesn’t come.—And it’s raining harder than ever. Everything’s horrid.”

“It will clear up very likely by the afternoon,” said Miss Mervyn.

“But if it does,” whined Philippa, “and if they all come, I shan’t have my musical box to show them.”

“Perhaps it will come before then,” said Miss Mervyn patiently, and at that minute a small covered hamper was brought into the room.

“A parcel from Fieldside for Miss Philippa,” said the servant.

“Then it’snotthe musical box,” said Philippa, who had looked up with renewed hope.

“I wonder what it can be,” said Miss Mervyn. “Something alive, I think. Come, Philippa, let us open it.”

She cut the cord as she spoke, and Philippa advanced languidly to the table to see what the hamper contained. When the lid was lifted, however, her expression changed to one of interest and surprise, for there, on a bed of straw, its fur beautifully clean, and a blue ribbon round its neck, lay the white kitten. It yawned as the light fell on it, and looking up at the strange faces, uttered a tiny mew.

“What is that card on its neck?” said Miss Mervyn.

“‘From Maisie and Dennis, with love and good wishes,’” read Philippa, in a pleased and excited voice. For the moment the musical box had quite gone out of her head.

“I like it best of all the presents I’ve had yet,” she said, and just then Mrs Trevor came into the room.

“Look, mother!” she exclaimed.

Seizing the kitten, she rushed forward and held it up to Mrs Trevor, whose gown was trimmed with an elegant ruffle of lace down the front; in this the kitten’s sharp little claws at once entangled themselves.

“Ah, my lace!” she cried. “Take care, my love; it will scratch you.—Miss Mervyn, pray remove the creature.—Yes, very pretty, my darling. Who sent it to you?”

“Dennis and Maisie,” said Philippa, squeezing the kitten under her arm. “May I have it to sleep on my bed?”

“Ah no, dear,” said Mrs Trevor absently, examining her torn lace with a slight frown; “that’s not the proper place for kittens. Dear me, what sharp claws the little thing has, to be sure! I must let Briggs mend this at once.”

She went out of the room, leaving the question to be further argued between Miss Mervyn and Philippa.

“I’m sure Dennis and Maisie don’t have kittens to sleep with them,” said the former.

“Then you’re just wrong,” said Philippa triumphantly, “because Dennis’s dog Peter always sleeps in his room, and that’s just the same.”

The white kitten had now struggled out of her clutches, and was wandering sadly round the room in search of its old friends and relations. It seemed likely to make one more subject for dispute at Haughton Park, where from the time Philippa got up till she went to bed, there was already no end to the wrangling. Confused by finding itself in a strange land where nothing familiar met its eye, it at last took refuge under a book-case, and when Philippa looked round, it was nowhere to be seen.

“Oh, my darling little kitten is lost!” she exclaimed.

Miss Mervyn, who did not like cats or any other animals, would not have been sorry if this had been the case, but Philippa was preparing to shed a torrent of tears, and this must be avoided at any cost.

“Hush, my dear,” she said, folding her gown closely round her; “we will find it. It cannot have gone far.”

Cats, in Miss Mervyn’s experience, were shy treacherous things which always hid themselves, and jumped out from unexpected places. So she now proceeded cautiously round the room, peeping into dark corners and behind curtains, as if some dangerous animal were lurking there. There was no place too small or too unlikely that she did not thoroughly examine, but it was Philippa who at last caught sight of a pair of green eyes gleaming in the darkness under the book-case.

“There it is!” she cried, and casting herself flat on the floor, she stretched out her arm and dragged it out by one leg. But she did not hold it long, for the white kitten, frightened, and quite unused to such rough treatment, put out its sharp little claws to defend itself.

“Oh!” screamed Philippa at the top of her voice. She flung the kitten from her, and stretched out her arm piteously; on it there was a long scratch, just beginning to bleed a little.

“The nasty, spiteful thing!” exclaimed Miss Mervyn. “My darling Philippa! what will your mother say? Come, my love, we will bathe it, and it will soon be better, and the savage little kitten shall be sent away.”

But Philippa would not have her arm bathed, and the kitten should not be sent away. She would show Dennis and Maisie what a bad scratch it was, and what a cross kitten they had sent her for a present, and meantime she would stand and sob.

“We’ll ask them to take it back to Fieldside, won’t we?” said Miss Mervyn soothingly; “we shall be glad to get rid of it.”

The more Miss Mervyn suggested this, the more determined Philippa was to keep it. She even began to make excuses for it between her sobs. It did not mean to scratch; it was a dear little kitten. She was very fond of it. It should not be sent away. It should stay and sleep on her bed.

At last she submitted to have her arm bathed, and discovered that it was not such a very bad scratch after all, and soon the arrival of the musical box gave her something else to think of. For the time the white kitten was forgotten, and it took the opportunity of crawling behind the curtains, where it curled itself up and went to sleep.

But though the musical box had come, the rain still continued to fall, and as there was no possibility of going out, it was settled that Philippa should play with her friends in the long gallery.

The long gallery was a very delightful place to amuse one’s self in on a rainy day. It was the only old part of Haughton which remained, and it was much prettier than the new. Six tall latticed windows stood in recesses all down one side, and facing them were dark old portraits of straight-nosed ladies with powdered hair, and gentlemen in wigs. These had the gallery all to themselves, for there were no furniture or ornaments in it, except some great china vases in the window-seats. At either end there was a high stone mantelpiece, carved all over in quaint patterns. The ceiling was oak, and so was the floor—this last very slippery, so that it was as good as ice to slide upon.

Dennis and Maisie were glad to hear that they were to go into the long gallery when they arrived, and they found all Philippa’s visitors assembled there, with the musical box tinkling out its tunes in one of the window-seats. Miss Mervyn, who felt the long gallery very cold and draughty, was there too; she had brought in a chair from the play-room, and sat shivering by the huge fireplace, where a fire had been lighted; but the children, warmed with their games, looked merry and gay.

“Let’s have a dance!” exclaimed Philippa, as the musical box began a lively waltz tune; “Dennis shall be my partner.”

All the little figures in their bright dresses went whirling down the long shining floor, two and two, skirts fluttering and hair streaming out with the rapid movement. At the end of the long gallery the musical box was quite invisible, and its little thin voice could hardly be heard.

“It’s like a fairy tune being played up in the air,” said Maisie.

The musical box finished its waltz, and almost immediately struck up a solemn march.

“Now we’re soldiers,” said Dennis, “marching to the funeral of one of our comrades killed in battle. I’m captain.”

All the games suggested by the musical box were successful: even Philippa was pleased and happy, and Miss Mervyn began to think that the party might pass off without any quarrels or disturbance. But, unfortunately, Philippa at last had an idea which led to the overthrow of this pleasant state of things. This idea was that they should join in with the musical box when it played the “Bluebells of Scotland,” and have a concert. She herself would conduct, and play the violin. One child could sing the tune, another could whistle it, another could play it on a comb, another was provided with a small drum. Every one thought it a beautiful idea, and Philippa, very much excited, mounted on the window-seat by the musical box, violin in hand, with her band disposed round her.

But alas! Instead of the sweet sounds she hoped to hear, the most terrible discords arose at the first tinkling notes of the musical box. It was wonderful that such a small band could produce such a great noise, but perhaps this was because each child wanted to be heard above the rest. The whistling, screaming, squeaking, and banging, all in different keys and different time, quite overpowered the gentle plaintive notes of the violin and the correct melody of the musical box. Miss Mervyn at the end of the room covered her ears, and Philippa dropped her bow, and exclaimed angrily: “Stop! it’s a horrid noise.”

That was easily said, but no one paid any attention to it. The band went on screaming, banging, tootling, and whistling harder than ever.

“Stop, I say!” cried Philippa again, stamping her foot. “I’m the conductor. I say stop!”

But it had no result. She threw down her violin, and shook the musical box angrily, but there was no way of stopping that either: it went steadily on, regardless that she was beside herself with rage. In another moment she would have dashed it on the floor; but, fortunately, just at that instant Mrs Trevor appeared at the door. The sight of her had more effect than all Philippa’s rage. The band suddenly stopped, the din ceased, peace was restored. Miss Mervyn took her hands from her ears, and advanced from the other end of the room. Philippa flew to her mother, and hid her face in her gown.

“What is it, my darling?” said Mrs Trevor, looking fondly at her daughter, and severely at Miss Mervyn. “Why have you been making this dreadful noise?”

Philippa poured forth her complaints. She had wanted to have a concert—a proper concert—and they had done it all wrong, and they wouldn’t stop when she told them, and—

“Poor darling,” said Mrs Trevor, stroking Philippa’s hair caressingly, “she has such a sensitive ear.—It was hardly wise, I think, Miss Mervyn,” turning to that lady, “to allow such a noise. Really, when I opened the door, it was quite like a number of cats quarrelling. Quite enough to give Philippa one of her bad headaches for the rest of the day.”

Miss Mervyn looked as if that were likely to be her own case, but she only murmured that she had thought Philippa was enjoying herself, and that she had not liked to put a stop to the children’s amusements. The band meanwhile stood disconsolate. Philippa’s face had its fretful look, and everything was rather uncomfortable. Mrs Trevor glanced round in despair, and it was at this moment that Maisie gave things a welcome turn by stealing up to her cousin’s side, and saying softly, “Where’s the white kitten?”

The kitten had been on her mind ever since she arrived: she had not seen it, and did not even know that it had been received, for in the excitement of her party Philippa had quite forgotten to thank her cousins for their present.

“Ah!” said Mrs Trevor, in a tone of relief, “the kitten, to be sure.—Take Maisie to find the kitten, my darling, and have a quiet little game together in the schoolroom. I daresay Dennis will like to stay here, and play with the others until tea-time.”

For a wonder, Philippa was quite ready to do what was proposed, and the two little girls went away together.

“Did you like it?” asked Maisie anxiously. “It’s pretty, isn’t it? And it keeps itself very white. It’s the prettiest of all the kittens—next to ours.”

“I like it very much,” said Philippa graciously, “but it scratches. Miss Mervyn says it’s a savage kitten.”

“They all scratch, you know,” said Maisie seriously, as they entered the schoolroom; “when they’re quite little, they don’t know better. You’ll have to teach it to be good.”

“How?” asked Philippa, looking round the room for the kitten, which was nowhere to be seen.

“Entirely by kindness,” said Maisie, using an expression she had seen in one of her books.

“It’s hidden itself again,” said Philippa discontentedly; “it’s always hiding itself.”

This time the kitten had found a good hiding-place, and the little girls searched everywhere in vain for a long while. At last Maisie thought of lifting the silk cover on the top of Miss Mervyn’s work-basket, and there, snugly coiled in the midst of wools, knitting, and fancy work, lay the white kitten fast asleep! This was not the worst, for it had evidently amused itself first by a game of play. All the skeins of wool were twisted up in a tangle, and a quantity of silk was wound tightly round its claws.

“There!” said Philippa, “that’s the third wrong thing it’s done to-day! It’s torn mother’s lace, and scratched my arm, and tangled up all Miss Mervyn’s wool. Now she’ll want it to go away more than ever.”

Maisie looked at the white kitten with dismay. It did not seem to have made a good beginning in its new home.

“Will Miss Mervyn beveryangry?” she said. “Can’t we try to put the wool straight?”

“Oh,thatdoesn’t matter,” said Philippa coolly; “but itisa naughty kitten, isn’t it?”

Maisie lifted the kitten carefully out of its warm bed, and gently disentangled its claws from the silk.

“Well,” she said, “I don’t really believe itmeantto be naughty. Kittens always like to play, and then, you see, it always slept in a basket, so perhaps it thought this was its own. You must give it a ball or a cork, and then it won’t want to play with the wrong things.”

Philippa generally looked down upon Maisie and thought her babyish, but she had such motherly ways with the kitten, and gave advice with so much gravity, that she now listened with respect to what she said.

“Now you take it and nurse it a little,” she continued, putting the kitten, still half asleep, into Philippa’s arms, “and I’ll try to get the wool straight. What shall you call it? We call ours ‘Darkie,’ because he’s all black, you see. Dennis wanted to call him ‘Nigger,’ but I didn’t like that, and Aunt Katharine says Darkie means just the same.”

Philippa thought of a good many names, but was not satisfied with any of them, and still less with those suggested by Maisie.

“Iknow,” she exclaimed at last; “I’ve got a beautiful name that just suits it. I shall call it ‘Blanche.’ That’s French for white, you know,” she added for Maisie’s instruction. Maisie did not know, for she had not begun to learn French, but she quite agreed that Blanche was a lovely name, and seemed made for the white kitten.

After much patient effort she succeeded in untwisting Miss Mervyn’s wool from most of the knots and tangles, and putting the contents of the basket into something like order.

“There!” she said; “that’s as straight as I can make it.”

“I don’t see why you took so much trouble over it,” said Philippa; “it wasn’t your fault—it was the kitten’s.”

“Well, the kitten couldn’t put it straight,” replied Maisie. “It wasn’t half so mischievous as Darkie at home, but I expect it feels strange here just at first. When it gets to know you, it won’t be so naughty.”

She looked a little anxiously at the kitten, who was purring contentedly in Philippa’s arms.

“I hope,” she added, “it will be a nice, well-behaved cat when it grows up.”

“Itoughtto be the nicest of the three,” said Philippa; “that’s very certain.”

“Why?” asked Maisie.

“Well, you see,” said Philippa, with her chin in the air, “it will have such advantages here. It will sleep on my bed, and have cream for its tea, and it will always wear a lovely ribbon on its neck, or perhaps a collar with a bell. And it will have nothing to do but play, and never be with common, low people.”

Maisie looked thoughtful.

“The grey kitten’s very nice and affectionate,” she said, “though it isn’t pretty. It won’t have advantages though, because it’s got to go and do hard work.”

“What hard work?” asked Philippa.

“It’s going to catch mice for old Sally’s Eliza,” replied Maisie, “so of course it can’t sleep in any one’s bed—it will have to be up all night. And I don’t suppose it will have meals exactly except what it picks up. And I’msureit won’t wear a collar and a bell, because that would frighten the mice away.”

“Blanche will be better off than that,” said Philippa; “she’ll be a lady.”

“We shall be able to see, shan’t we,” said Maisie, “what sort of cats they are when they grow up. And then we can settle which is the best—Darkie, or Blanche, or the grey one.”

“What do you mean by the best?” said Philippa. “Do you mean the prettiest?”

“Oh dear, no,” said Maisie. She pondered the question for some minutes, and then added seriously: “I mean the one that’s the greatest comfort to the person it belongs to.”

Chapter Five.The Round Robin.And now that the white kitten was settled in its new home, the time was come for the departure of the grey one, and the day fixed when it should be taken to old Sally’s cottage. Maisie felt the parting a good deal, for it seemed to her that it was a very small weak thing to be sent out into the world to earn its living. It would have a very different life to Darkie and Blanche. They could dwell at ease, and need never catch mice except for their own pleasure; but the grey kitten had really hard work before it, and most likely would never be petted again after it left Fieldside. Maisie wondered whether the old cat, Madam, to whom she carefully explained everything, was at all worried and anxious about her children; but if so, she hid her feelings very well. Certainly she looked about a little after the white kitten had gone, and mewed once or twice in an inquiring sort of way, but she did not refuse comfort. On the contrary, when Maisie offered her some fish to distract her mind from her loss, she gobbled it up rather greedily, and even Darkie could not push his round head far into the dish.“I expect,” said Maisie, “if Madam could choose, she’d much rather send Darkie away and keep the grey one; Darkie bothers her so.”It was just after lesson time, and the children were making preparations to start with the kitten for old Sally’s cottage. Dennis was tying down the lid of a small hamper, and Maisie stood near, peeping through the crevices to see whether the kitten was comfortable.“There,” said Dennis, as he tied the last knot; “I’m glad it’s we that have got to choose, and not Madam, I wouldn’t keep this mean-looking kitten for anything. Now Darkie will be a splendid cat.”“Let me carry it,” said Maisie eagerly, and hugging the little basket with both arms, she followed Dennis rather sorrowfully out of the door which the kitten was not to enter again.“Idohope,” she said on the way, “that they’ll be kind to it.”“Oh, of course they will,” said Dennis; “don’t you remember old Sally said Eliza was quite silly over animals. That meant kind—extra kind.”Old Sally and her daughter Anne were busy when the children arrived, for they had a job of work given to them by Mrs Solace, who wanted some old cushions re-stuffed. On opening these, they had found that feathers instead of down had been used, and they both had a great deal to say on the subject. It was, however, almost impossible to talk without coughing and choking, for their cottage was quite full of fluff and feathers floating about in the air. The children stood in the doorway, and explained their errand as well as they could.“They’ve brought the kitten, mother,” screamed Anne.Old Sally had just re-filled a cushion, and was holding it before her at arm’s-length.“Is it fat enough?” she screamed back at her daughter.“It isn’t fat at all,” said Maisie, who with Dennis was untying the hamper; “it’s a thin little kitten, but it’s very good.”“Dear Miss Maisie,” said Anne, with a chuckling laugh, “it’s the cushion mother means, not the cat.”What with old Sally’s deafness, and the increasing thickness of the air, in which the two old figures were dimly seen as through a woolly veil, conversation was really impossible. There were many questions Maisie would have liked to ask about the kitten’s future comfort, but she saw that they would be useless; so she contented herself with quietly saying good-bye to her favourite, and dropping a few secret tears over it. Dennis, however, had made up his mind to know one thing, and he advanced a little way into the cottage, and shouted: “Is Tuvvy at work to-day?”Anne was seen indistinctly to nod in answer to this. “He’s got the sack, though,” she said. “He won’t be there not after next week.”The blow had fallen! Both the children left the cottage in low spirits, and for some time walked along in silence; Maisie grieving for the kitten, and Dennis with his mind full of Tuvvy’s disgrace. He had so hoped Mr Solace would not send him away. And now the worst had come, and soon there would be no Tuvvy in the barn.They had reached the middle of the rick-yard, and Maisie was casting her usual anxious glances round for the turkey-cock, when Dennis came to a sudden stop, and exclaimed:“I know what I’ll do!”“What?” said Maisie, looking at him inquiringly. She wished he would not stand still just there, but he spoke in such a determined manner that she knew it must be something important; so she stood still too, and waited for him to speak.“I shall go and ask Mr Solace to let Tuvvy stop,” he said.Maisie’s look changed to one of admiration, and almost of awe. “Shall you, really?” she said softly. “Do you think he will?”“I don’t know,” replied Dennis, beginning to walk on very quickly, “but I shall try to make him.”“But,” said Maisie, after a minute’s thought, “wouldn’t it be best to ask Tuvvy first to leave off having bouts?”Although she was a girl, and younger than himself, Dennis was quite ready to acknowledge that Maisie had very sensible ideas sometimes. He now stopped again, and stared at her. It would certainly be better to get Tuvvy’s promise first, but he felt he must carry out the interview alone.“Well,” he said slowly, “if I do, where will you wait? I couldn’t do it with you listening. Will you go back to old Sally’s?”But that, Maisie, remembering the fluff, quite refused to do. She would go and see Mrs Solace, she said, and this being settled, she went towards the house, and Dennis turned to the barn where Tuvvy worked.As he entered, and saw the familiar thin figure bending over the carpenter’s bench, he felt excited and nervous. How should he begin? As a rule, he did not talk much during these visits, and that made it more difficult now. He took his usual seat on a chopping-block near, and Tuvvy, after giving him one rapid sidelong glance, continued his work without speaking. He was making a ladder, and just now was arranging a heap of smoothly-turned rungs in neat rows. Dennis thought he had a rather shamefaced air, like the dog Peter when he knew he had done wrong. It was of no use to wait for him to make a remark, so he said carelessly:“Is that going to be a long ladder?”“Pretty tol’rable, master,” answered Tuvvy, his long lean fingers moving nimbly amongst the pieces of wood.“Shall you finish it in a week?” was Dennis’s next question.Tuvvy’s dark eyes flashed round at him for a second, but he only answered, “Pretty nigh.”Dennis was silent for a little while. Then he gathered his courage for a great effort, for he felt that it was of no use to beat about the bush any longer.“Mr Tuvvy,” he said, “I’m so sorry you’re going away.”“Thank ye, master,” said Tuvvy; “so be I.”“Why do you?” asked Dennis.“’Cause the gaffer sacked me,” answered Tuvvy.“But,” said Dennis, his courage rising, now that he had got into the thick of it, “he wouldn’t want you to go if he could help it. You’re a clever workman, aren’t you?”“Folks say so,” answered Tuvvy modestly.“Well,” said Dennis, “I mean to ask him to let you stop. Only you must promise me first not to have any more bouts.”Tuvvy was so taken by surprise, that he stopped working and turned his whole face round upon Dennis, who sat, an upright little figure, on the chopping-block, with a flushed and eager face.“Thank ye kindly, master,” he said, after a moment’s survey; “you mean well, but ’tain’t no use.”“Why not?” asked Dennis, in a resolute voice.“I couldn’t keep that there promise,” said Tuvvy, “not if I was to make it. There’s times when I can’t get past the Cross Keys; I’m drawed into it.”“Why do you pass it, then?” asked Dennis.“I don’t pass it, master, worse luck. I go in.”“But I mean,” said Dennis, getting still redder in the face with the effort to explain himself, “why do you go by the Cross Keys at all?”“Well, I have to,” said Tuvvy, “twice in the day. Once of a morning and once of a evening. I live at Upwell, you see, master.”Dennis had never known or cared where Tuvvy lived, and indeed it hardly seemed natural to think of him in any other place than at work in the barn. It was odd to think he had a home in Upwell.“Then,” he said thoughtfully, “you have to walk more than two miles each way.”“All that,” said Tuvvy—“more like three.”He bent over his work, and Dennis sat silent and rather despondent, with his eyes fixed on the ground. There was so little chance for Tuvvy, if he really could not pass the Cross Keys without being “drawed in.” There seemed nothing more to say. Presently, however, Tuvvy himself continued the conversation.“Night’s the worst,” he said, “and winter worse nor any. It’s mortal cold working here all day, and a man’s spirit’s pretty nigh freezed out of him by the time work’s done. And then there’s the tramp home, and long before I get to the village, I see the light behind the red blind at the Cross Keys. It streams out into the road, and it says: ‘Tuvvy,’ it says, ‘it’s warm in here, and you’re cold. There’s light in here, and a bit of talk, and a newspaper; and outside it’s all dark and lonesome, and a good long stretch to Upwell. Come in, and have a drop to cheer you up. You don’t need to stop more’n five minutes.’ And then—”Tuvvy stopped, raised his black eyebrows, and shook his head.“Well?” said Dennis.“Well, master,” repeated Tuvvy, “then I go in.”“And do you come out in five minutes?” asked Dennis.Tuvvy shook his head again: “It’s the red blind as draws me in,” he said, “and once I’m in, I stay there.”“Mr Tuvvy,” said Dennis, after a pause, with renewed hope in his voice, “I’ve thought of something. Why don’t you go home across the fields? You wouldn’t have to pass the Cross Keys then, you see, and wouldn’t see the red blind, and it couldn’t draw you in.”“There ain’t no way out into the road,” objected Tuvvy.“Thereis,” said Dennis; “I’ve often been. You’d have to cross over part of one of Aunt Katharine’s fields, and then there’s a stile into the Upwell road. It’s as straight as anything.”“Happen Miss Chester mightn’t like to see me tramping over her field,” said Tuvvy.“She won’t mind a bit. Besides, I’ll ask her to let you. So that’s all right,” said Dennis jumping up, “and I shall go and speak to Mr Solace at once.”He was nearly out of the barn when Tuvvy’s voice checked him.“Hold hard, master,” it said; “I ain’t given that there promise you was talking on.”“But you will,” said Dennis, coming close up to the carpenter’s bench, and looking earnestly up into Tuvvy’s dark face; “of course you will—won’t you?”Tuvvy made no answer for a moment. He seemed puzzled to account for all this interest on Dennis’s part, but at length he held out a hand almost black from hard work, and said:“Well master, here’s my hand on it. I’ll do my best.”Dennis put his own into it seriously.“That’s a bargain, Mr Tuvvy,” he said. “People always shake hands on bargains. And now it will be all right.”Tuvvy raised his eyebrows doubtfully.“Whether it is or whether ’tain’t,” he said, “you meant it kind, and I take it kind, master.”Dennis himself had no doubts at all as he ran across the rick-yard to the farmhouse. Mr Solace was so good-natured, he was always ready to do what he was asked, and Dennis knew quite well that he and Maisie were favourites. He felt still more anxious now that Tuvvy should not be sent away, for since this talk with him, he seemed to have taken his affairs under his protection. Tuvvy seemed to belong to him, and to depend on him for help and advice, and Dennis was determined to do his very best for him. So it was with a feeling of great importance that he entered the housekeeper’s room, where he was told that he should find Mrs Solace and his sister. They were both there, and both very busy, for Mrs Solace was making meat-pies, and Maisie, covered from head to foot with a big white apron, was learning how to roll out paste.“Did you want to see Andrewparticularly, my dear?” asked Mrs Solace. “Fact is, he’s in the office, over his accounts, and don’t want to be disturbed. If it’s a message from Miss Chester, you could leave it with me, couldn’t you? and I’ll be sure he has it.”“It isn’t a message from Aunt Katharine,” said Dennis. “It’s something Imustsay myself; something very important, indeed. Maisie knows it is,” he added, as Mrs Solace still hesitated.She looked at the children with some perplexity in her good-humoured face. She did not want to disturb Andrew just now, whose temper was seldom ruffled except when he was at his accounts. On the other hand, Dennis and Maisie were both fixing such imploring eyes upon her that she could not bear to say “No.”“Well, then,” she said, “you must just go and knock at the door and ask if you may go in. Butdon’tye stay long, my dear, else Andrew’ll be vexed, and it’s I who’ll bear the blame.”The office, where Mr Solace had retired to struggle with his accounts, was not a very business-like apartment. It was a small room with a door opening into the stable-yard, full of a great variety of articles, such as boots, whips, guns, walking-sticks, and pipes. In the window there was a big writing-table, covered with account-books and papers, and it was here that the farm men came to be paid on Saturday night. From his seat Mr Solace could see all that went on in the stable-yard, and could shout out orders to the men as they passed across it without leaving his chair. That was in summer, but now the window was shut and the room was quite full of the fumes of Mr Solace’s pipe, from which he was puffing angry clouds of tobacco, as he frowned over a great leather-bound book in front of him.He was a man of about fifty, with iron-grey hair and very blue eyes which looked keenly out under bushy brows. They were kindly eyes, but they were eyes which could fix themselves commandingly on man or beast, and seemed used to having their commands obeyed. They were set in a face so bronzed and reddened by an outdoor life, that this colour was all the more striking, except to old Sally, who spoke lightly of them compared to others she “minded” in the family. “They weren’t nothing at all to what old Mr Solace’s was,” she said. “Theywereblue, if you like.”Biting the top of his quill pen, and stamping his foot, when the figures were too much for his patience, the farmer had just travelled nearly up a long column, when a loud knock was heard at his door.At first he only grunted impatiently, for he knew that if he let go his calculation for an instant, he was a lost man, and would have to add it all up again. But almost immediately the knock was loudly repeated.“Come in,” he shouted, flinging down his pen and turning angrily towards the door. His gaze was directed to the height of a full-grown person, and he lowered it hastily to the level of Dennis’s small round head, and said in a softer tone: “Oh, it’s you, is it, my boy.”Dennis marched straight in at once, and stood at the farmer’s elbow. He was not a bit afraid of Mr Solace, and had prepared just what he meant to say, so he began without a pause.“I’ve come to ask you a favour, please.”“And I wish you’d come at any other time,” said Mr Solace good-naturedly; “but as you’re here, out with it.”Dennis’s favours were usually connected with jackdaws, or rabbits, or puppies, and no doubt this would be something of the same kind.“It’s a bigger one than ever I’ve asked before,” continued Dennis, “and I want it more than anything I’ve wanted before.”“Fire away!” said the farmer; “only make haste about it, because I’m busy.”“I want you,” said Dennis, speaking slowly and solemnly, as he drew up closer, “to let Tuvvy stop.”The farmer’s face changed. He gave a long low whistle.“Did he send you to ask me that?” he said.“No indeed,” replied Dennis indignantly; “I thought of it my very own self. He’s promised not to have any more bouts, if you’ll keep him on.”Mr Solace got up and stood with his elbow on the mantelpiece, looking down at Dennis.“Well, my boy,” he said, “that’s a thing I must say ‘No’ to. I’m forced to, by Tuvvy himself. I don’t want to send him away. I shan’t get another such a clever chap in his place.”“Then why do you?” asked Dennis.“Because I can’t put up with him any longer; I’ve been too soft-hearted already. I’ve winked at his goings-on again and again, and I’ve let him off times out of number. But now my mind’s made up.”“But he’spromised,” urged Dennis, “and he’s going to walk home the field-way, so as not to pass the Cross Keys. He says it’s the red blind that draws him in.”“H’m,” said the farmer, with a short laugh. “He don’t want muchdrawing, I fancy. And as for his promises—I’ve had enough of Tuvvy’s promises.”Dennis looked crestfallen. He had not expected this.“Won’t you try him just thisoncemore?” he pleaded.“Now, look here, Master Dennis,” said the farmer; “you know most of my men. They don’t call me a hard master, do they?”“No,” replied Dennis; “they say the gaffer’s very kind.”“Well, but there’s another thing I’ve got to think of besides kindness, and that’s justice. It isn’t fair, you see, to the other men to let Tuvvy off. Why, if I did, I shouldn’t have a steady workman about the place soon, and serve me right. They’d say: ‘There’s that chap Tuvvy can do as he likes, and drink and leave his master in the lurch, and yet he’s no worse off. Why shouldn’t we do the same? What’s the good of being sober and steady, and sticking to our work, if we don’t get anything by it?’”“But I’m sure,” said Dennis eagerly, “they’d all like Tuvvy to stop.”“That’s the worst of it,” said Mr Solace, with an annoyed jerk of his head. “I should like him to stop too. He’s such a clever rascal with his head as well as his hands. A hint does for him, where another man wants telling all the ins and outs of a thing, and doesn’t get it right in the end. Tuvvy’s got a head on his shoulders, and turns out his work just as it ought to be. It’s a pleasure to see it. But then, perhaps just at a busy time when we’re wanting some job he’s at, he’ll break out and have a regular fit of drinking for the best part of a week, and leave us all in the lurch. It’s no use. I can’t and won’t put up with it, and I oughtn’t to.”The farmer spoke as though arguing with his own weakness rather than with Dennis, who now ventured to ask: “If all the others wanted him to stay, would you let him?”“I’ll have nothing to do with asking them,” said the farmer, spreading out his hands. “I’ll have nothing more to do with Tuvvy at all. I’ve given him up. Now you run away, my boy, and let me get to my business.”Dennis stood for a minute, half uncertain whether he should put some more questions; but Mr Solace sat down to his desk, and grasped his pen with such determination, that he did not dare to make another attempt, and unwillingly left the office.He did not, however, entirely give up hope. Dennis was a stubborn little boy, and when he had fixed his mind upon a thing, he did not soon leave off trying to get it. Could Aunt Katharine help him, he wondered, as he and Maisie ran home together. At any rate he would tell her all about it, and ask for her advice. But when she had heard the story, Aunt Katharine did not seem to have much advice to give.“I don’t think you must worry Mr Solace any more, Dennis,” she said. “He knows best how to manage his own affairs and his own men. A little boy like you can’t understand such things. If the wheelwright behaves badly, of course he must lose his place.”“But,” persisted Dennis, “Mr Solace really does want to keep him, I know, only he says it isn’t fair to the other men.”“Well, you’d better get them to sign a Round Robin, then,” said Miss Chester, laughing; “Ican’t interfere.”She was hurrying away, as though there were no more to be said on the subject, but Dennis followed her.“Oh Aunt Katharine,” he said earnestly, taking hold of her dress, “dowait a minute, and tell me what you mean by a Round Robin.”Aunt Katharine was always willing to make things clear to the children if she could, and she now sat down patiently to explain to Dennis what a Round Robin was. When he quite understood, he ran quickly in search of Maisie that he might describe it to her before he forgot a word, and get her to help him in preparing one.

And now that the white kitten was settled in its new home, the time was come for the departure of the grey one, and the day fixed when it should be taken to old Sally’s cottage. Maisie felt the parting a good deal, for it seemed to her that it was a very small weak thing to be sent out into the world to earn its living. It would have a very different life to Darkie and Blanche. They could dwell at ease, and need never catch mice except for their own pleasure; but the grey kitten had really hard work before it, and most likely would never be petted again after it left Fieldside. Maisie wondered whether the old cat, Madam, to whom she carefully explained everything, was at all worried and anxious about her children; but if so, she hid her feelings very well. Certainly she looked about a little after the white kitten had gone, and mewed once or twice in an inquiring sort of way, but she did not refuse comfort. On the contrary, when Maisie offered her some fish to distract her mind from her loss, she gobbled it up rather greedily, and even Darkie could not push his round head far into the dish.

“I expect,” said Maisie, “if Madam could choose, she’d much rather send Darkie away and keep the grey one; Darkie bothers her so.”

It was just after lesson time, and the children were making preparations to start with the kitten for old Sally’s cottage. Dennis was tying down the lid of a small hamper, and Maisie stood near, peeping through the crevices to see whether the kitten was comfortable.

“There,” said Dennis, as he tied the last knot; “I’m glad it’s we that have got to choose, and not Madam, I wouldn’t keep this mean-looking kitten for anything. Now Darkie will be a splendid cat.”

“Let me carry it,” said Maisie eagerly, and hugging the little basket with both arms, she followed Dennis rather sorrowfully out of the door which the kitten was not to enter again.

“Idohope,” she said on the way, “that they’ll be kind to it.”

“Oh, of course they will,” said Dennis; “don’t you remember old Sally said Eliza was quite silly over animals. That meant kind—extra kind.”

Old Sally and her daughter Anne were busy when the children arrived, for they had a job of work given to them by Mrs Solace, who wanted some old cushions re-stuffed. On opening these, they had found that feathers instead of down had been used, and they both had a great deal to say on the subject. It was, however, almost impossible to talk without coughing and choking, for their cottage was quite full of fluff and feathers floating about in the air. The children stood in the doorway, and explained their errand as well as they could.

“They’ve brought the kitten, mother,” screamed Anne.

Old Sally had just re-filled a cushion, and was holding it before her at arm’s-length.

“Is it fat enough?” she screamed back at her daughter.

“It isn’t fat at all,” said Maisie, who with Dennis was untying the hamper; “it’s a thin little kitten, but it’s very good.”

“Dear Miss Maisie,” said Anne, with a chuckling laugh, “it’s the cushion mother means, not the cat.”

What with old Sally’s deafness, and the increasing thickness of the air, in which the two old figures were dimly seen as through a woolly veil, conversation was really impossible. There were many questions Maisie would have liked to ask about the kitten’s future comfort, but she saw that they would be useless; so she contented herself with quietly saying good-bye to her favourite, and dropping a few secret tears over it. Dennis, however, had made up his mind to know one thing, and he advanced a little way into the cottage, and shouted: “Is Tuvvy at work to-day?”

Anne was seen indistinctly to nod in answer to this. “He’s got the sack, though,” she said. “He won’t be there not after next week.”

The blow had fallen! Both the children left the cottage in low spirits, and for some time walked along in silence; Maisie grieving for the kitten, and Dennis with his mind full of Tuvvy’s disgrace. He had so hoped Mr Solace would not send him away. And now the worst had come, and soon there would be no Tuvvy in the barn.

They had reached the middle of the rick-yard, and Maisie was casting her usual anxious glances round for the turkey-cock, when Dennis came to a sudden stop, and exclaimed:

“I know what I’ll do!”

“What?” said Maisie, looking at him inquiringly. She wished he would not stand still just there, but he spoke in such a determined manner that she knew it must be something important; so she stood still too, and waited for him to speak.

“I shall go and ask Mr Solace to let Tuvvy stop,” he said.

Maisie’s look changed to one of admiration, and almost of awe. “Shall you, really?” she said softly. “Do you think he will?”

“I don’t know,” replied Dennis, beginning to walk on very quickly, “but I shall try to make him.”

“But,” said Maisie, after a minute’s thought, “wouldn’t it be best to ask Tuvvy first to leave off having bouts?”

Although she was a girl, and younger than himself, Dennis was quite ready to acknowledge that Maisie had very sensible ideas sometimes. He now stopped again, and stared at her. It would certainly be better to get Tuvvy’s promise first, but he felt he must carry out the interview alone.

“Well,” he said slowly, “if I do, where will you wait? I couldn’t do it with you listening. Will you go back to old Sally’s?”

But that, Maisie, remembering the fluff, quite refused to do. She would go and see Mrs Solace, she said, and this being settled, she went towards the house, and Dennis turned to the barn where Tuvvy worked.

As he entered, and saw the familiar thin figure bending over the carpenter’s bench, he felt excited and nervous. How should he begin? As a rule, he did not talk much during these visits, and that made it more difficult now. He took his usual seat on a chopping-block near, and Tuvvy, after giving him one rapid sidelong glance, continued his work without speaking. He was making a ladder, and just now was arranging a heap of smoothly-turned rungs in neat rows. Dennis thought he had a rather shamefaced air, like the dog Peter when he knew he had done wrong. It was of no use to wait for him to make a remark, so he said carelessly:

“Is that going to be a long ladder?”

“Pretty tol’rable, master,” answered Tuvvy, his long lean fingers moving nimbly amongst the pieces of wood.

“Shall you finish it in a week?” was Dennis’s next question.

Tuvvy’s dark eyes flashed round at him for a second, but he only answered, “Pretty nigh.”

Dennis was silent for a little while. Then he gathered his courage for a great effort, for he felt that it was of no use to beat about the bush any longer.

“Mr Tuvvy,” he said, “I’m so sorry you’re going away.”

“Thank ye, master,” said Tuvvy; “so be I.”

“Why do you?” asked Dennis.

“’Cause the gaffer sacked me,” answered Tuvvy.

“But,” said Dennis, his courage rising, now that he had got into the thick of it, “he wouldn’t want you to go if he could help it. You’re a clever workman, aren’t you?”

“Folks say so,” answered Tuvvy modestly.

“Well,” said Dennis, “I mean to ask him to let you stop. Only you must promise me first not to have any more bouts.”

Tuvvy was so taken by surprise, that he stopped working and turned his whole face round upon Dennis, who sat, an upright little figure, on the chopping-block, with a flushed and eager face.

“Thank ye kindly, master,” he said, after a moment’s survey; “you mean well, but ’tain’t no use.”

“Why not?” asked Dennis, in a resolute voice.

“I couldn’t keep that there promise,” said Tuvvy, “not if I was to make it. There’s times when I can’t get past the Cross Keys; I’m drawed into it.”

“Why do you pass it, then?” asked Dennis.

“I don’t pass it, master, worse luck. I go in.”

“But I mean,” said Dennis, getting still redder in the face with the effort to explain himself, “why do you go by the Cross Keys at all?”

“Well, I have to,” said Tuvvy, “twice in the day. Once of a morning and once of a evening. I live at Upwell, you see, master.”

Dennis had never known or cared where Tuvvy lived, and indeed it hardly seemed natural to think of him in any other place than at work in the barn. It was odd to think he had a home in Upwell.

“Then,” he said thoughtfully, “you have to walk more than two miles each way.”

“All that,” said Tuvvy—“more like three.”

He bent over his work, and Dennis sat silent and rather despondent, with his eyes fixed on the ground. There was so little chance for Tuvvy, if he really could not pass the Cross Keys without being “drawed in.” There seemed nothing more to say. Presently, however, Tuvvy himself continued the conversation.

“Night’s the worst,” he said, “and winter worse nor any. It’s mortal cold working here all day, and a man’s spirit’s pretty nigh freezed out of him by the time work’s done. And then there’s the tramp home, and long before I get to the village, I see the light behind the red blind at the Cross Keys. It streams out into the road, and it says: ‘Tuvvy,’ it says, ‘it’s warm in here, and you’re cold. There’s light in here, and a bit of talk, and a newspaper; and outside it’s all dark and lonesome, and a good long stretch to Upwell. Come in, and have a drop to cheer you up. You don’t need to stop more’n five minutes.’ And then—”

Tuvvy stopped, raised his black eyebrows, and shook his head.

“Well?” said Dennis.

“Well, master,” repeated Tuvvy, “then I go in.”

“And do you come out in five minutes?” asked Dennis.

Tuvvy shook his head again: “It’s the red blind as draws me in,” he said, “and once I’m in, I stay there.”

“Mr Tuvvy,” said Dennis, after a pause, with renewed hope in his voice, “I’ve thought of something. Why don’t you go home across the fields? You wouldn’t have to pass the Cross Keys then, you see, and wouldn’t see the red blind, and it couldn’t draw you in.”

“There ain’t no way out into the road,” objected Tuvvy.

“Thereis,” said Dennis; “I’ve often been. You’d have to cross over part of one of Aunt Katharine’s fields, and then there’s a stile into the Upwell road. It’s as straight as anything.”

“Happen Miss Chester mightn’t like to see me tramping over her field,” said Tuvvy.

“She won’t mind a bit. Besides, I’ll ask her to let you. So that’s all right,” said Dennis jumping up, “and I shall go and speak to Mr Solace at once.”

He was nearly out of the barn when Tuvvy’s voice checked him.

“Hold hard, master,” it said; “I ain’t given that there promise you was talking on.”

“But you will,” said Dennis, coming close up to the carpenter’s bench, and looking earnestly up into Tuvvy’s dark face; “of course you will—won’t you?”

Tuvvy made no answer for a moment. He seemed puzzled to account for all this interest on Dennis’s part, but at length he held out a hand almost black from hard work, and said:

“Well master, here’s my hand on it. I’ll do my best.”

Dennis put his own into it seriously.

“That’s a bargain, Mr Tuvvy,” he said. “People always shake hands on bargains. And now it will be all right.”

Tuvvy raised his eyebrows doubtfully.

“Whether it is or whether ’tain’t,” he said, “you meant it kind, and I take it kind, master.”

Dennis himself had no doubts at all as he ran across the rick-yard to the farmhouse. Mr Solace was so good-natured, he was always ready to do what he was asked, and Dennis knew quite well that he and Maisie were favourites. He felt still more anxious now that Tuvvy should not be sent away, for since this talk with him, he seemed to have taken his affairs under his protection. Tuvvy seemed to belong to him, and to depend on him for help and advice, and Dennis was determined to do his very best for him. So it was with a feeling of great importance that he entered the housekeeper’s room, where he was told that he should find Mrs Solace and his sister. They were both there, and both very busy, for Mrs Solace was making meat-pies, and Maisie, covered from head to foot with a big white apron, was learning how to roll out paste.

“Did you want to see Andrewparticularly, my dear?” asked Mrs Solace. “Fact is, he’s in the office, over his accounts, and don’t want to be disturbed. If it’s a message from Miss Chester, you could leave it with me, couldn’t you? and I’ll be sure he has it.”

“It isn’t a message from Aunt Katharine,” said Dennis. “It’s something Imustsay myself; something very important, indeed. Maisie knows it is,” he added, as Mrs Solace still hesitated.

She looked at the children with some perplexity in her good-humoured face. She did not want to disturb Andrew just now, whose temper was seldom ruffled except when he was at his accounts. On the other hand, Dennis and Maisie were both fixing such imploring eyes upon her that she could not bear to say “No.”

“Well, then,” she said, “you must just go and knock at the door and ask if you may go in. Butdon’tye stay long, my dear, else Andrew’ll be vexed, and it’s I who’ll bear the blame.”

The office, where Mr Solace had retired to struggle with his accounts, was not a very business-like apartment. It was a small room with a door opening into the stable-yard, full of a great variety of articles, such as boots, whips, guns, walking-sticks, and pipes. In the window there was a big writing-table, covered with account-books and papers, and it was here that the farm men came to be paid on Saturday night. From his seat Mr Solace could see all that went on in the stable-yard, and could shout out orders to the men as they passed across it without leaving his chair. That was in summer, but now the window was shut and the room was quite full of the fumes of Mr Solace’s pipe, from which he was puffing angry clouds of tobacco, as he frowned over a great leather-bound book in front of him.

He was a man of about fifty, with iron-grey hair and very blue eyes which looked keenly out under bushy brows. They were kindly eyes, but they were eyes which could fix themselves commandingly on man or beast, and seemed used to having their commands obeyed. They were set in a face so bronzed and reddened by an outdoor life, that this colour was all the more striking, except to old Sally, who spoke lightly of them compared to others she “minded” in the family. “They weren’t nothing at all to what old Mr Solace’s was,” she said. “Theywereblue, if you like.”

Biting the top of his quill pen, and stamping his foot, when the figures were too much for his patience, the farmer had just travelled nearly up a long column, when a loud knock was heard at his door.

At first he only grunted impatiently, for he knew that if he let go his calculation for an instant, he was a lost man, and would have to add it all up again. But almost immediately the knock was loudly repeated.

“Come in,” he shouted, flinging down his pen and turning angrily towards the door. His gaze was directed to the height of a full-grown person, and he lowered it hastily to the level of Dennis’s small round head, and said in a softer tone: “Oh, it’s you, is it, my boy.”

Dennis marched straight in at once, and stood at the farmer’s elbow. He was not a bit afraid of Mr Solace, and had prepared just what he meant to say, so he began without a pause.

“I’ve come to ask you a favour, please.”

“And I wish you’d come at any other time,” said Mr Solace good-naturedly; “but as you’re here, out with it.”

Dennis’s favours were usually connected with jackdaws, or rabbits, or puppies, and no doubt this would be something of the same kind.

“It’s a bigger one than ever I’ve asked before,” continued Dennis, “and I want it more than anything I’ve wanted before.”

“Fire away!” said the farmer; “only make haste about it, because I’m busy.”

“I want you,” said Dennis, speaking slowly and solemnly, as he drew up closer, “to let Tuvvy stop.”

The farmer’s face changed. He gave a long low whistle.

“Did he send you to ask me that?” he said.

“No indeed,” replied Dennis indignantly; “I thought of it my very own self. He’s promised not to have any more bouts, if you’ll keep him on.”

Mr Solace got up and stood with his elbow on the mantelpiece, looking down at Dennis.

“Well, my boy,” he said, “that’s a thing I must say ‘No’ to. I’m forced to, by Tuvvy himself. I don’t want to send him away. I shan’t get another such a clever chap in his place.”

“Then why do you?” asked Dennis.

“Because I can’t put up with him any longer; I’ve been too soft-hearted already. I’ve winked at his goings-on again and again, and I’ve let him off times out of number. But now my mind’s made up.”

“But he’spromised,” urged Dennis, “and he’s going to walk home the field-way, so as not to pass the Cross Keys. He says it’s the red blind that draws him in.”

“H’m,” said the farmer, with a short laugh. “He don’t want muchdrawing, I fancy. And as for his promises—I’ve had enough of Tuvvy’s promises.”

Dennis looked crestfallen. He had not expected this.

“Won’t you try him just thisoncemore?” he pleaded.

“Now, look here, Master Dennis,” said the farmer; “you know most of my men. They don’t call me a hard master, do they?”

“No,” replied Dennis; “they say the gaffer’s very kind.”

“Well, but there’s another thing I’ve got to think of besides kindness, and that’s justice. It isn’t fair, you see, to the other men to let Tuvvy off. Why, if I did, I shouldn’t have a steady workman about the place soon, and serve me right. They’d say: ‘There’s that chap Tuvvy can do as he likes, and drink and leave his master in the lurch, and yet he’s no worse off. Why shouldn’t we do the same? What’s the good of being sober and steady, and sticking to our work, if we don’t get anything by it?’”

“But I’m sure,” said Dennis eagerly, “they’d all like Tuvvy to stop.”

“That’s the worst of it,” said Mr Solace, with an annoyed jerk of his head. “I should like him to stop too. He’s such a clever rascal with his head as well as his hands. A hint does for him, where another man wants telling all the ins and outs of a thing, and doesn’t get it right in the end. Tuvvy’s got a head on his shoulders, and turns out his work just as it ought to be. It’s a pleasure to see it. But then, perhaps just at a busy time when we’re wanting some job he’s at, he’ll break out and have a regular fit of drinking for the best part of a week, and leave us all in the lurch. It’s no use. I can’t and won’t put up with it, and I oughtn’t to.”

The farmer spoke as though arguing with his own weakness rather than with Dennis, who now ventured to ask: “If all the others wanted him to stay, would you let him?”

“I’ll have nothing to do with asking them,” said the farmer, spreading out his hands. “I’ll have nothing more to do with Tuvvy at all. I’ve given him up. Now you run away, my boy, and let me get to my business.”

Dennis stood for a minute, half uncertain whether he should put some more questions; but Mr Solace sat down to his desk, and grasped his pen with such determination, that he did not dare to make another attempt, and unwillingly left the office.

He did not, however, entirely give up hope. Dennis was a stubborn little boy, and when he had fixed his mind upon a thing, he did not soon leave off trying to get it. Could Aunt Katharine help him, he wondered, as he and Maisie ran home together. At any rate he would tell her all about it, and ask for her advice. But when she had heard the story, Aunt Katharine did not seem to have much advice to give.

“I don’t think you must worry Mr Solace any more, Dennis,” she said. “He knows best how to manage his own affairs and his own men. A little boy like you can’t understand such things. If the wheelwright behaves badly, of course he must lose his place.”

“But,” persisted Dennis, “Mr Solace really does want to keep him, I know, only he says it isn’t fair to the other men.”

“Well, you’d better get them to sign a Round Robin, then,” said Miss Chester, laughing; “Ican’t interfere.”

She was hurrying away, as though there were no more to be said on the subject, but Dennis followed her.

“Oh Aunt Katharine,” he said earnestly, taking hold of her dress, “dowait a minute, and tell me what you mean by a Round Robin.”

Aunt Katharine was always willing to make things clear to the children if she could, and she now sat down patiently to explain to Dennis what a Round Robin was. When he quite understood, he ran quickly in search of Maisie that he might describe it to her before he forgot a word, and get her to help him in preparing one.

Chapter Six.Lost!“There!” said Dennis triumphantly, “we’ve got it right at last.”“There’s only one tiny smudge on it,” said Maisie, looking anxiously over his shoulder at the Round Robin.It had cost them nearly two days of earnest effort and repeated failure, for although Aunt Katharine had described exactly how it was to be done, she had left them to carry it out entirely by themselves. It sounded so easy to say: “Take a sheet of cardboard, and draw a large circle on it, leaving room for all the signatures you want. Then write the petition clearly in the middle, and that is a Round Robin.” But it was not so easy when you began to do it. First the circle was too large, and then it was too small, then there were mistakes in the spelling, and then there were too many blots; but at last, after wasting four sheets of cardboard, the Round Robin approached perfection. Aunt Katharine came in to see it, and smiled, and said she thought it would do.“But you’ve got a good deal before you yet, Dennis,” she added. “Do you think you shall be able to get all the men to sign?”“Every one of them,” said Dennis decidedly. “I shall begin with the bailiff, and end with the pig-man. He can’t write his name, but he can put a cross.”“It won’t matter which you begin or end with,” said Maisie, “because there isn’t any first and last in the Round Robin.”From this moment all Dennis’s energy and interest were spent upon getting the Round Robin signed. He could talk and think of nothing else, but though Maisie was eager for its success too, it did not entirely take her mind from other things. She often thought, for instance, of the two kittens in their new homes, and wondered how they were getting on, and whether Blanche was beginning to be a “comfort” to Philippa. Darkie was certainly growing handsome and more amusing every day, but perhaps he could not exactly be considered a “comfort.” Madam, his mother, at any rate did not find him one, and was often very vexed with him, because he would not give up the pranks and follies of childhood. She could no longer put up with it patiently, when he pounced upon her tail if she happened to whisk it, or played leap-frog over her back like a small black goblin. On such occasions she would spit at him angrily, and box his ears with the whole strength of her outstretched arm, but Darkie did not care a bit. He must play with some one, and as Peter the dog would not notice him, there was no one left but Madam. Dennis and Maisie were quite ready to have a game, but they were not to be compared to cats for fun and frolic, and besides, they began to have some tiresome ideas about training and education. Darkie must be taught to beg like Peter. Every morning, before he was allowed to taste his breakfast, he was made to go through certain exercises.“Beg, Darkie, beg,” Maisie would say, holding the plate high above his head; and then Dennis would place him forcibly down on his hind-legs, and lift up his front paws. Darkie was a cunning cat, and he soon found that begging was to his advantage, so he learned his lesson quickly, but it was only one of many which followed, and he got very tired of them.“Darkie can beg,” said Maisie, when she next saw Philippa. “How does Blanche get on?”Philippa had driven over to Fieldside with her mother one bright afternoon in April, and now she and Maisie were in the garden, Dennis as usual being absent on business connected with the Round Robin. Maisie had been very pleased to see Philippa when she first arrived, for she wanted to hear about the white kitten, and she looked forward to a pleasant talk with her. Before she had been there five minutes, however, it was easy to see that she was not in a nice mood. That was the worst of Philippa, Maisie always found. You could never take her up just at the point you left her; she might be agreeable, and she might be just the opposite. To-day she had her grown-up manner, and was full of little affected airs and graces, and Maisie, glancing at her once or twice, saw the reason of it. Philippa was wearing a new hat of the latest fashion, covered with the most beautiful drooping feathers, and she could not forget it for a moment.“If I can find Darkie,” repeated Maisie, “you should see him beg. He does it most beautifully.”“Fancy!” said Philippa, with a slight drawl and a little laugh. “Well, Blanche doesn’t need tobegfor anything. She gets all she wants without that.—Where’s Dennis?”Maisie repeated the story of Tuvvy and the Round Robin, and Philippa laughed again.“What odd things you do,” she said. “Mother says you’re not a bit like other people.”Maisie had been searching in vain for Darkie in all his usual haunts, and calling him at intervals, but no kitten appeared; there was only old Madam curled up in the sun, blinking in lazy comfort.“I’m afraid I shan’t find him,” she said, with a disappointed face. “He’s such a cunning cat. He knows we want to teach him things, so he often hides. Very likely he’s watching us now, somewhere quite near. But I did so want you to see him beg.”“Why do you teach him things?” asked Philippa, “It must be a great trouble to you, and he doesn’t like it either.”“Oh, but it’s good for him to learn,” said Maisie. “It makes him obedient and well-behaved.—Don’t you teach Blanche anything?”“Oh dear, no,” said Philippa. “She would scratch me if I tried, directly.”Maisie looked grave. “Do you think Blanche is growing a nice cat?” she asked presently.Philippa tossed her head, and made all the feathers on her hat wave.“She ought to be,” she said, “for she has all sorts of advantages. She’s got bells, and ribbons, and a clockwork mouse, but she hasn’t a very nice disposition. She often scratches. Miss Mervyn’s quite afraid of her, and mother would send her away at once if she wasn’t mine.”Maisie sighed. “I’m sorry,” she said, but in her own mind she felt sure that the white kitten was not properly managed.“I wonder,” she added aloud, “how the grey kitten will turn out. Aunt Katharine’s going in to Upwell to-morrow, and she’s promised to call at the tinsmith’s and ask after it.”Philippa yawned, and did not seem to feel much interest in the grey kitten.“How do you like my hat?” she asked, with a sudden liveliness in her voice. Before Maisie could answer, Aunt Katharine called the children from the drawing-room window. Mrs Trevor was going away, and just as they were seated in the carriage Dennis appeared, rather hot, but glowing with triumph.“Half of them have signed,” he said, waving the Round Robin in the air as he approached. Philippa leaned back languidly beside her mother, and gave a little affected wave of the hand to her cousins as she drove away.“What’s the matter with Philippa?” asked Dennis. “She’s got something new on, I suppose.”Without waiting for an answer, he proceeded to tell all he had done that afternoon. No one had refused to sign, although some of the men had a good deal to say before they did so, and others looked as though they did not understand the Round Robin very clearly.“But I think it will be all right,” finished Dennis; “and if I get them all, Mr Solace can’t refuse to let Tuvvy stop, can he?”Maisie agreed rather absently, for she was still thinking over her talk with Philippa. The white kitten’s home did not seem to have turned out very well so far, and she had expected it to be the best. Perhaps the grey kitten’s humble abode would be happier, after all, than Haughton Park.“Madam,” she said, turning to the old cat, who had chosen a sunny spot on the window ledge, and was taking a nap, “I’ve got some news for you. Aunt Katharine’s going to call at the tinsmith’s—that’s where old Sally’s Eliza lives, you know—and ask after your grey kitten.”“Shedoesn’t care,” said Dennis, laughing contemptuously, but Maisie knew Madam was pleased, for she tucked her front paws under her and purred. She would no doubt be anxious to hear about her kitten, and the next afternoon, when the time came to expect Aunt Katharine back from Upwell, Maisie stood waiting in the hall with the old cat tucked under her arm. Madam should hear the news directly it came. It seemed a long time in coming, and even when at last Aunt Katharine drove up to the door, she had so many parcels to look after, and so much to say about them, that Maisie could not ask any questions. She followed her aunt into the sitting-room, with Madam still clutched tightly to her side.“What is it, Maisie dear?” said Miss Chester. “Oh, the kitten, to be sure. I went to see it, but I’m sorry to tell you that they’re afraid it has run away.”At this sad news Madam struggled so violently that Maisie was obliged to let her slip down to the floor. Run away! That was the last thing Maisie had thought of.“Oh Aunt Katharine,” she cried, “how did it run away? Why did they let it?”But there was not much to be told about this. It was supposed that the kitten had run through the shop out into the street, and lost its way. At any rate, it had disappeared, and the tinsmith’s wife was very sorry.“Then,” said Maisie, “it’s lost! She might have taken more care of it. I wish we hadn’t given it to her!”Poor little grey kitten! Homeless and helpless in the wide world! It was so sad to think of it, that Maisie could not help crying, in spite of Aunt Katharine’s attempts to comfort her.“After all,” she sobbed out, “it hasn’t got a home at all, and we did take such trouble to find it one.”“Well, darling,” said her aunt, “we must hope it has got a good home still. Very likely some kind person found it, and took care of it.”“Do you really think so?” said Maisie, rubbing her eyes and looking up with a gleam of hope; “but perhaps,” she added sorrowfully, “an unkind person met it.”Aunt Katharine smiled and kissed her little niece.“Unfortunately, there are unkind people in the world, dear Maisie,” she said; “but I don’t think there are many who would hurt a little harmless kitten. So we must take all the comfort we can, and perhaps some day we shall find it again.”Maisie did her best to look on the bright side of the misfortune, but she could not help thinking of all the dangers the grey kitten was likely to meet. There were so many dogs in Upwell, dogs like Snip and Snap who delighted in chasing cats. There were carts and carriages too, and many things which the kitten was far too young to understand. Its ignorance of the world would lead it into all sorts of perils, and there was little chance that it would ever be heard of again. She tried to break the bad news as gently as possible to Madam, who seemed to listen with indifference, and presently fell off to sleep, as though there were no such thing as lost kittens in the world. Dennis also did not show very much concern; but he was just now so busy with other matters that perhaps this was not surprising.

“There!” said Dennis triumphantly, “we’ve got it right at last.”

“There’s only one tiny smudge on it,” said Maisie, looking anxiously over his shoulder at the Round Robin.

It had cost them nearly two days of earnest effort and repeated failure, for although Aunt Katharine had described exactly how it was to be done, she had left them to carry it out entirely by themselves. It sounded so easy to say: “Take a sheet of cardboard, and draw a large circle on it, leaving room for all the signatures you want. Then write the petition clearly in the middle, and that is a Round Robin.” But it was not so easy when you began to do it. First the circle was too large, and then it was too small, then there were mistakes in the spelling, and then there were too many blots; but at last, after wasting four sheets of cardboard, the Round Robin approached perfection. Aunt Katharine came in to see it, and smiled, and said she thought it would do.

“But you’ve got a good deal before you yet, Dennis,” she added. “Do you think you shall be able to get all the men to sign?”

“Every one of them,” said Dennis decidedly. “I shall begin with the bailiff, and end with the pig-man. He can’t write his name, but he can put a cross.”

“It won’t matter which you begin or end with,” said Maisie, “because there isn’t any first and last in the Round Robin.”

From this moment all Dennis’s energy and interest were spent upon getting the Round Robin signed. He could talk and think of nothing else, but though Maisie was eager for its success too, it did not entirely take her mind from other things. She often thought, for instance, of the two kittens in their new homes, and wondered how they were getting on, and whether Blanche was beginning to be a “comfort” to Philippa. Darkie was certainly growing handsome and more amusing every day, but perhaps he could not exactly be considered a “comfort.” Madam, his mother, at any rate did not find him one, and was often very vexed with him, because he would not give up the pranks and follies of childhood. She could no longer put up with it patiently, when he pounced upon her tail if she happened to whisk it, or played leap-frog over her back like a small black goblin. On such occasions she would spit at him angrily, and box his ears with the whole strength of her outstretched arm, but Darkie did not care a bit. He must play with some one, and as Peter the dog would not notice him, there was no one left but Madam. Dennis and Maisie were quite ready to have a game, but they were not to be compared to cats for fun and frolic, and besides, they began to have some tiresome ideas about training and education. Darkie must be taught to beg like Peter. Every morning, before he was allowed to taste his breakfast, he was made to go through certain exercises.

“Beg, Darkie, beg,” Maisie would say, holding the plate high above his head; and then Dennis would place him forcibly down on his hind-legs, and lift up his front paws. Darkie was a cunning cat, and he soon found that begging was to his advantage, so he learned his lesson quickly, but it was only one of many which followed, and he got very tired of them.

“Darkie can beg,” said Maisie, when she next saw Philippa. “How does Blanche get on?”

Philippa had driven over to Fieldside with her mother one bright afternoon in April, and now she and Maisie were in the garden, Dennis as usual being absent on business connected with the Round Robin. Maisie had been very pleased to see Philippa when she first arrived, for she wanted to hear about the white kitten, and she looked forward to a pleasant talk with her. Before she had been there five minutes, however, it was easy to see that she was not in a nice mood. That was the worst of Philippa, Maisie always found. You could never take her up just at the point you left her; she might be agreeable, and she might be just the opposite. To-day she had her grown-up manner, and was full of little affected airs and graces, and Maisie, glancing at her once or twice, saw the reason of it. Philippa was wearing a new hat of the latest fashion, covered with the most beautiful drooping feathers, and she could not forget it for a moment.

“If I can find Darkie,” repeated Maisie, “you should see him beg. He does it most beautifully.”

“Fancy!” said Philippa, with a slight drawl and a little laugh. “Well, Blanche doesn’t need tobegfor anything. She gets all she wants without that.—Where’s Dennis?”

Maisie repeated the story of Tuvvy and the Round Robin, and Philippa laughed again.

“What odd things you do,” she said. “Mother says you’re not a bit like other people.”

Maisie had been searching in vain for Darkie in all his usual haunts, and calling him at intervals, but no kitten appeared; there was only old Madam curled up in the sun, blinking in lazy comfort.

“I’m afraid I shan’t find him,” she said, with a disappointed face. “He’s such a cunning cat. He knows we want to teach him things, so he often hides. Very likely he’s watching us now, somewhere quite near. But I did so want you to see him beg.”

“Why do you teach him things?” asked Philippa, “It must be a great trouble to you, and he doesn’t like it either.”

“Oh, but it’s good for him to learn,” said Maisie. “It makes him obedient and well-behaved.—Don’t you teach Blanche anything?”

“Oh dear, no,” said Philippa. “She would scratch me if I tried, directly.”

Maisie looked grave. “Do you think Blanche is growing a nice cat?” she asked presently.

Philippa tossed her head, and made all the feathers on her hat wave.

“She ought to be,” she said, “for she has all sorts of advantages. She’s got bells, and ribbons, and a clockwork mouse, but she hasn’t a very nice disposition. She often scratches. Miss Mervyn’s quite afraid of her, and mother would send her away at once if she wasn’t mine.”

Maisie sighed. “I’m sorry,” she said, but in her own mind she felt sure that the white kitten was not properly managed.

“I wonder,” she added aloud, “how the grey kitten will turn out. Aunt Katharine’s going in to Upwell to-morrow, and she’s promised to call at the tinsmith’s and ask after it.”

Philippa yawned, and did not seem to feel much interest in the grey kitten.

“How do you like my hat?” she asked, with a sudden liveliness in her voice. Before Maisie could answer, Aunt Katharine called the children from the drawing-room window. Mrs Trevor was going away, and just as they were seated in the carriage Dennis appeared, rather hot, but glowing with triumph.

“Half of them have signed,” he said, waving the Round Robin in the air as he approached. Philippa leaned back languidly beside her mother, and gave a little affected wave of the hand to her cousins as she drove away.

“What’s the matter with Philippa?” asked Dennis. “She’s got something new on, I suppose.”

Without waiting for an answer, he proceeded to tell all he had done that afternoon. No one had refused to sign, although some of the men had a good deal to say before they did so, and others looked as though they did not understand the Round Robin very clearly.

“But I think it will be all right,” finished Dennis; “and if I get them all, Mr Solace can’t refuse to let Tuvvy stop, can he?”

Maisie agreed rather absently, for she was still thinking over her talk with Philippa. The white kitten’s home did not seem to have turned out very well so far, and she had expected it to be the best. Perhaps the grey kitten’s humble abode would be happier, after all, than Haughton Park.

“Madam,” she said, turning to the old cat, who had chosen a sunny spot on the window ledge, and was taking a nap, “I’ve got some news for you. Aunt Katharine’s going to call at the tinsmith’s—that’s where old Sally’s Eliza lives, you know—and ask after your grey kitten.”

“Shedoesn’t care,” said Dennis, laughing contemptuously, but Maisie knew Madam was pleased, for she tucked her front paws under her and purred. She would no doubt be anxious to hear about her kitten, and the next afternoon, when the time came to expect Aunt Katharine back from Upwell, Maisie stood waiting in the hall with the old cat tucked under her arm. Madam should hear the news directly it came. It seemed a long time in coming, and even when at last Aunt Katharine drove up to the door, she had so many parcels to look after, and so much to say about them, that Maisie could not ask any questions. She followed her aunt into the sitting-room, with Madam still clutched tightly to her side.

“What is it, Maisie dear?” said Miss Chester. “Oh, the kitten, to be sure. I went to see it, but I’m sorry to tell you that they’re afraid it has run away.”

At this sad news Madam struggled so violently that Maisie was obliged to let her slip down to the floor. Run away! That was the last thing Maisie had thought of.

“Oh Aunt Katharine,” she cried, “how did it run away? Why did they let it?”

But there was not much to be told about this. It was supposed that the kitten had run through the shop out into the street, and lost its way. At any rate, it had disappeared, and the tinsmith’s wife was very sorry.

“Then,” said Maisie, “it’s lost! She might have taken more care of it. I wish we hadn’t given it to her!”

Poor little grey kitten! Homeless and helpless in the wide world! It was so sad to think of it, that Maisie could not help crying, in spite of Aunt Katharine’s attempts to comfort her.

“After all,” she sobbed out, “it hasn’t got a home at all, and we did take such trouble to find it one.”

“Well, darling,” said her aunt, “we must hope it has got a good home still. Very likely some kind person found it, and took care of it.”

“Do you really think so?” said Maisie, rubbing her eyes and looking up with a gleam of hope; “but perhaps,” she added sorrowfully, “an unkind person met it.”

Aunt Katharine smiled and kissed her little niece.

“Unfortunately, there are unkind people in the world, dear Maisie,” she said; “but I don’t think there are many who would hurt a little harmless kitten. So we must take all the comfort we can, and perhaps some day we shall find it again.”

Maisie did her best to look on the bright side of the misfortune, but she could not help thinking of all the dangers the grey kitten was likely to meet. There were so many dogs in Upwell, dogs like Snip and Snap who delighted in chasing cats. There were carts and carriages too, and many things which the kitten was far too young to understand. Its ignorance of the world would lead it into all sorts of perils, and there was little chance that it would ever be heard of again. She tried to break the bad news as gently as possible to Madam, who seemed to listen with indifference, and presently fell off to sleep, as though there were no such thing as lost kittens in the world. Dennis also did not show very much concern; but he was just now so busy with other matters that perhaps this was not surprising.

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