Black, White and Gray - Amy Walton (online e book reader TXT) 📗

not care a bit; but it was difficult to be angry with Maisie, and when the apron was at last torn off, the two little girls ran across the field together towards the house.

Philippa's story turned out to be so very satisfactory and interesting. It seemed to clear away all doubt as to the whereabouts of the grey kitten. Maisie's eager questions and exclamations of pleasure were more than enough to satisfy her and make her feel quite good-tempered again.

"Did it seem happy?" inquired Maisie, as they drew near the gate. "Do you think it's got a good home?"

"Becky said," replied Philippa, "that it did not get much to eat sometimes, and it's a very ugly little house they live in; but she's very fond of it, and it's fond of her too."

"Then I expect it's all right," said Maisie; "it was always a dear little contented thing."

"She said it was her greatest comfort," added Philippa. "Wasn't it odd she should say that? It made me think of you and wonder if it was yours, and so I came straight off to tell you after I heard it was a stray kitten."

"Won't you come with me to-morrow?" asked Maisie. "You see you know Becky now, and I've never seen her."

Philippa quite approved of this. She would ask Miss Mervyn to bring her half-way to meet Maisie, and they would make the visit together.

"And I daresay Dennis will come too, if he's done painting," said Maisie.

"That doesn't matter at all," said Philippa, as she drove away with Miss Mervyn.

The next morning Maisie at Fieldside and Becky at Upwell woke up thinking of the same thing--the grey kitten--but with very different feelings. Maisie was delighted at the idea of meeting it again, and Becky was full of sorrow to think that she might have to say good-bye to it for ever. After her parents and Dan had all started out to their work, and left her alone with the kitten as usual, she thought it all seriously over, and made one firm resolve--she would not cry. If to give it up cheerful was impossible, she would at least prevent her grief from being seen. It might be hard, but it must be done, because, as Dan had said, Dennis and Maisie had been so good to them. "I'll shut my teeth tight," determined Becky, "and they shan't ever know I want to cry. Then, after they're gone, I can cry as much as I like."

With a sigh she proceeded to get the kitten ready for the visit, by brushing its coat carefully and smoothing it down with a duster. It had not very thick fur, but it was glossy and well-kept, and it was so used to kind treatment that it bore itself with confidence, like a cat with a good home. If there were nothing striking or handsome in its appearance, there was at least nothing slinking or miserable about it, and to Becky, who looked at it with the eyes of affection, it had every attraction a cat could possess.

"And now you're as ready as you can be," she said wistfully; "a collar or a bit o' ribbon would finish yer off, but I ain't got ne'er a one. Miss Maisie she'll have lots o' ribbons, and nicer things a deal for you to eat than I can give you, but she can't love you better. Maybe you'd be happier, but oh Kitty, Kitty, I hope you ain't her cat. I want to keep you, I _do_."

There was a knock at the door. "Come in," said Becky in a trembling voice, and both she and the kitten turned their eyes towards it in a frightened manner as it opened.

Philippa appeared first, stepping daintily forward with a swing of her elegant skirts, and for a moment Becky thought she was alone. But no, there was another little girl behind her, with rosy cheeks and very bright brown eyes. She came in shyly, and yet she looked very eager, and her gaze was fastened immediately on the kitten in Becky's arms.

"It's Miss Maisie," thought Becky, her grasp unconsciously tightening on its back.

"This," said Philippa, waving her hand grandly, "is my cousin, Miss Maisie Chester, and--" turning to Maisie--"this is Becky, and that's the kitten."

"How do you do?" said Maisie holding out her hand; "I hope you're better."

It was such a very kind little round face that approached that Becky could not feel afraid. She put out her hand and whispered, "Yes, thank you."

"Philippa says," continued Maisie, still with her eyes fixed on the kitten, "that you've found a stray kitten. And we lost a kitten--a grey one--in Upwell, and Aunt Katharine said I might come and see if this is it."

Face to face with the kitten at last, Maisie began to lose confidence in her memory. After all, it was a long time since she had seen it, and there were a great many grey cats in the world, and Dennis had always declared that it would be impossible to know it again. Her serious gaze rested on the kitten, Becky's on her face, and Philippa waited impatiently in the background for the decision.

"Well," she said at last; "is it it, or isn't it?"

"The thing is," began Maisie, "has it one white paw?"

Alas for Becky! She knew it had, only too well. Lifting it a little away from her, there was the fatal white paw plainly visible to Maisie's searching glance.

"And then," she continued, having observed this with a grave nod, "has it very nice little coaxing affectionate ways?"

Becky nodded with a full heart. She could not trust herself to speak.

"Does it purr much?" pursued Maisie. "_More_ than other cats?"

Again Becky nodded. She had clenched her teeth long ago, but she began to be afraid that nothing would prevent her crying.

"May I have it in my arms?" asked Maisie.

She took it gently on to her knee, but the kitten had quite forgotten its babyhood, and thinking her an utter stranger, soon wriggled back to its mistress.

"It doesn't remember me," said Maisie rather sadly, "and yet I nursed it so very often."

"It _is_ yours, then?" said Philippa.

"Yes," said Maisie. "I really and truly do believe it is, and I'm very glad."

She glanced at Becky as she spoke, and to her surprise saw that her eyes were full of tears.

"What's the matter?" she asked; "does your back hurt you?"

Becky shook her head. "'Tain't that," she managed to whisper. "I meant not to cry, but I don't seem able to keep it back."

She stopped and struggled with her tears, tore away the kitten, which clung to her with its little claws, and almost threw it into Maisie's lap.

"You're welcome to it," she sobbed out, "and you'll treat it kind."

At this rough usage the kitten gave a tiny mew of complaint, and Maisie herself was quite as much disturbed. She looked round at Philippa for help, stroked the kitten nervously, and stammered: "But it isn't mine any longer--I gave it away; didn't you know?"

"I told her all about it," said Philippa. "I told her it was given to the tinsmith's wife."

"And, of course, you said we shouldn't take it away?" said Maisie.

"Well, no," said Philippa, looking a little ashamed, as she remembered her hasty departure; "I didn't tell her that. I thought she would know it."

Maisie put the kitten gently back into Becky's arms.

"Don't be unhappy," she said. "Of course I'd much rather it stayed with you than with old Sally's Eliza; and I am sure she won't mind, because, you see, she hardly knew it before it ran away. And we couldn't have it at Fieldside, because we mustn't keep more than two cats, and we've got Madam and Darkie. And I don't want it either, because now I know it's happy and comfortable, I don't mind any longer."

Becky found it almost as hard not to cry now as it had been before, the relief was so great; but she managed to whisper some earnest thanks, as she clasped her pet closely to her.

"I hope it will always be a comfort to you," said Maisie, as the children said good-bye. "I always said it would grow up a nice little comforting cat, though it was never so pretty as the others. And now," she remarked to Philippa as they drove home, "the kittens are settled. They've each got a good home, and we know which has grown up the greatest comfort."


CHAPTER THIRTEEN.

STRAWBERRIES AND CREAM.

Summer, which had seemed very long in coming to Dennis and Maisie, had at last made up its mind, and was really here, bringing all its best pleasures and most beautiful things to look at and enjoy. It was really hot weather, so that it was possible almost to live out of doors, and to have tea in the garden as a matter of course. Hot enough always to wear cotton frocks and holland suits, and sun-bonnets and broad straw hats, to do very few lessons, and to be out quite late in the evening. The roses were in bloom, the fields smelt sweet with new-mown hay, the strawberries were ripe: it was glorious June weather.

But at Upwell, though it was quite as hot, it was not by any means so beautiful. There the narrow dusty streets were stifling; the sun's fierce rays beat down on the houses all day, and when night came, it brought no coolness or relief, and there seemed no air to breathe. It was not so bad for the people who could get away from the town when their work was done, into the fields and lanes for a while; but there were some who were old or sick and could not move, and amongst these was poor Becky. She got thinner and whiter and weaker as the hot days followed each other, and though she was very patient, and always ready to say, "Better, thank you," with a smile, when her visitors asked how she was, she did not really feel better at all.

But though this was the case, she was not unhappy, and the days were seldom long and weary as they used to be, for she now had three friends who paid her constant visits--Philippa, Maisie, and Dennis. To expect their coming, to think of all they had said, and how they had looked, were such new pleasures that Becky was now more than contented with her lot. Some day she was going to get well, and run about again, and perhaps dance to the organ in the street; meanwhile she had her kitten, and she had her friends; it was all much better than it used to be. Amongst the three, she perhaps looked forward the least to seeing Philippa, who never came without an offering of some kind--a picture-book, or something nice to eat. Philippa tried hard to please, but there was always a little condescension in her manner, from which her cousins were quite free.

Maisie and Dennis seldom brought any present but a bunch of flowers, or a few strawberries, yet they seemed to leave behind them many other pleasant