Chapter Seven.

Chapter Seven.Found!Meanwhile, what had become of the grey kitten? To learn this we must go back to the time when it began its life in the tinsmith’s house at Upwell under the care of old Sally’s Eliza. It was kept in the kitchen at first, but by degrees, as it got used to the place, it was allowed to run about where it liked, and its favourite room was the little back parlour opening into the shop. Now the shop was forbidden ground, and it was always chased back if it tried to enter: so perhaps it was for this very reason that it seemed to have fixed its mind on doing it, and one afternoon the chance came. Its mistress was busy behind the counter serving some customers: the parlour door was open; no one noticed the grey kitten, and it marched boldly in.Pleased to find itself in the midst of so many new and shining things, it played about happily for some time, trying to catch the merry shadowy figures which danced on all the bright surfaces around. It was great fun at first, to make springs and dashes at them with its soft little paws, but finding they were never to be caught, it got tired, and looked about for fresh amusement. Unluckily its eye fell on the open door leading into the busy street, and without a thought of fear it trotted out, and cantered, tail on high, gaily down the pavement.Too young to understand that it was in the midst of dangers, it saw nothing to alarm, and much that was amusing in all it passed. Now and then it stopped on its way to play with a straw, or chase a fly, and by degrees got a long distance from the tinsmith’s shop. It was now late in the afternoon, a drizzling rain had begun to fall, and it was so dull and cold that it was almost like winter. The kitten began to feel wet and miserable. It looked round for shelter and warmth, shook one little damp paw, and gave a tiny mew.“Hulloa!” cried a rough loud voice, “what’s this?” A rough hand grasped it, and held it up high above the ground.A troop of boys was pouring out from a school-house near, shouting, whistling, calling out to each other, and making the place echo with their noise. The one who had seized the kitten was a big stout fellow of about fourteen, with red hair and small greenish eyes.“Who wants a cat to make into pies?” he bawled at the top of his voice, holding his prize above the crowd of boys who gathered round him. The kitten, its little weak body dangling helplessly, turned its terrified eyes downwards on all the eager faces.“Who’ll buy?” cried the boy again.“Mi-auw,” said the kitten piteously.“Give yer five marbles for it, Bill!”“Give yer tuppence.”“Give yer a lump of hardbake.”One after another the shrill voices sounded above the general noise and clatter, but Bill shook his head.“Not near enough,” he said; “and come to think of it, I shall keep it myself, and have some sport with it. We’ll have a cat-chase, sure’s my name’s Bill.”As he spoke, another boy joined the group. He was much smaller than Bill, slight and thin, with a brown face and very twinkling dark eyes. His clothes were poor, and there was more than one hole in the ragged jacket buttoned tightly round him.“I’ll give yer my knife for’t, Bill,” he said quickly.This was a good offer. Bill hesitated; but casting a glance at the boy’s dark eager face, he exclaimed:“Ah, it’s you, is it, Dan Tuvvy; then don’t you wish you may get it? I’ll just keep it myself.”“’Tain’t yourn,” said Dan shrilly.“’Tain’t yourn, anyhow,” said Bill, with a glare in his green eyes.The small boy’s features worked with excitement. “I’ll fight yer for it, then,” he said, doubling his fists, and at this there was a loud laugh from the others, for he was about half Bill’s size.“Go it, Tuvvy,” cried one, patting him on the back; “go in and win.”“I ain’t a-goin’ to fight a little chap like you,” said Bill, moving off sullenly with the kitten under his arm. “So don’t you think it.”“You give me the cat, then,” said Dan, following him. “’Ere’s my knife, with three blades, and on’y one broke.”“Git out with yer,” said Bill contemptuously. “I tell yer I’m a-goin’ to have a cat-chase with this ’ere kitten. So no more bother about it.”“You’re afraid,” snarled Dan, running along by his side. “I wouldn’t be a big chap like you, and be afraid—that I wouldn’t.”“Take that, then,” said Bill, turning suddenly, “if youwillhave it;” and he gave the small boy a blow which struck him to the ground.In a moment he was up again, quite undaunted.“Come on, then,” he cried, doubling his fists and dancing round his enemy, “if youaren’tafraid.”“A fight! a fight!” sounded from all sides; and there seemed no doubt of it, for Bill’s temper was roused.“Ketch ’old for a minnit,” he said, holding out the kitten, for which a dozen grimy hands were outstretched; “’twon’t take long—”So all the boys thought. It would be short but exciting, for the two were old enemies, and likely to fight with spirit. They placed themselves in a ring, with hoarse shouts of encouragement and approval, and the fight began; the kitten adding its plaintive mew from time to time to the general noise.At first it seemed that one blow from Bill’s heavy hand would be enough to finish the affair; but it was soon evident that Dan’s lean figure and nimble movements were greatly to his advantage. He sprang about in such a swift and agile manner, that he seemed everywhere at once; and while Bill was turning to deal a blow, or to catch hold of him, he had ducked his small black head and escaped. Buttoned tightly in his narrow jacket, which he had not taken off, his straight thin figure offered nothing for the hand to grasp, so that it was like trying to lay hold of a wriggling, slippery eel. It was certainly a much better fight than could have been expected from the unequal size of the rivals, and Bill’s face grew a deep red, as much with rage as with his vain efforts to close with Dan, who skipped round him breathless but full of spirit. Suddenly, however, while the excitement was at its height, there came a cry of alarm from the onlookers, “The bobby! the bobby!”A blue uniform turned the corner. The crowd split up, and vanished like magic as the policeman came towards them. Bill turned away sulkily, and Dan seizing the kitten, which had been dropped on the ground, ran off at the top of his speed.Without turning his head, to see if his enemy was in pursuit, he sped down the street past the school-house, clasping the kitten to his breast. Soon he had left the shops and busy part of the town behind him, and reached the outskirts, where the houses were poor and mean, and there were ragged people standing about on the door-steps. He gave a quick glance over his shoulder now, and seeing no sign of Bill or the policeman, slackened his pace, loosened the tight pressure of his hand on the kitten, and stroked it gently.“Poor little kit,” he said, “nice little kit. How pleased Becky’ll be with it.”It was hard to say whether Dan or the kitten was most exhausted by all they had been through. His fight, his rapid run, and the excitement of the whole affair had made him so breathless, that he was glad to lean against a lamp-post and pant. As for the grey kitten, it lay almost lifeless on his breast, its eyes closed, its little body quite limp, and its heart beating so faintly that it could hardly be felt. The boy looked down at it with pity.“Looks pretty bad,” he murmured; “they’ve mauled it about so. P’r’aps a drop of milk would set it up.”Urged by this thought, he made an effort to go on again at a slower pace, still panting a good deal, and presently reached a row of small cottages, one of which he entered. A child’s voice from a dark corner of the poorly-furnished kitchen cried, as he opened the door, “Mother, it ain’t father; it’s Dan;” and a woman, who was bending over a pot on the fire, turned towards him.“Well,” she said fretfully, “what makesyouso late? It’s bad enough to have your father coming in at all hours and wanting his supper.”Dan made no answer, but hurried up to the corner from which the child’s voice had sounded. “See here, Becky,” he said softly; “see what I’ve brought you!”The child, a girl of about eight years old, raised herself eagerly on the hard couch on which she was lying. She was very like Dan, with the same brown skin and dark eyes, but the eyes had no merry twinkle in them. Her face was thin and drawn, and had the appealing look which comes of suffering borne with patience.“Is it a rabbit, Dan?” she asked, peering at the soft furry thing in her brother’s arms.“It’s a little cat,” said Dan, putting the kitten gently down by her side, “as Bill was going to ill-treat.”Becky touched the kitten with her thin fingers. “Its eyes is shut,” she said. “Oh Dan, I’m feared it’s dead.”The woman had now drawn near to look at the kitten too. She had a fair skin and very pale blue eyes, which were always wide open, as though she were surprised at something; when this expression changed, it became a fretful one, which had also got into the tone of her voice.“Give us a drop o’ milk, mother,” said Dan; “that’ll do it good.”“Milk indeed!” said Mrs Tuvvy; “and what next? Where’s the money to come from to buy milk for cats, when goodness knows if we shall soon have bit or drop to put into our own mouths?”Neither of the children took any notice of their mother’s remarks, or answered the questions which she continued to put.“How do you suppose we’re going to live, now yer father’s got turned off? Who’s a-goin’ to pay the doctor’s bill, I should like to know?”Dan rose and fetched from the table a small basin covered with a saucer.“That’s yer supper,” said Mrs Tuvvy mournfully. “You ain’t never goin’ to give it to the cat! Well, you won’t get no more.”Dan knelt by the couch, and tried to put a little warm milk into the kitten’s mouth with the spoon, but its teeth were firmly shut.“You open its mouth, Dan, and I’ll feed it,” said Becky eagerly. “There, it swallowed that—now some more. See; it’s better already.”For the kitten had opened its eyes, and given itself a little stretch. Soon it was able to lap some milk out of the saucer, and to eat some crumbled bread.“Ain’t it a little dear?” said Becky, her thin face lighted up with pleasure. “Oh Dan, it’s purring! It must be quite well, mustn’t it?”“I expect it’ll want a good long sleep first,” said Dan, looking gravely at the kitten, which had curled itself up by Becky’s side, and begun a faint little song of thankfulness; “it’s been through a deal.”He took his neglected supper, and sat down to eat it at the foot of Becky’s couch, while Mrs Tuvvy returned to her cooking at the fire, still grumbling half aloud. There was not much bread and milk, and Dan, who always had a good appetite, was unusually hungry after his exertions that afternoon. He had been through a deal, as well as the kitten. But by dint of talking to his sister between each spoonful, he managed to eke out the meal, and make it seem much more. Becky listened with the most eager interest, meanwhile, to all the details of the fight, the policeman, and the escape of Dan with the kitten. When there was no more to tell, and very little more to eat, she leaned back on her couch and sighed.“He’s a reg’lar bad un, that Bill!” she said presently. “Will he want to fight again?”Dan shook his head. “I shan’t come across him no more,” he said; “not now I’m going to a place.”“I forgot,” said Becky wearily. “Oh Dan, how long the days’ll be when you don’t come home to dinner. Whatever shall I do?”“Why,” said Dan soothingly, “you won’t be alone now. You’ll have the kit.”Becky gave a faint little smile.“I mean to get you a good long bit of string,” went on Dan, “and tie a cork to the end, and then, you see, you’ll bounce it about for the kit to play with, and carry on fine, without moving.”“I suppose it’ll get to know me after a bit, won’t it?” said Becky, evidently pleased with Dan’s idea.“Just about,” answered her brother decidedly. Becky looked down fondly at the small grey form on her arm.“Dr Price’s dogs came in with him to-day,” she said, “but they mustn’t come in no more now. They’d worry it to death. Mother told him to-day,” she added in a lower tone, “as how she couldn’t pay his bill, because of father.”“What did he say?” asked Dan.“He said, ‘That’s a bad job, Mrs Tuvvy, but it can’t be helped.’”“Did he say you were getting better?” asked Dan again, scraping his basin carefully round with his spoon.“He said I wanted plenty of rest, and plenty of nourishing food,” said Becky. “What’s nourishing food, Dan?”“Nice things,” said Dan, balancing his spoon on the edge of his basin, and smacking his hungry lips; “chickens, and jellies, and pies, and such like.”“Oh,” said Becky, with a patient sigh. “Well, we shan’t have no money at all now, so we can’t get any of ’em.”“I shall get six shillings a week when I begin work,” said Dan; “and there’s what mother gets charing. But then there’s the rent, you see, and father getting nothing—”He broke off, for the door opened, and Tuvvy himself appeared with his basket of tools on his shoulder. The children looked at him silently as he flung himself into a chair, but his wife began immediately in a tone of mild reproachfulness.“Yer supper’s been waiting this ever so long, and it wasn’t much to boast of to begin with, but there—I s’pose we may be thankful to get a bit of dry bread now.”She poured the contents of the saucepan into a dish, sighing and lamenting over it as she did so.“’Tain’t what I’ve been used to, as was always brought up respectable, and have done my duty to the children. And there’s the doctor’s bill—I s’pose he won’t come to see Becky no more till that’s paid—and there she is on her back a cripple, as you may call it, for life p’r’aps. And what is it you mean to turn to, now you’ve lost a good place?”As long as there was a mouthful of his supper left, Tuvvy preserved a strict silence; but when his plate was empty, he pushed it away, and said grimly, “Gaffer’s goin’ to let me stop on.”“Stop on!” repeated Mrs Tuvvy. She stopped short in her progress across the kitchen, and let the empty plate she was carrying fall helplessly at her side. “Stop on!” she repeated.“Ain’t I said so?” answered Tuvvy, pressing down the tobacco in his pipe with his thumb.Mrs Tuvvy seemed incapable of further speech, and stood gazing at her husband with her mouth partly open. It was Becky who exclaimed, with a faint colour of excitement in her cheek, “Oh father, what made him?”“Do tell us, father,” added Dan, touching him gently on the arm.Tuvvy looked round at the boy’s earnest face, and then down at the table, and began to draw figures on it with the stem of his pipe. Mrs Tuvvy hovered a little nearer, and Becky sat upright on her couch, with eagerness in her eyes as her father began to speak.“It was along of a little gentleman, Dennis Chester his name is, who used to come and see me work. He asked the gaffer, and gaffer said ‘No.’ So then he says, ‘Will you let him stop,’ says he, ‘if the others are agreeable?’ and to that the gaffer says neither yes nor no. But this morning he sends for me, and ‘Tuvvy,’ he says, ‘I’ve had a Round Robin about you.’ ‘And what sort of a bird is that, master?’ says I. ‘’Tain’t a bird at all,’ he says, ‘it’s this,’ and then he showed it me.”“What ever was it?” asked Dan, as his father paused.Tuvvy made a large circle in the air with the stem of his pipe.“’Twas a round drawed like that on a bit of card, and inside of it was wrote as follers: ‘We which have signed our names, ask Mr Solace to keep Mr Tuvvy in his service.’ All the men’s names was round the outside, and the little gentleman’s name as well.”“What did Mr Solace say?” asked Dan.“He said, ‘You ain’t deserved it, Tuvvy.’”“No more yer ’ave,” said Mrs Tuvvy, regaining her speech.“But,” continued her husband, “the gaffer went on to say that, along of Master Chester, who’d taken such a lot of trouble, he’d give me another chance. So that’s all about it.”“And in all my born days,” broke out Mrs Tuvvy, “I never heard of anything so singuller. Whatever made Master Chester take such a fancy toyou, I wonder?”“So I’m to stop on,” continued Tuvvy, putting his pipe in his mouth, and turning his back on his wife.“And I hope,” said poor Mrs Tuvvy, beginning to cry a little from the relief of the good news, “Idohope, Benjamin, as it’ll be a lesson as you’ll take to ’art, and keep away from the drink; and if ever a man had reason to keep steady, you ’ave, with Dan growin’ up, and Becky’s doctor’s bill to pay, and—” Mrs Tuvvy did not speak angrily, or raise her voice above a soft complaining drawl; but it seemed to have a disturbing effect upon her husband, who, when she reached this point, sprang up and flung himself towards the door.“Look, father,” said Becky’s childish voice from her corner. “See here what Dan’s brought me!”“Filling the house with cats and dogs and rubbish,” mourned Mrs Tuvvy, joining the remark to her interrupted sentence.“We ain’t got no dogs, anyhow, mother,” said Dan, as his father turned from the door and went up to Becky’s side; “a morsel of a kitten won’t eat much. She’ll have a bit of my supper till she’s older, and then she’ll catch mice and get her own living.”

Meanwhile, what had become of the grey kitten? To learn this we must go back to the time when it began its life in the tinsmith’s house at Upwell under the care of old Sally’s Eliza. It was kept in the kitchen at first, but by degrees, as it got used to the place, it was allowed to run about where it liked, and its favourite room was the little back parlour opening into the shop. Now the shop was forbidden ground, and it was always chased back if it tried to enter: so perhaps it was for this very reason that it seemed to have fixed its mind on doing it, and one afternoon the chance came. Its mistress was busy behind the counter serving some customers: the parlour door was open; no one noticed the grey kitten, and it marched boldly in.

Pleased to find itself in the midst of so many new and shining things, it played about happily for some time, trying to catch the merry shadowy figures which danced on all the bright surfaces around. It was great fun at first, to make springs and dashes at them with its soft little paws, but finding they were never to be caught, it got tired, and looked about for fresh amusement. Unluckily its eye fell on the open door leading into the busy street, and without a thought of fear it trotted out, and cantered, tail on high, gaily down the pavement.

Too young to understand that it was in the midst of dangers, it saw nothing to alarm, and much that was amusing in all it passed. Now and then it stopped on its way to play with a straw, or chase a fly, and by degrees got a long distance from the tinsmith’s shop. It was now late in the afternoon, a drizzling rain had begun to fall, and it was so dull and cold that it was almost like winter. The kitten began to feel wet and miserable. It looked round for shelter and warmth, shook one little damp paw, and gave a tiny mew.

“Hulloa!” cried a rough loud voice, “what’s this?” A rough hand grasped it, and held it up high above the ground.

A troop of boys was pouring out from a school-house near, shouting, whistling, calling out to each other, and making the place echo with their noise. The one who had seized the kitten was a big stout fellow of about fourteen, with red hair and small greenish eyes.

“Who wants a cat to make into pies?” he bawled at the top of his voice, holding his prize above the crowd of boys who gathered round him. The kitten, its little weak body dangling helplessly, turned its terrified eyes downwards on all the eager faces.

“Who’ll buy?” cried the boy again.

“Mi-auw,” said the kitten piteously.

“Give yer five marbles for it, Bill!”

“Give yer tuppence.”

“Give yer a lump of hardbake.”

One after another the shrill voices sounded above the general noise and clatter, but Bill shook his head.

“Not near enough,” he said; “and come to think of it, I shall keep it myself, and have some sport with it. We’ll have a cat-chase, sure’s my name’s Bill.”

As he spoke, another boy joined the group. He was much smaller than Bill, slight and thin, with a brown face and very twinkling dark eyes. His clothes were poor, and there was more than one hole in the ragged jacket buttoned tightly round him.

“I’ll give yer my knife for’t, Bill,” he said quickly.

This was a good offer. Bill hesitated; but casting a glance at the boy’s dark eager face, he exclaimed:

“Ah, it’s you, is it, Dan Tuvvy; then don’t you wish you may get it? I’ll just keep it myself.”

“’Tain’t yourn,” said Dan shrilly.

“’Tain’t yourn, anyhow,” said Bill, with a glare in his green eyes.

The small boy’s features worked with excitement. “I’ll fight yer for it, then,” he said, doubling his fists, and at this there was a loud laugh from the others, for he was about half Bill’s size.

“Go it, Tuvvy,” cried one, patting him on the back; “go in and win.”

“I ain’t a-goin’ to fight a little chap like you,” said Bill, moving off sullenly with the kitten under his arm. “So don’t you think it.”

“You give me the cat, then,” said Dan, following him. “’Ere’s my knife, with three blades, and on’y one broke.”

“Git out with yer,” said Bill contemptuously. “I tell yer I’m a-goin’ to have a cat-chase with this ’ere kitten. So no more bother about it.”

“You’re afraid,” snarled Dan, running along by his side. “I wouldn’t be a big chap like you, and be afraid—that I wouldn’t.”

“Take that, then,” said Bill, turning suddenly, “if youwillhave it;” and he gave the small boy a blow which struck him to the ground.

In a moment he was up again, quite undaunted.

“Come on, then,” he cried, doubling his fists and dancing round his enemy, “if youaren’tafraid.”

“A fight! a fight!” sounded from all sides; and there seemed no doubt of it, for Bill’s temper was roused.

“Ketch ’old for a minnit,” he said, holding out the kitten, for which a dozen grimy hands were outstretched; “’twon’t take long—”

So all the boys thought. It would be short but exciting, for the two were old enemies, and likely to fight with spirit. They placed themselves in a ring, with hoarse shouts of encouragement and approval, and the fight began; the kitten adding its plaintive mew from time to time to the general noise.

At first it seemed that one blow from Bill’s heavy hand would be enough to finish the affair; but it was soon evident that Dan’s lean figure and nimble movements were greatly to his advantage. He sprang about in such a swift and agile manner, that he seemed everywhere at once; and while Bill was turning to deal a blow, or to catch hold of him, he had ducked his small black head and escaped. Buttoned tightly in his narrow jacket, which he had not taken off, his straight thin figure offered nothing for the hand to grasp, so that it was like trying to lay hold of a wriggling, slippery eel. It was certainly a much better fight than could have been expected from the unequal size of the rivals, and Bill’s face grew a deep red, as much with rage as with his vain efforts to close with Dan, who skipped round him breathless but full of spirit. Suddenly, however, while the excitement was at its height, there came a cry of alarm from the onlookers, “The bobby! the bobby!”

A blue uniform turned the corner. The crowd split up, and vanished like magic as the policeman came towards them. Bill turned away sulkily, and Dan seizing the kitten, which had been dropped on the ground, ran off at the top of his speed.

Without turning his head, to see if his enemy was in pursuit, he sped down the street past the school-house, clasping the kitten to his breast. Soon he had left the shops and busy part of the town behind him, and reached the outskirts, where the houses were poor and mean, and there were ragged people standing about on the door-steps. He gave a quick glance over his shoulder now, and seeing no sign of Bill or the policeman, slackened his pace, loosened the tight pressure of his hand on the kitten, and stroked it gently.

“Poor little kit,” he said, “nice little kit. How pleased Becky’ll be with it.”

It was hard to say whether Dan or the kitten was most exhausted by all they had been through. His fight, his rapid run, and the excitement of the whole affair had made him so breathless, that he was glad to lean against a lamp-post and pant. As for the grey kitten, it lay almost lifeless on his breast, its eyes closed, its little body quite limp, and its heart beating so faintly that it could hardly be felt. The boy looked down at it with pity.

“Looks pretty bad,” he murmured; “they’ve mauled it about so. P’r’aps a drop of milk would set it up.”

Urged by this thought, he made an effort to go on again at a slower pace, still panting a good deal, and presently reached a row of small cottages, one of which he entered. A child’s voice from a dark corner of the poorly-furnished kitchen cried, as he opened the door, “Mother, it ain’t father; it’s Dan;” and a woman, who was bending over a pot on the fire, turned towards him.

“Well,” she said fretfully, “what makesyouso late? It’s bad enough to have your father coming in at all hours and wanting his supper.”

Dan made no answer, but hurried up to the corner from which the child’s voice had sounded. “See here, Becky,” he said softly; “see what I’ve brought you!”

The child, a girl of about eight years old, raised herself eagerly on the hard couch on which she was lying. She was very like Dan, with the same brown skin and dark eyes, but the eyes had no merry twinkle in them. Her face was thin and drawn, and had the appealing look which comes of suffering borne with patience.

“Is it a rabbit, Dan?” she asked, peering at the soft furry thing in her brother’s arms.

“It’s a little cat,” said Dan, putting the kitten gently down by her side, “as Bill was going to ill-treat.”

Becky touched the kitten with her thin fingers. “Its eyes is shut,” she said. “Oh Dan, I’m feared it’s dead.”

The woman had now drawn near to look at the kitten too. She had a fair skin and very pale blue eyes, which were always wide open, as though she were surprised at something; when this expression changed, it became a fretful one, which had also got into the tone of her voice.

“Give us a drop o’ milk, mother,” said Dan; “that’ll do it good.”

“Milk indeed!” said Mrs Tuvvy; “and what next? Where’s the money to come from to buy milk for cats, when goodness knows if we shall soon have bit or drop to put into our own mouths?”

Neither of the children took any notice of their mother’s remarks, or answered the questions which she continued to put.

“How do you suppose we’re going to live, now yer father’s got turned off? Who’s a-goin’ to pay the doctor’s bill, I should like to know?”

Dan rose and fetched from the table a small basin covered with a saucer.

“That’s yer supper,” said Mrs Tuvvy mournfully. “You ain’t never goin’ to give it to the cat! Well, you won’t get no more.”

Dan knelt by the couch, and tried to put a little warm milk into the kitten’s mouth with the spoon, but its teeth were firmly shut.

“You open its mouth, Dan, and I’ll feed it,” said Becky eagerly. “There, it swallowed that—now some more. See; it’s better already.”

For the kitten had opened its eyes, and given itself a little stretch. Soon it was able to lap some milk out of the saucer, and to eat some crumbled bread.

“Ain’t it a little dear?” said Becky, her thin face lighted up with pleasure. “Oh Dan, it’s purring! It must be quite well, mustn’t it?”

“I expect it’ll want a good long sleep first,” said Dan, looking gravely at the kitten, which had curled itself up by Becky’s side, and begun a faint little song of thankfulness; “it’s been through a deal.”

He took his neglected supper, and sat down to eat it at the foot of Becky’s couch, while Mrs Tuvvy returned to her cooking at the fire, still grumbling half aloud. There was not much bread and milk, and Dan, who always had a good appetite, was unusually hungry after his exertions that afternoon. He had been through a deal, as well as the kitten. But by dint of talking to his sister between each spoonful, he managed to eke out the meal, and make it seem much more. Becky listened with the most eager interest, meanwhile, to all the details of the fight, the policeman, and the escape of Dan with the kitten. When there was no more to tell, and very little more to eat, she leaned back on her couch and sighed.

“He’s a reg’lar bad un, that Bill!” she said presently. “Will he want to fight again?”

Dan shook his head. “I shan’t come across him no more,” he said; “not now I’m going to a place.”

“I forgot,” said Becky wearily. “Oh Dan, how long the days’ll be when you don’t come home to dinner. Whatever shall I do?”

“Why,” said Dan soothingly, “you won’t be alone now. You’ll have the kit.”

Becky gave a faint little smile.

“I mean to get you a good long bit of string,” went on Dan, “and tie a cork to the end, and then, you see, you’ll bounce it about for the kit to play with, and carry on fine, without moving.”

“I suppose it’ll get to know me after a bit, won’t it?” said Becky, evidently pleased with Dan’s idea.

“Just about,” answered her brother decidedly. Becky looked down fondly at the small grey form on her arm.

“Dr Price’s dogs came in with him to-day,” she said, “but they mustn’t come in no more now. They’d worry it to death. Mother told him to-day,” she added in a lower tone, “as how she couldn’t pay his bill, because of father.”

“What did he say?” asked Dan.

“He said, ‘That’s a bad job, Mrs Tuvvy, but it can’t be helped.’”

“Did he say you were getting better?” asked Dan again, scraping his basin carefully round with his spoon.

“He said I wanted plenty of rest, and plenty of nourishing food,” said Becky. “What’s nourishing food, Dan?”

“Nice things,” said Dan, balancing his spoon on the edge of his basin, and smacking his hungry lips; “chickens, and jellies, and pies, and such like.”

“Oh,” said Becky, with a patient sigh. “Well, we shan’t have no money at all now, so we can’t get any of ’em.”

“I shall get six shillings a week when I begin work,” said Dan; “and there’s what mother gets charing. But then there’s the rent, you see, and father getting nothing—”

He broke off, for the door opened, and Tuvvy himself appeared with his basket of tools on his shoulder. The children looked at him silently as he flung himself into a chair, but his wife began immediately in a tone of mild reproachfulness.

“Yer supper’s been waiting this ever so long, and it wasn’t much to boast of to begin with, but there—I s’pose we may be thankful to get a bit of dry bread now.”

She poured the contents of the saucepan into a dish, sighing and lamenting over it as she did so.

“’Tain’t what I’ve been used to, as was always brought up respectable, and have done my duty to the children. And there’s the doctor’s bill—I s’pose he won’t come to see Becky no more till that’s paid—and there she is on her back a cripple, as you may call it, for life p’r’aps. And what is it you mean to turn to, now you’ve lost a good place?”

As long as there was a mouthful of his supper left, Tuvvy preserved a strict silence; but when his plate was empty, he pushed it away, and said grimly, “Gaffer’s goin’ to let me stop on.”

“Stop on!” repeated Mrs Tuvvy. She stopped short in her progress across the kitchen, and let the empty plate she was carrying fall helplessly at her side. “Stop on!” she repeated.

“Ain’t I said so?” answered Tuvvy, pressing down the tobacco in his pipe with his thumb.

Mrs Tuvvy seemed incapable of further speech, and stood gazing at her husband with her mouth partly open. It was Becky who exclaimed, with a faint colour of excitement in her cheek, “Oh father, what made him?”

“Do tell us, father,” added Dan, touching him gently on the arm.

Tuvvy looked round at the boy’s earnest face, and then down at the table, and began to draw figures on it with the stem of his pipe. Mrs Tuvvy hovered a little nearer, and Becky sat upright on her couch, with eagerness in her eyes as her father began to speak.

“It was along of a little gentleman, Dennis Chester his name is, who used to come and see me work. He asked the gaffer, and gaffer said ‘No.’ So then he says, ‘Will you let him stop,’ says he, ‘if the others are agreeable?’ and to that the gaffer says neither yes nor no. But this morning he sends for me, and ‘Tuvvy,’ he says, ‘I’ve had a Round Robin about you.’ ‘And what sort of a bird is that, master?’ says I. ‘’Tain’t a bird at all,’ he says, ‘it’s this,’ and then he showed it me.”

“What ever was it?” asked Dan, as his father paused.

Tuvvy made a large circle in the air with the stem of his pipe.

“’Twas a round drawed like that on a bit of card, and inside of it was wrote as follers: ‘We which have signed our names, ask Mr Solace to keep Mr Tuvvy in his service.’ All the men’s names was round the outside, and the little gentleman’s name as well.”

“What did Mr Solace say?” asked Dan.

“He said, ‘You ain’t deserved it, Tuvvy.’”

“No more yer ’ave,” said Mrs Tuvvy, regaining her speech.

“But,” continued her husband, “the gaffer went on to say that, along of Master Chester, who’d taken such a lot of trouble, he’d give me another chance. So that’s all about it.”

“And in all my born days,” broke out Mrs Tuvvy, “I never heard of anything so singuller. Whatever made Master Chester take such a fancy toyou, I wonder?”

“So I’m to stop on,” continued Tuvvy, putting his pipe in his mouth, and turning his back on his wife.

“And I hope,” said poor Mrs Tuvvy, beginning to cry a little from the relief of the good news, “Idohope, Benjamin, as it’ll be a lesson as you’ll take to ’art, and keep away from the drink; and if ever a man had reason to keep steady, you ’ave, with Dan growin’ up, and Becky’s doctor’s bill to pay, and—” Mrs Tuvvy did not speak angrily, or raise her voice above a soft complaining drawl; but it seemed to have a disturbing effect upon her husband, who, when she reached this point, sprang up and flung himself towards the door.

“Look, father,” said Becky’s childish voice from her corner. “See here what Dan’s brought me!”

“Filling the house with cats and dogs and rubbish,” mourned Mrs Tuvvy, joining the remark to her interrupted sentence.

“We ain’t got no dogs, anyhow, mother,” said Dan, as his father turned from the door and went up to Becky’s side; “a morsel of a kitten won’t eat much. She’ll have a bit of my supper till she’s older, and then she’ll catch mice and get her own living.”

Chapter Eight.Becky.“It seems as if it had brought luck, don’t it?” said Becky.She was lying on her hard little sofa, with her hands clasped behind her head, and her eyes fixed on the grey kitten, who was playing all sorts of pranks in a spot of sunlight it had found on the floor. There was a smile on her thin face as she watched the little creature’s merry antics, and it was indeed wonderful to see how much amusement it was able to find all by itself. First it chased its own tail round and round so fast, that it made one giddy to look at it; then it pounced at its own shadow, and darted back sideways in pretended fear; then it rolled over on its back, and played with its own furry toes. It was a week now since Dan had brought it home, forlorn and miserable, and it had quite forgotten its troubles, and was happy all day long. Even when there was not much for dinner—and that did happen sometimes, in spite of Becky’s care—it always purred its little song of thankfulness, and was ready to be pleased, for it had a meek and grateful nature.Dan, who was sitting at the foot of Becky’s couch, with his feet stretched out in front of him, as though he were very tired, looked up as his sister spoke.“What luck?” he asked sleepily.Becky turned her dark eyes upon him.“I’m sorry I waked you,” she said. “I meant, because you brought the kit home the same night father wasn’t turned off.”Dan nodded seriously.“It’s all been better since,” went on Becky. “Father brings his money home, and mother don’t worry, and we have dinner every day, and I do think my back don’t go all on aching so bad as it did.”“If you was to get quite well, it’d be luckier still,” said Dan.“P’r’aps I shall,” said Becky wistfully. “I dreamed ever so beautiful last night, that you and me was dancing to the organ in the street—the one as plays ‘Pop goes the Weasel.’ When I woke, I cried a bit, because it wasn’t true. Do you think as it’ll ever come true?”“Just about,” said Dan, rousing himself to speak with confidence.“If so be as it does,” continued Becky, “it’ll be along of what the little gentleman at Fieldside did for father. If father hadn’t kept his place, I couldn’t got well, because of paying the doctor and the nourishing things.”“I think of that a deal too,” said Dan; “it’s all owin’ to him.”“If there was ever anything we could do to please him,” said Becky, “wouldn’t we be glad! He must be such a very kind little gentleman.”Dan shook his head decidedly.“’Tain’t likely,” he said. “He belongs to rich folks, him and his sister. They don’t want nought from the like of us.”“Well, I’m sorry,” said Becky, with a sigh. “I think over it a deal when I’m alone, and sort of make plans in my head; but, of course, they ain’t real.”Poor Becky had plenty of opportunity for making plans in her head, for since a year ago she had been alone nearly all day. Before that she had been as gay and lively as the kitten itself, and as fond of play, but one unlucky day she had fallen down some stone steps and hurt her back. All her games were over now: she must lie quite still, Dr Price said, and never run about at all, for a long time. That was a new thing for Becky, who had scarcely known what it was to sit still in her life out of school hours; but her back hurt her so much that she was obliged to give up trying to do all the active things she had been used to, one by one. Her father made her a little couch, and on this in her dark corner she passed many weary hours alone, watching the hands travel round the face of the Dutch clock, and longing for the time for Dan to come home and talk to her. Dan was her chief friend, for though father was very kind, he went early to work, and sometimes came back very late, so that she saw little of him; and as for mother, poor mother went out charing, and was so tired in the evening, that she generally dropped off to sleep directly she had washed up the tea-things.So Becky’s life was lonely, and often full of pain, which was the harder to bear because she had no companion to cheer her and help her to forget it. She even grew to look forward to Dr Price’s visits, short as they were, for the day did not seem quite so long when he had clattered in with his dogs at his heels, and spoken to her in his loud kind voice. He was a nice gentleman, she thought, though he did not cure the pain in her back. Besides Dr Price there was only Dan, and when on leaving school Dan got a place as gardener’s boy, Becky felt sad as well as pleased, for he would now be away all day.Just at this fortunate moment, when it was so much needed, the grey kitten had arrived, to be her friend and playfellow, and to comfort her with its coaxing ways. It was, as Dan had said, not nearly so dull now. The kitten shared her meals, played all manner of games with her, almost answered her when she talked to it, and when it was tired would jump up to her shoulder and snuggle itself to sleep. The feeling of the warm soft fur against her cheek was so soothing, that often at such times she would take a nap too, and wake up to find that quite a long while had passed without her knowing it.So, as she told Dan, it had all been better since the kitten came, and somehow it seemed to make a part of all the fancies and thoughts that passed through her mind, as she lay dreaming, yet awake, on her couch. Becky had never made “plans in her head,” as she called them, while she was well and strong, and could run about all day. But now that her limbs had to be idle, her mind began to grow busy, and though she could not move out of the dusky kitchen, she took long journeys in fancy, and saw many strange things with her eyes fast shut. Some of these she would describe to Dan, and some she kept quite to herself; but now, since hearing of Dennis Chester’s Round Robin, they all took one form. They were always connected with him or his sister, and what he had done for her father, and curiously enough the grey kitten seemed to belong to them, and she seldom thought of one without the other. If it could have spoken, how many interesting facts it could have told her about its life at Fieldside with Dennis and Maisie! Perhaps its little purring song was full of such memories, as it lay pressed up so close to Becky’s cheek. At any rate it contrived in some way to get into most of her dreams, whether asleep or awake. But though her life was on the whole happier than it had been, there were still some very hard days for Becky to bear, days when the kitten’s merriest gambols were not enough to make her forget her pain.They were generally days when Mrs Tuvvy had “run short,” as she called it, and left very little for dinner, so that; Becky grew faint and low for want of food. For Mrs Tuvvy, even when her husband brought home his wages regularly, was not a good manager. On Saturday night and Sunday she would provide a sort of feast, and have everything of the best. After that the supplies became less and less each day, until on Friday or Saturday there was not much besides bread and cheese, or a red herring, until Tuvvy brought home his wages again. On such uncertain fare poor Becky did not thrive, and she always knew that towards the end of the week she should have a “bad day” of pain and weariness.“There ain’t much dinner for yer,” said Mrs Tuvvy one morning as she stood ready to go out charing. “I’ve put it on the shelf. Don’t you go giving any to that foolish kitten, and I’ll see and bring summat home for supper.”The door banged, and Becky was alone. She and the kitten would be alone now until five o’clock, and must pass the time as they could. The morning went quickly enough, and when it was nearly one o’clock the kitten, who knew it was dinner-time, began to mew and look up at the shelf.Becky sighed a little as she took down the mug and plate. There certainly was not “much,” as Mrs Tuvvy had said, and, moreover, what there was did not look tempting, for there was only a little watery milk and a piece of hard bread and cheese.“I wish we had nourishing things for dinner, kitty,” she said, as she poured some milk into a saucer, and crumbled some bread into it. “You’d like pies and chickens and such, shouldn’t you? and so should I. I don’t seem to care about bread and cheese.”The kitten ate up its portion eagerly and looked for more, with a little inquiring mew.“No, no, Kitty,” answered Becky, “there ain’t no more to-day. To-day’s Friday, you know. We’ll have to wait and see what mother brings back for supper. P’r’aps it’ll be fried fish or sausages—think of that! You must wash your face now, and go to sleep, and the time’ll soon pass.”The kitten soon took the last part of this advice, and curled itself into a soft little ball beside its mistress, but somehow Becky could not sleep this afternoon. The sofa seemed to be harder than usual, full of strange knobs and lumps that were not generally there. Whichever way she tried to lie was more uncomfortable than the last; the room felt hot and stifling, the rain pattered with a dull sound against the window, and her back began to ache badly. Presently she left off trying to go to sleep, and a few tears dropped on to the kitten’s furry back. It would be such a long time before any one came home!Just then a horse’s hoofs clattered down the street, and there was a smart rap on the door. It was flung open, and on the threshold stood Dr Price, booted and spurred, the eager white faces of Snip and Snap in the background, with their tongues lolling out thirstily. Poor Becky clutched her kitten to her breast in terror.“Oh,” she cried, “the dogs! Don’t let ’em come in. I’ve got a cat!”But it was too late. Snip and Snap were in already, running round the kitchen in search of game, sniffing and poking their black noses everywhere. In another minute Becky felt sure they would leap on the sofa, and snatch the kitten from her.“Oh,dosend ’em out,” she cried in an agony. “They’ll kill it.”“Not they,” said the doctor soothingly. “Don’t you be afraid. We’ll soon settle ’em.—Here, Snip, Snap, come out of that, you rascals.”It was not, however, settled very soon. Becky lay trembling on her couch, while Dr Price gave chase round the kitchen to the dogs, lashing at them with his whip, stumbling over chairs, and giving loud and sudden exclamations as they continually escaped his grasp. At last, however, he caught them, and with one white body dangling from each hand, carried them to the door, threw them out, and shut it. Then he straightened himself, wiped his forehead with his handkerchief, and cast a glance at his patient.“Little beggars!” he said half admiringly. But now that the danger was over, Becky broke down entirely, and the doctor was dismayed to see that she was sobbing violently, and could not say a word. He strode across the room, and put his arm gently round her.“It’s all right, you know, Becky,” he said kindly; “the kitten’s all right. You mustn’t cry so now. They frightened you, didn’t they? But they shan’t come in again.”Becky struggled with her tears, and after a while she was able to say that ’twarn’t only the dogs, but her back was a bit bad to-day, and she didn’t seem to be able to help crying.“H’m,” said the doctor, pulling his hay-coloured moustache thoughtfully, and glancing at the empty plate. “What time did you have dinner?”“About one,” said Becky faintly; “but I didn’t just seem to care about it.”“But I daresay you could fancy something now, couldn’t you?” said Dr Price, getting up. “Something very nice and hot. I’ll be back in a minute. Don’t you mind the dogs; they can’t get in.”In a very short space of time he was out of the door and back again, followed, not by the dogs, but by a boy from the cook-shop, carrying a covered dish.“Now,” he said, “you just set to work on this, and you’ll feel ever so much better.”Becky’s eyes brightened at the smell of the savoury food. Hot roast mutton and potatoes seemed almost too good to be eaten all by herself; but she did not hesitate long, and began her meal with evident enjoyment. Dr Price sat near, whistling very softly to himself, and sometimes leaving off to smile a little under his light moustache, as Snip and Snap continued to hurl themselves with hoarse cries against the door.“Well,” he said, as Becky lingered over the last piece on her plate, “how do you like my physic? Is it good?”“It’s beautiful, sir,” answered Becky, “and it’s done me a deal of good; but might I give this bit to the kitten? She didn’t have much dinner more than me to-day.”“To be sure,” said the doctor, and he watched with serious interest while Becky prepared a little meal for her pet, and put the plate on the floor. “Soyou’vegot a cat, have you,” he continued, bending down to examine the grey kitten. “Little Miss Chester offered me a cat the other day.”“That’s Master Dennis Chester’s sister, ain’t it?” asked Becky with sudden interest. “Do you know him too?”The doctor nodded. “I see them about often,” he said. “Nice little girl, and nice little boy.”Becky gave a solemn shake of the head.“He’s more than nice,” she said; “he’s just splendid. Do you know what he did for father?”Mr Price did not know; and Becky, strengthened and refreshed by her dinner, sat up eagerly on her sofa and told him the whole story, to which he listened very gravely.“Well, that’s a very good job,” he said, as she ended. “We must hope Mr Tuvvy will be able to keep straight. But there’s lots of public-houses in Upwell, you know, as well as the Cross Keys at Fieldside, to tempt a man.”“They don’t matter near so much,” said Becky. “Father don’t as a rule want to go out again after he’s once home. Not unless,” she added, with a little sigh, “it’s washing day.”Dr Price gave a slow smile, took out his watch, and jumped to his feet with a suddenness that made Becky start.“I ought to be seven miles off by this,” he said, striding to the door. “Good-bye, Becky.”He seemed to Becky to make one spring from the door to his horse’s back, and to gallop furiously up the street the next minute. There were one or two sharp, shrill shrieks from Snip and Snap as they tore after him, and then all was silent.Dr Price’s visits often ended in this abrupt way, but Becky wished he could have stayed a little longer this afternoon, for she was just going to ask him to take a message for her to Master Dennis, and say how very grateful she and Dan felt. However, as that could not be, she comforted herself by making up her mind to ask him next time he came, and settled cosily down to wait for Dan’s arrival, when she could tell him all that had passed.

“It seems as if it had brought luck, don’t it?” said Becky.

She was lying on her hard little sofa, with her hands clasped behind her head, and her eyes fixed on the grey kitten, who was playing all sorts of pranks in a spot of sunlight it had found on the floor. There was a smile on her thin face as she watched the little creature’s merry antics, and it was indeed wonderful to see how much amusement it was able to find all by itself. First it chased its own tail round and round so fast, that it made one giddy to look at it; then it pounced at its own shadow, and darted back sideways in pretended fear; then it rolled over on its back, and played with its own furry toes. It was a week now since Dan had brought it home, forlorn and miserable, and it had quite forgotten its troubles, and was happy all day long. Even when there was not much for dinner—and that did happen sometimes, in spite of Becky’s care—it always purred its little song of thankfulness, and was ready to be pleased, for it had a meek and grateful nature.

Dan, who was sitting at the foot of Becky’s couch, with his feet stretched out in front of him, as though he were very tired, looked up as his sister spoke.

“What luck?” he asked sleepily.

Becky turned her dark eyes upon him.

“I’m sorry I waked you,” she said. “I meant, because you brought the kit home the same night father wasn’t turned off.”

Dan nodded seriously.

“It’s all been better since,” went on Becky. “Father brings his money home, and mother don’t worry, and we have dinner every day, and I do think my back don’t go all on aching so bad as it did.”

“If you was to get quite well, it’d be luckier still,” said Dan.

“P’r’aps I shall,” said Becky wistfully. “I dreamed ever so beautiful last night, that you and me was dancing to the organ in the street—the one as plays ‘Pop goes the Weasel.’ When I woke, I cried a bit, because it wasn’t true. Do you think as it’ll ever come true?”

“Just about,” said Dan, rousing himself to speak with confidence.

“If so be as it does,” continued Becky, “it’ll be along of what the little gentleman at Fieldside did for father. If father hadn’t kept his place, I couldn’t got well, because of paying the doctor and the nourishing things.”

“I think of that a deal too,” said Dan; “it’s all owin’ to him.”

“If there was ever anything we could do to please him,” said Becky, “wouldn’t we be glad! He must be such a very kind little gentleman.”

Dan shook his head decidedly.

“’Tain’t likely,” he said. “He belongs to rich folks, him and his sister. They don’t want nought from the like of us.”

“Well, I’m sorry,” said Becky, with a sigh. “I think over it a deal when I’m alone, and sort of make plans in my head; but, of course, they ain’t real.”

Poor Becky had plenty of opportunity for making plans in her head, for since a year ago she had been alone nearly all day. Before that she had been as gay and lively as the kitten itself, and as fond of play, but one unlucky day she had fallen down some stone steps and hurt her back. All her games were over now: she must lie quite still, Dr Price said, and never run about at all, for a long time. That was a new thing for Becky, who had scarcely known what it was to sit still in her life out of school hours; but her back hurt her so much that she was obliged to give up trying to do all the active things she had been used to, one by one. Her father made her a little couch, and on this in her dark corner she passed many weary hours alone, watching the hands travel round the face of the Dutch clock, and longing for the time for Dan to come home and talk to her. Dan was her chief friend, for though father was very kind, he went early to work, and sometimes came back very late, so that she saw little of him; and as for mother, poor mother went out charing, and was so tired in the evening, that she generally dropped off to sleep directly she had washed up the tea-things.

So Becky’s life was lonely, and often full of pain, which was the harder to bear because she had no companion to cheer her and help her to forget it. She even grew to look forward to Dr Price’s visits, short as they were, for the day did not seem quite so long when he had clattered in with his dogs at his heels, and spoken to her in his loud kind voice. He was a nice gentleman, she thought, though he did not cure the pain in her back. Besides Dr Price there was only Dan, and when on leaving school Dan got a place as gardener’s boy, Becky felt sad as well as pleased, for he would now be away all day.

Just at this fortunate moment, when it was so much needed, the grey kitten had arrived, to be her friend and playfellow, and to comfort her with its coaxing ways. It was, as Dan had said, not nearly so dull now. The kitten shared her meals, played all manner of games with her, almost answered her when she talked to it, and when it was tired would jump up to her shoulder and snuggle itself to sleep. The feeling of the warm soft fur against her cheek was so soothing, that often at such times she would take a nap too, and wake up to find that quite a long while had passed without her knowing it.

So, as she told Dan, it had all been better since the kitten came, and somehow it seemed to make a part of all the fancies and thoughts that passed through her mind, as she lay dreaming, yet awake, on her couch. Becky had never made “plans in her head,” as she called them, while she was well and strong, and could run about all day. But now that her limbs had to be idle, her mind began to grow busy, and though she could not move out of the dusky kitchen, she took long journeys in fancy, and saw many strange things with her eyes fast shut. Some of these she would describe to Dan, and some she kept quite to herself; but now, since hearing of Dennis Chester’s Round Robin, they all took one form. They were always connected with him or his sister, and what he had done for her father, and curiously enough the grey kitten seemed to belong to them, and she seldom thought of one without the other. If it could have spoken, how many interesting facts it could have told her about its life at Fieldside with Dennis and Maisie! Perhaps its little purring song was full of such memories, as it lay pressed up so close to Becky’s cheek. At any rate it contrived in some way to get into most of her dreams, whether asleep or awake. But though her life was on the whole happier than it had been, there were still some very hard days for Becky to bear, days when the kitten’s merriest gambols were not enough to make her forget her pain.

They were generally days when Mrs Tuvvy had “run short,” as she called it, and left very little for dinner, so that; Becky grew faint and low for want of food. For Mrs Tuvvy, even when her husband brought home his wages regularly, was not a good manager. On Saturday night and Sunday she would provide a sort of feast, and have everything of the best. After that the supplies became less and less each day, until on Friday or Saturday there was not much besides bread and cheese, or a red herring, until Tuvvy brought home his wages again. On such uncertain fare poor Becky did not thrive, and she always knew that towards the end of the week she should have a “bad day” of pain and weariness.

“There ain’t much dinner for yer,” said Mrs Tuvvy one morning as she stood ready to go out charing. “I’ve put it on the shelf. Don’t you go giving any to that foolish kitten, and I’ll see and bring summat home for supper.”

The door banged, and Becky was alone. She and the kitten would be alone now until five o’clock, and must pass the time as they could. The morning went quickly enough, and when it was nearly one o’clock the kitten, who knew it was dinner-time, began to mew and look up at the shelf.

Becky sighed a little as she took down the mug and plate. There certainly was not “much,” as Mrs Tuvvy had said, and, moreover, what there was did not look tempting, for there was only a little watery milk and a piece of hard bread and cheese.

“I wish we had nourishing things for dinner, kitty,” she said, as she poured some milk into a saucer, and crumbled some bread into it. “You’d like pies and chickens and such, shouldn’t you? and so should I. I don’t seem to care about bread and cheese.”

The kitten ate up its portion eagerly and looked for more, with a little inquiring mew.

“No, no, Kitty,” answered Becky, “there ain’t no more to-day. To-day’s Friday, you know. We’ll have to wait and see what mother brings back for supper. P’r’aps it’ll be fried fish or sausages—think of that! You must wash your face now, and go to sleep, and the time’ll soon pass.”

The kitten soon took the last part of this advice, and curled itself into a soft little ball beside its mistress, but somehow Becky could not sleep this afternoon. The sofa seemed to be harder than usual, full of strange knobs and lumps that were not generally there. Whichever way she tried to lie was more uncomfortable than the last; the room felt hot and stifling, the rain pattered with a dull sound against the window, and her back began to ache badly. Presently she left off trying to go to sleep, and a few tears dropped on to the kitten’s furry back. It would be such a long time before any one came home!

Just then a horse’s hoofs clattered down the street, and there was a smart rap on the door. It was flung open, and on the threshold stood Dr Price, booted and spurred, the eager white faces of Snip and Snap in the background, with their tongues lolling out thirstily. Poor Becky clutched her kitten to her breast in terror.

“Oh,” she cried, “the dogs! Don’t let ’em come in. I’ve got a cat!”

But it was too late. Snip and Snap were in already, running round the kitchen in search of game, sniffing and poking their black noses everywhere. In another minute Becky felt sure they would leap on the sofa, and snatch the kitten from her.

“Oh,dosend ’em out,” she cried in an agony. “They’ll kill it.”

“Not they,” said the doctor soothingly. “Don’t you be afraid. We’ll soon settle ’em.—Here, Snip, Snap, come out of that, you rascals.”

It was not, however, settled very soon. Becky lay trembling on her couch, while Dr Price gave chase round the kitchen to the dogs, lashing at them with his whip, stumbling over chairs, and giving loud and sudden exclamations as they continually escaped his grasp. At last, however, he caught them, and with one white body dangling from each hand, carried them to the door, threw them out, and shut it. Then he straightened himself, wiped his forehead with his handkerchief, and cast a glance at his patient.

“Little beggars!” he said half admiringly. But now that the danger was over, Becky broke down entirely, and the doctor was dismayed to see that she was sobbing violently, and could not say a word. He strode across the room, and put his arm gently round her.

“It’s all right, you know, Becky,” he said kindly; “the kitten’s all right. You mustn’t cry so now. They frightened you, didn’t they? But they shan’t come in again.”

Becky struggled with her tears, and after a while she was able to say that ’twarn’t only the dogs, but her back was a bit bad to-day, and she didn’t seem to be able to help crying.

“H’m,” said the doctor, pulling his hay-coloured moustache thoughtfully, and glancing at the empty plate. “What time did you have dinner?”

“About one,” said Becky faintly; “but I didn’t just seem to care about it.”

“But I daresay you could fancy something now, couldn’t you?” said Dr Price, getting up. “Something very nice and hot. I’ll be back in a minute. Don’t you mind the dogs; they can’t get in.”

In a very short space of time he was out of the door and back again, followed, not by the dogs, but by a boy from the cook-shop, carrying a covered dish.

“Now,” he said, “you just set to work on this, and you’ll feel ever so much better.”

Becky’s eyes brightened at the smell of the savoury food. Hot roast mutton and potatoes seemed almost too good to be eaten all by herself; but she did not hesitate long, and began her meal with evident enjoyment. Dr Price sat near, whistling very softly to himself, and sometimes leaving off to smile a little under his light moustache, as Snip and Snap continued to hurl themselves with hoarse cries against the door.

“Well,” he said, as Becky lingered over the last piece on her plate, “how do you like my physic? Is it good?”

“It’s beautiful, sir,” answered Becky, “and it’s done me a deal of good; but might I give this bit to the kitten? She didn’t have much dinner more than me to-day.”

“To be sure,” said the doctor, and he watched with serious interest while Becky prepared a little meal for her pet, and put the plate on the floor. “Soyou’vegot a cat, have you,” he continued, bending down to examine the grey kitten. “Little Miss Chester offered me a cat the other day.”

“That’s Master Dennis Chester’s sister, ain’t it?” asked Becky with sudden interest. “Do you know him too?”

The doctor nodded. “I see them about often,” he said. “Nice little girl, and nice little boy.”

Becky gave a solemn shake of the head.

“He’s more than nice,” she said; “he’s just splendid. Do you know what he did for father?”

Mr Price did not know; and Becky, strengthened and refreshed by her dinner, sat up eagerly on her sofa and told him the whole story, to which he listened very gravely.

“Well, that’s a very good job,” he said, as she ended. “We must hope Mr Tuvvy will be able to keep straight. But there’s lots of public-houses in Upwell, you know, as well as the Cross Keys at Fieldside, to tempt a man.”

“They don’t matter near so much,” said Becky. “Father don’t as a rule want to go out again after he’s once home. Not unless,” she added, with a little sigh, “it’s washing day.”

Dr Price gave a slow smile, took out his watch, and jumped to his feet with a suddenness that made Becky start.

“I ought to be seven miles off by this,” he said, striding to the door. “Good-bye, Becky.”

He seemed to Becky to make one spring from the door to his horse’s back, and to gallop furiously up the street the next minute. There were one or two sharp, shrill shrieks from Snip and Snap as they tore after him, and then all was silent.

Dr Price’s visits often ended in this abrupt way, but Becky wished he could have stayed a little longer this afternoon, for she was just going to ask him to take a message for her to Master Dennis, and say how very grateful she and Dan felt. However, as that could not be, she comforted herself by making up her mind to ask him next time he came, and settled cosily down to wait for Dan’s arrival, when she could tell him all that had passed.

Chapter Nine.Philippa’s Visit.“There is no doubt,” said Mrs Trevor, “that the air of Fieldside suits dear Philippa; it seems to sooth her nerves.”“I think it does,” answered Miss Mervyn.“And there is no doubt,” continued Mrs Trevor, “that the child needs change. She is unusually uncertain in her temper, and Dr Smith advised the sea-side at once. But it would be much easier to send her to my sister’s.”“And she would have her cousins to play with,” suggested Miss Mervyn.“I do so wish Katharine had not such odd notions,” continued Mrs Trevor discontentedly; “it quite makes me hesitate to let Philippa go there much. Those children are allowed to mix with all sorts of people.”“They are nice little children,” Miss Mervyn ventured to say.“Nice enough atpresent,” said Mrs Trevor, “but who knows how they will grow up? If I were their father— However, you think it would be a good plan to ask my sister to have Philippa for a few days?”“I certainly do,” said Miss Mervyn, with earnest conviction.Every one at Haughton Park thought so too, for Philippa had been so troublesome lately, that she had made the whole household uncomfortable as well as herself. “The dear child must be ill,” Mrs Trevor said, and sent for Dr Smith.“The old story, my dear madam,” he said; “sensitive nerves. I should advise sending your daughter to the sea-side with some young companions. It is important that the system should be braced, and the mind gently amused.”On consideration, Mrs Trevor did not see how she could manage to supply Philippa with sea-air as well as young companions, but it occurred to her that the air of Fieldside might do as well, and to this Miss Mervyn had heartily agreed. So a letter was at once written to Miss Chester, and the subject gently broken to Philippa, who, greatly to every one’s surprise and relief, made no difficulty whatever.“I shall take the kitten with me,” she said, rather defiantly, and nothing would have pleased Mrs Trevor better, for Philippa’s kitten had become a plague and a worry to every one from morning till night. There were endless complaints about it. It was a thief, it had a bad temper, it scratched the satin chairs in the drawing-room, it climbed up the curtains, it was always in the way. It had broken a whole trayful of wine-glasses. Scarcely a day passed without some fresh piece of mischief. Perhaps the poor kitten could hardly be blamed for all this, for it would have been difficult for a wiser thing than a kitten to understand how to behave under such circumstances. Philippa would pet and spoil it one day, and scold it the next, so that it never quite knew when it was doing right or wrong. There was no doubt, however, that since its arrival there was less peace and quietness than ever at Haughton Park.Meanwhile at Fieldside the idea of Philippa’s visit was received with something like dismay. She had never stayed more than one day before, and there was a good deal of doubt in the children’s minds as to whether she would make herself agreeable. Dennis in particular felt this strongly.“Will Philippa stay two days or three days, Aunt Katharine?” he asked when he heard the news. “When Aunt Trevor says two or three days, does she count the one she comes and the one she goes, because that only leaves one clear day?”“Oh, I daresay if you’re happy together,” answered Miss Chester, “her mother will like her to stay longer than that.”It was breakfast time, and she was reading a pile of letters which had just arrived, so that she did not pay much attention to the children. Dennis turned to Maisie and said softly: “I think one clear day’s quite long enough; don’t you?”Maisie took some thoughtful spoonfuls of porridge before she answered.“I’m not quite sure. Sometimes the longer she stays the nicer she gets.”“But, anyhow,” objected Dennis, “I don’t like her while she’sgettingnice, so I think it’s best for her to go away soon.”Maisie was not quite so sure of this as her brother, though she too felt grave doubts about Philippa’s behaviour. If she were in a nice mood, her visit might be pleasant, for there were plenty of things to show her at Fieldside, and plenty to do, if she would only be interested in them, and not have her “grown-up” manner.“I wonder what she’ll say to Darkie,” she said, as she sat thinking of this after breakfast.“She’ll say Blanche is much prettier,” answered Dennis; “she always says her things are nicer than ours.”“She hasn’t seen him beg yet,” said Maisie.It was not long before Philippa had this opportunity, for when she was sitting at tea with her cousins that evening, she happened to look down at her side, and there was Darkie begging. He was the oddest little black figure possible, bolt upright, his bushy tail spread out at the back like a fan, and his paws neatly drooped in front.“Oh!” she exclaimed, laughing; “how lovely! What a clever cat!”“He always does it,” said Dennis, with quiet pride. “We taught him.”“I told you he begged,” added Maisie. “Why don’t you teach Blanche?”“I don’t believe she could learn,” said Philippa. “She’s quite a nuisance at meal times. She stands up and claws and mews until she is fed. She doesn’t give any peace.”Maisie looked shocked.“That’s not at all well-behaved,” she said. “You oughtn’t to let her do that.”“I can’t help it,” answered Philippa. “I often box her ears, but it’s no good. She’s a greedy cat, I think. Not so nice as this one, and after all, black is a better colour than white, and Darkie has a bushy tail.”Dennis looked triumphant, but Maisie was sorry to think that the white kitten was not turning out well; and though she had never liked it as much as the others, she felt it was not entirely its own fault. Philippa evidently did not know how to manage cats. She was now on the point of giving Darkie a large corner of buttered toast, when Dennis interfered.“You mustn’t do that, please,” he said firmly. “Darkie’sneverfed at meals. He has his tea afterwards in his own dish.”“Well!” said Philippa, looking very much surprised, “Idocall that cruel. You don’t mean to say you let him sit up like that for nothing! Blanche wouldn’t bear that. If we don’t give her what she wants at once, she cries so loud that we’re obliged to.”“She’s learned that of you, I suppose, hasn’t she?” said Dennis.He spoke without any intention of offending his cousin, and did not mean to be rude; but Philippa drew herself up, and flushed a pale pink all over her face.“You’re a rude boy,” she said. Then after a pause, she gave a little nod at him, and added, “Mother says you’ve just the air of a little Hodge the ploughboy. So there!”But this arrow did not hit the mark, though Philippa had aimed it as straight as she could. Dennis did not mind being called a ploughboy a bit. He had seen lots of them, and considered theirs an agreeable and interesting occupation; so he only shrugged his shoulders, and left her to recover her temper as she could.It never answered to be cross at Fieldside, and Philippa had found this out before. There was nothing gained by it. Maisie only looked surprised and sorry, Dennis took no notice at all, and Aunt Katharine was much too busy to spend any time in settling disputes. This being the case, it was surprising to see how soon Philippa got over her passionate fits, and was ready to behave as though nothing had happened.It was so now, for though she was rather sulky with Dennis all the evening, she got up in quite a good temper the next morning, and did not seem to remember that he had been rude. The three children started off for a walk together soon after breakfast, for Aunt Katharine wanted a message taken to the Manor Farm. On the way, Dennis and Maisie had much to tell about Mr and Mrs Solace, their house, and all their animals; and Philippa listened with interest, though she thought it all rather “odd.” This word was indeed constantly on her lips, for her cousins seemed to live in such a very different way from anything she was used to at home. When they passed through the village, nodding and smiling to nearly every one they met, and making little friendly remarks to the people at their cottage doors, she could not help thinking of her stiff walk in the park with Miss Mervyn, which always lasted a certain time if it was fine, and from which she often came back feeling very cross. If the walk at Fieldside were “odd,” it was certainly amusing, and she began to wish there were a village at Haughton.Presently the village ended, and now there was a long narrow lane to go through before the Manor Farm was reached.“What a nice stick you’ve got,” said Philippa to Dennis.“Itisa jolly stick, isn’t it?” he said, holding it out for her to see more closely.It had all manner of quaint knots on the stem, and the large knob at the top was carved into a very excellent likeness of the little rough dog Peter. Philippa looked at it with admiration.“I should like one like that,” she said. “Where could I buy one?”“You couldn’t buy one at all,” said Dennis proudly; “it was made for me. Tuvvy made it.”“Who’s Tuvvy?” inquired Philippa.“A friend of mine,” said Dennis; “he’s Mr Solace’s wheelwright.”“Oh yes, I remember,” said Philippa; “Maisie told me about him. What odd friends you have!”She looked curiously at Dennis as he marched along flourishing his stick. It must be rather nice, she began to think, to do things for people, and for them to be so grateful, and carve sticks on purpose for you.Still, it was “odd,” and there was a good deal in it that she did not understand.Arrived at the farm, however, her thoughts were soon distracted; first by the appearance of the turkey-cock, and the agreeable discovery that she was not afraid of him.“What a baby you are, Maisie!” she exclaimed.“She isn’t always,” said Dennis; “there are lots of things worse than the turkey-cock that she doesn’t mind a bit. Thingsyou’dbe afraid of, perhaps.—There is Mrs Solace at the door.”Mrs Solace beamed at the children in her usual kindly way; and, as was her custom, would not think of their leaving the house without eating something after their walk. At home Philippa would have despised bread and honey and new milk, but here somehow it tasted very good, and she was too hungry to stop to call it odd.“The little lady wants some of your roses, Miss Maisie,” said Mrs Solace, looking at the children as they sat side by side; “she’s as white as a sloe-blossom.”“My complexion’s naturally delicate, thank you,” said Philippa, rather offended; “I never get sunburnt like Maisie.”“Oh, well, maybe you’ve outgrown your strength a bit, my dear,” said the farmer’s wife, smiling comfortably.—“And now, Master Dennis, I mustn’t forget that Andrew’s got a couple of young jackdaws for you: would you like to take them back now, or let ’em bide here a little?”There was some consultation between Dennis and his sister, before it was finally settled that the jackdaws should not be taken then and there to Fieldside, but should first have a home prepared for them.“And I know just where to build it,” he said, as the three children started on their return after saying good-bye to Mrs Solace. “Just in that corner, you know, between the fowl-house and the cow-shed.”“Do you know how to build it?” asked Philippa.“Well, perhaps not just quite exactly,” said Dennis with candour; “but Tuvvy will tell me and help with the difficult parts. He passes through our field every night, you know.”“And shall you work at it just like a carpenter?” asked Philippa with surprise.“As like as I can,” said Dennis modestly; “you see, I do know a little carpentering because I’ve watched Tuvvy so much.”“You’re averyodd boy,” said Philippa. Every day that she passed at Fieldside she became more and more certain that her cousins did strange things, and liked strange things; but, at the same time, there was something pleasant about the life they led, and she did not feel cross nearly as often as she did at home. She even began to share their interest in the affairs of the village.“I wish there were people at Haughton I could go and see like this,” she said one day.“But there isn’t any village at Haughton,” said Dennis. “There’s only the Upwell Road outside the gates.”“There are lots of poor people in Upwell, though,” said Philippa.“That’s quite different,” said Dennis; “Upwell’s a town. I don’t suppose Aunt Katharine would let Maisie and me go about alone there as we do here.”For the rest of Philippa’s visit she and Maisie were left a good deal to each other’s society, for Dennis was now entirely occupied with the building of the jackdaws’ house under Tuvvy’s advice and direction. One afternoon the two little girls were sitting together in the play-room, threading beads on horsehair to make a collar for Darkie.“What made Dennis want to help Tuvvy?” asked Philippa suddenly. “Was it after he had carved that stick for him?”“Why, no; of course not,” said Maisie. “Tuvvy did that because he was so much obliged to Dennis.”“Well, then,” repeated Philippa, “whydidDennis take all that trouble for him?”“He liked him,” said Maisie; “and when you like people, you want to please them, I suppose.”“I don’t think I do,” said Philippa slowly; “I want them to please me.”“But that isn’t fair,” said Maisie. “You ought to please them if they please you; even Darkie knows that. Aunt Katharine says,” she added, “that you ought to try to help people and be kind to them, whether they’re kind to you or not.”Philippa shrugged her shoulders and seemed to have had enough of that subject, but although she was silent she thought it over in her mind. Maisie, meanwhile, was occupied with a very usual matter—the grey kitten’s fate. She was never tired of wondering where it was, who had found it, or whether it was alive at all, and as she had no news of it, the subject was likely to last a long time.“We shall never be able to see now which of the three is the greatest comfort,” she said aloud, “because I don’t suppose we shall ever see the grey kitten again.”“Darkie’s the best,” said Philippa; “he’s so clever, and so handsome too.”“Don’t you like Blanche?” asked Maisie, dropping her work and looking earnestly at her cousin.“Sometimes,” said Philippa airily, “but she isn’t a comfort. Miss Mervyn says she’s a plague, and mother would send her away directly if she wasn’t mine. If she was as nice and well-behaved as Darkie, we should all love her.”“But,” said Maisie, “Darkie is naughty by nature. He really is. We’ve had a great deal of trouble to make him obedient and good. He was a much worse little kitten than Blanche ever was.”“Well,” said Philippa, “I’m quite sure no one could have had more advantages than Blanche. She’s had everything she wants, and been allowed to do just as she likes.”“Then,” said Maisie solemnly, “I expect you’ve spoilt her, and that’s why she’s so troublesome and naughty.”“Perhaps I have and perhaps I haven’t,” said Philippa recklessly; “I’m tired of threading beads. Let’s go out and see how Dennis is getting on.”On the whole, in spite of some sulky moods and one or two fits of temper, Philippa’s visit passed off extremely well, and Maisie was quite sorry when the time came to say good-bye. She and Dennis watched the carriage drive away, and waved their hands to her as long as it was in sight.“She’s been quite nice nearly all the while,” said Maisie; “I wish she had stopped longer.”She spoke sincerely, for just now Dennis was so absorbed in his jackdaws’ house that she felt she should miss Philippa and be rather dull.“Can’t I help you?” she asked, as she followed him to the corner where the jackdaws’ house was being put up. It was not much to look at yet, but there were some upright posts, and a roll of wire netting, and some thin lathes of wood and a good deal of sawdust about, so that it had a business air.“Well, you see,” said Dennis, “girls always hurt their fingers with tools, but perhaps you shall try to-morrow. It’s too late now. Doesn’t it seem a waste, when you’re doing something you like, to go to bed and sleep all night?”“But if you didn’t,” said Maisie, “you couldn’t go on with it, because it’s all dark.”“I don’t know that,” said Dennis; “Tuvvy says it’s light all night part of the summer.—There’s the tea-bell; we must go in.”“I shouldn’t like to be out in the night,” said Maisie, with a little shiver, as the children ran towards the house, “when everything’s in bed, and it’s all so quiet and still.”“Everything isn’t in bed,” said Dennis. “There’s owls, and glow-worms, and bats, and—”“But they’re none of them verynicethings to be with,” said Maisie hesitatingly; “and then there are bad people out at night, who get into houses and steal things, as they did at Upwell, don’t you remember?”“Oh, you mean thieves,” said Dennis; “but as far as they go, it’s better to be out of doors than in the house. The policemen are out all night as well as the thieves, so it wouldn’t matter a bit.”“Well, you won’t forget,” said Maisie, quitting the subject of thieves, which was an unpleasant one to her, “that to-morrow morning I’m to help you with the jackdaws’ house.”Dennis did not forget, and the following day Maisie was supplied with a hammer, and began her work with great zeal, but alas! two minutes had not passed before the heavy hammer came crashing down on her chubby fingers instead of on the nail she was holding. It was a dreadful moment, not only because of the pain, which was severe, but because she felt that it stamped her inferiority as a girl for ever. She looked piteously up at Dennis with her fingers in her mouth, and her eyes full of tears.“There!” he began tauntingly, but seeing Maisie’s round face quiver with pain, he stopped, threw down his tools, and knelt beside her on the grass.“Does it hurt much?” he said. “Come in to Aunt Katharine.”Maisie suffered him to lead her into the house without saying a word, for she wanted all her strength to keep from sobbing. The poor fingers were bathed and bound up, and after she had been kissed and comforted, Aunt Katharine said that on the whole she thought Maisie had better not use hammer and nails again. Maisie thought so too just then, but presently, when the pain went off, she began to feel sorry that she was not to help with the jackdaws’ house any more. Certainly, as Aunt Katharine pointed out, she could watch Dennis at his work and give advice; but as he never by any chance took any one’s advice but Tuvvy’s, that would not be very amusing.“You can hand me the nails, you know,” said Dennis, as she sat with a sorrowful face on Aunt Katharine’s knee, “and after the jackdaws are in, you can always help to feed them.” And with this she was obliged to console herself.

“There is no doubt,” said Mrs Trevor, “that the air of Fieldside suits dear Philippa; it seems to sooth her nerves.”

“I think it does,” answered Miss Mervyn.

“And there is no doubt,” continued Mrs Trevor, “that the child needs change. She is unusually uncertain in her temper, and Dr Smith advised the sea-side at once. But it would be much easier to send her to my sister’s.”

“And she would have her cousins to play with,” suggested Miss Mervyn.

“I do so wish Katharine had not such odd notions,” continued Mrs Trevor discontentedly; “it quite makes me hesitate to let Philippa go there much. Those children are allowed to mix with all sorts of people.”

“They are nice little children,” Miss Mervyn ventured to say.

“Nice enough atpresent,” said Mrs Trevor, “but who knows how they will grow up? If I were their father— However, you think it would be a good plan to ask my sister to have Philippa for a few days?”

“I certainly do,” said Miss Mervyn, with earnest conviction.

Every one at Haughton Park thought so too, for Philippa had been so troublesome lately, that she had made the whole household uncomfortable as well as herself. “The dear child must be ill,” Mrs Trevor said, and sent for Dr Smith.

“The old story, my dear madam,” he said; “sensitive nerves. I should advise sending your daughter to the sea-side with some young companions. It is important that the system should be braced, and the mind gently amused.”

On consideration, Mrs Trevor did not see how she could manage to supply Philippa with sea-air as well as young companions, but it occurred to her that the air of Fieldside might do as well, and to this Miss Mervyn had heartily agreed. So a letter was at once written to Miss Chester, and the subject gently broken to Philippa, who, greatly to every one’s surprise and relief, made no difficulty whatever.

“I shall take the kitten with me,” she said, rather defiantly, and nothing would have pleased Mrs Trevor better, for Philippa’s kitten had become a plague and a worry to every one from morning till night. There were endless complaints about it. It was a thief, it had a bad temper, it scratched the satin chairs in the drawing-room, it climbed up the curtains, it was always in the way. It had broken a whole trayful of wine-glasses. Scarcely a day passed without some fresh piece of mischief. Perhaps the poor kitten could hardly be blamed for all this, for it would have been difficult for a wiser thing than a kitten to understand how to behave under such circumstances. Philippa would pet and spoil it one day, and scold it the next, so that it never quite knew when it was doing right or wrong. There was no doubt, however, that since its arrival there was less peace and quietness than ever at Haughton Park.

Meanwhile at Fieldside the idea of Philippa’s visit was received with something like dismay. She had never stayed more than one day before, and there was a good deal of doubt in the children’s minds as to whether she would make herself agreeable. Dennis in particular felt this strongly.

“Will Philippa stay two days or three days, Aunt Katharine?” he asked when he heard the news. “When Aunt Trevor says two or three days, does she count the one she comes and the one she goes, because that only leaves one clear day?”

“Oh, I daresay if you’re happy together,” answered Miss Chester, “her mother will like her to stay longer than that.”

It was breakfast time, and she was reading a pile of letters which had just arrived, so that she did not pay much attention to the children. Dennis turned to Maisie and said softly: “I think one clear day’s quite long enough; don’t you?”

Maisie took some thoughtful spoonfuls of porridge before she answered.

“I’m not quite sure. Sometimes the longer she stays the nicer she gets.”

“But, anyhow,” objected Dennis, “I don’t like her while she’sgettingnice, so I think it’s best for her to go away soon.”

Maisie was not quite so sure of this as her brother, though she too felt grave doubts about Philippa’s behaviour. If she were in a nice mood, her visit might be pleasant, for there were plenty of things to show her at Fieldside, and plenty to do, if she would only be interested in them, and not have her “grown-up” manner.

“I wonder what she’ll say to Darkie,” she said, as she sat thinking of this after breakfast.

“She’ll say Blanche is much prettier,” answered Dennis; “she always says her things are nicer than ours.”

“She hasn’t seen him beg yet,” said Maisie.

It was not long before Philippa had this opportunity, for when she was sitting at tea with her cousins that evening, she happened to look down at her side, and there was Darkie begging. He was the oddest little black figure possible, bolt upright, his bushy tail spread out at the back like a fan, and his paws neatly drooped in front.

“Oh!” she exclaimed, laughing; “how lovely! What a clever cat!”

“He always does it,” said Dennis, with quiet pride. “We taught him.”

“I told you he begged,” added Maisie. “Why don’t you teach Blanche?”

“I don’t believe she could learn,” said Philippa. “She’s quite a nuisance at meal times. She stands up and claws and mews until she is fed. She doesn’t give any peace.”

Maisie looked shocked.

“That’s not at all well-behaved,” she said. “You oughtn’t to let her do that.”

“I can’t help it,” answered Philippa. “I often box her ears, but it’s no good. She’s a greedy cat, I think. Not so nice as this one, and after all, black is a better colour than white, and Darkie has a bushy tail.”

Dennis looked triumphant, but Maisie was sorry to think that the white kitten was not turning out well; and though she had never liked it as much as the others, she felt it was not entirely its own fault. Philippa evidently did not know how to manage cats. She was now on the point of giving Darkie a large corner of buttered toast, when Dennis interfered.

“You mustn’t do that, please,” he said firmly. “Darkie’sneverfed at meals. He has his tea afterwards in his own dish.”

“Well!” said Philippa, looking very much surprised, “Idocall that cruel. You don’t mean to say you let him sit up like that for nothing! Blanche wouldn’t bear that. If we don’t give her what she wants at once, she cries so loud that we’re obliged to.”

“She’s learned that of you, I suppose, hasn’t she?” said Dennis.

He spoke without any intention of offending his cousin, and did not mean to be rude; but Philippa drew herself up, and flushed a pale pink all over her face.

“You’re a rude boy,” she said. Then after a pause, she gave a little nod at him, and added, “Mother says you’ve just the air of a little Hodge the ploughboy. So there!”

But this arrow did not hit the mark, though Philippa had aimed it as straight as she could. Dennis did not mind being called a ploughboy a bit. He had seen lots of them, and considered theirs an agreeable and interesting occupation; so he only shrugged his shoulders, and left her to recover her temper as she could.

It never answered to be cross at Fieldside, and Philippa had found this out before. There was nothing gained by it. Maisie only looked surprised and sorry, Dennis took no notice at all, and Aunt Katharine was much too busy to spend any time in settling disputes. This being the case, it was surprising to see how soon Philippa got over her passionate fits, and was ready to behave as though nothing had happened.

It was so now, for though she was rather sulky with Dennis all the evening, she got up in quite a good temper the next morning, and did not seem to remember that he had been rude. The three children started off for a walk together soon after breakfast, for Aunt Katharine wanted a message taken to the Manor Farm. On the way, Dennis and Maisie had much to tell about Mr and Mrs Solace, their house, and all their animals; and Philippa listened with interest, though she thought it all rather “odd.” This word was indeed constantly on her lips, for her cousins seemed to live in such a very different way from anything she was used to at home. When they passed through the village, nodding and smiling to nearly every one they met, and making little friendly remarks to the people at their cottage doors, she could not help thinking of her stiff walk in the park with Miss Mervyn, which always lasted a certain time if it was fine, and from which she often came back feeling very cross. If the walk at Fieldside were “odd,” it was certainly amusing, and she began to wish there were a village at Haughton.

Presently the village ended, and now there was a long narrow lane to go through before the Manor Farm was reached.

“What a nice stick you’ve got,” said Philippa to Dennis.

“Itisa jolly stick, isn’t it?” he said, holding it out for her to see more closely.

It had all manner of quaint knots on the stem, and the large knob at the top was carved into a very excellent likeness of the little rough dog Peter. Philippa looked at it with admiration.

“I should like one like that,” she said. “Where could I buy one?”

“You couldn’t buy one at all,” said Dennis proudly; “it was made for me. Tuvvy made it.”

“Who’s Tuvvy?” inquired Philippa.

“A friend of mine,” said Dennis; “he’s Mr Solace’s wheelwright.”

“Oh yes, I remember,” said Philippa; “Maisie told me about him. What odd friends you have!”

She looked curiously at Dennis as he marched along flourishing his stick. It must be rather nice, she began to think, to do things for people, and for them to be so grateful, and carve sticks on purpose for you.

Still, it was “odd,” and there was a good deal in it that she did not understand.

Arrived at the farm, however, her thoughts were soon distracted; first by the appearance of the turkey-cock, and the agreeable discovery that she was not afraid of him.

“What a baby you are, Maisie!” she exclaimed.

“She isn’t always,” said Dennis; “there are lots of things worse than the turkey-cock that she doesn’t mind a bit. Thingsyou’dbe afraid of, perhaps.—There is Mrs Solace at the door.”

Mrs Solace beamed at the children in her usual kindly way; and, as was her custom, would not think of their leaving the house without eating something after their walk. At home Philippa would have despised bread and honey and new milk, but here somehow it tasted very good, and she was too hungry to stop to call it odd.

“The little lady wants some of your roses, Miss Maisie,” said Mrs Solace, looking at the children as they sat side by side; “she’s as white as a sloe-blossom.”

“My complexion’s naturally delicate, thank you,” said Philippa, rather offended; “I never get sunburnt like Maisie.”

“Oh, well, maybe you’ve outgrown your strength a bit, my dear,” said the farmer’s wife, smiling comfortably.—“And now, Master Dennis, I mustn’t forget that Andrew’s got a couple of young jackdaws for you: would you like to take them back now, or let ’em bide here a little?”

There was some consultation between Dennis and his sister, before it was finally settled that the jackdaws should not be taken then and there to Fieldside, but should first have a home prepared for them.

“And I know just where to build it,” he said, as the three children started on their return after saying good-bye to Mrs Solace. “Just in that corner, you know, between the fowl-house and the cow-shed.”

“Do you know how to build it?” asked Philippa.

“Well, perhaps not just quite exactly,” said Dennis with candour; “but Tuvvy will tell me and help with the difficult parts. He passes through our field every night, you know.”

“And shall you work at it just like a carpenter?” asked Philippa with surprise.

“As like as I can,” said Dennis modestly; “you see, I do know a little carpentering because I’ve watched Tuvvy so much.”

“You’re averyodd boy,” said Philippa. Every day that she passed at Fieldside she became more and more certain that her cousins did strange things, and liked strange things; but, at the same time, there was something pleasant about the life they led, and she did not feel cross nearly as often as she did at home. She even began to share their interest in the affairs of the village.

“I wish there were people at Haughton I could go and see like this,” she said one day.

“But there isn’t any village at Haughton,” said Dennis. “There’s only the Upwell Road outside the gates.”

“There are lots of poor people in Upwell, though,” said Philippa.

“That’s quite different,” said Dennis; “Upwell’s a town. I don’t suppose Aunt Katharine would let Maisie and me go about alone there as we do here.”

For the rest of Philippa’s visit she and Maisie were left a good deal to each other’s society, for Dennis was now entirely occupied with the building of the jackdaws’ house under Tuvvy’s advice and direction. One afternoon the two little girls were sitting together in the play-room, threading beads on horsehair to make a collar for Darkie.

“What made Dennis want to help Tuvvy?” asked Philippa suddenly. “Was it after he had carved that stick for him?”

“Why, no; of course not,” said Maisie. “Tuvvy did that because he was so much obliged to Dennis.”

“Well, then,” repeated Philippa, “whydidDennis take all that trouble for him?”

“He liked him,” said Maisie; “and when you like people, you want to please them, I suppose.”

“I don’t think I do,” said Philippa slowly; “I want them to please me.”

“But that isn’t fair,” said Maisie. “You ought to please them if they please you; even Darkie knows that. Aunt Katharine says,” she added, “that you ought to try to help people and be kind to them, whether they’re kind to you or not.”

Philippa shrugged her shoulders and seemed to have had enough of that subject, but although she was silent she thought it over in her mind. Maisie, meanwhile, was occupied with a very usual matter—the grey kitten’s fate. She was never tired of wondering where it was, who had found it, or whether it was alive at all, and as she had no news of it, the subject was likely to last a long time.

“We shall never be able to see now which of the three is the greatest comfort,” she said aloud, “because I don’t suppose we shall ever see the grey kitten again.”

“Darkie’s the best,” said Philippa; “he’s so clever, and so handsome too.”

“Don’t you like Blanche?” asked Maisie, dropping her work and looking earnestly at her cousin.

“Sometimes,” said Philippa airily, “but she isn’t a comfort. Miss Mervyn says she’s a plague, and mother would send her away directly if she wasn’t mine. If she was as nice and well-behaved as Darkie, we should all love her.”

“But,” said Maisie, “Darkie is naughty by nature. He really is. We’ve had a great deal of trouble to make him obedient and good. He was a much worse little kitten than Blanche ever was.”

“Well,” said Philippa, “I’m quite sure no one could have had more advantages than Blanche. She’s had everything she wants, and been allowed to do just as she likes.”

“Then,” said Maisie solemnly, “I expect you’ve spoilt her, and that’s why she’s so troublesome and naughty.”

“Perhaps I have and perhaps I haven’t,” said Philippa recklessly; “I’m tired of threading beads. Let’s go out and see how Dennis is getting on.”

On the whole, in spite of some sulky moods and one or two fits of temper, Philippa’s visit passed off extremely well, and Maisie was quite sorry when the time came to say good-bye. She and Dennis watched the carriage drive away, and waved their hands to her as long as it was in sight.

“She’s been quite nice nearly all the while,” said Maisie; “I wish she had stopped longer.”

She spoke sincerely, for just now Dennis was so absorbed in his jackdaws’ house that she felt she should miss Philippa and be rather dull.

“Can’t I help you?” she asked, as she followed him to the corner where the jackdaws’ house was being put up. It was not much to look at yet, but there were some upright posts, and a roll of wire netting, and some thin lathes of wood and a good deal of sawdust about, so that it had a business air.

“Well, you see,” said Dennis, “girls always hurt their fingers with tools, but perhaps you shall try to-morrow. It’s too late now. Doesn’t it seem a waste, when you’re doing something you like, to go to bed and sleep all night?”

“But if you didn’t,” said Maisie, “you couldn’t go on with it, because it’s all dark.”

“I don’t know that,” said Dennis; “Tuvvy says it’s light all night part of the summer.—There’s the tea-bell; we must go in.”

“I shouldn’t like to be out in the night,” said Maisie, with a little shiver, as the children ran towards the house, “when everything’s in bed, and it’s all so quiet and still.”

“Everything isn’t in bed,” said Dennis. “There’s owls, and glow-worms, and bats, and—”

“But they’re none of them verynicethings to be with,” said Maisie hesitatingly; “and then there are bad people out at night, who get into houses and steal things, as they did at Upwell, don’t you remember?”

“Oh, you mean thieves,” said Dennis; “but as far as they go, it’s better to be out of doors than in the house. The policemen are out all night as well as the thieves, so it wouldn’t matter a bit.”

“Well, you won’t forget,” said Maisie, quitting the subject of thieves, which was an unpleasant one to her, “that to-morrow morning I’m to help you with the jackdaws’ house.”

Dennis did not forget, and the following day Maisie was supplied with a hammer, and began her work with great zeal, but alas! two minutes had not passed before the heavy hammer came crashing down on her chubby fingers instead of on the nail she was holding. It was a dreadful moment, not only because of the pain, which was severe, but because she felt that it stamped her inferiority as a girl for ever. She looked piteously up at Dennis with her fingers in her mouth, and her eyes full of tears.

“There!” he began tauntingly, but seeing Maisie’s round face quiver with pain, he stopped, threw down his tools, and knelt beside her on the grass.

“Does it hurt much?” he said. “Come in to Aunt Katharine.”

Maisie suffered him to lead her into the house without saying a word, for she wanted all her strength to keep from sobbing. The poor fingers were bathed and bound up, and after she had been kissed and comforted, Aunt Katharine said that on the whole she thought Maisie had better not use hammer and nails again. Maisie thought so too just then, but presently, when the pain went off, she began to feel sorry that she was not to help with the jackdaws’ house any more. Certainly, as Aunt Katharine pointed out, she could watch Dennis at his work and give advice; but as he never by any chance took any one’s advice but Tuvvy’s, that would not be very amusing.

“You can hand me the nails, you know,” said Dennis, as she sat with a sorrowful face on Aunt Katharine’s knee, “and after the jackdaws are in, you can always help to feed them.” And with this she was obliged to console herself.

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