At last, in a pause of the games, Ella exclaimed:
"Only think, Miss Barbara, we have lost our beautiful tortoise-shell kitten. She went away the day before yesterday, and we cannot find out what has become of her, though we have hunted all round the neighbourhood. The old cat mourns for her from morning till night, and spends all her time looking for her, and poor Tody is so lonely, he will scarcely play at all."
Agnes and Dora looked at each other, and Agnes made her cousin a signal for silence, but Theresa disregarded it, and exclaimed—
"Why, there was a tortoise-shell kitten came to our house yesterday—perhaps it is the very same."
"I don't believe it is the same," said Agnes, looking angrily at Theresa. "How should your kitten come over to our house?"
"She might," said Ella, "if she had wandered away and got lost. What sort of a kitten was it, Theresa?"
Theresa gave a minute and animated description of her pet, which was found to agree point by point with that of the missing Tabby.
"I am sure it must be our kitten," said Marian, clapping her hands. "Oh! How glad am I that she is found! You will keep her for us, won't you, Theresa, and we will come for her as soon as we can."
"To be sure," said Theresa, suppressing a little sigh at the thought of losing her pet, and then brightening up, as she reflected how soon she was going away herself. "I am glad she has found her home again. She is the cunningest little kitten I ever saw, and so good-natured."
"She must have improved in that respect since she left home," said Ella, laughing. "We always thought her very cross, but perhaps that was only because Tody is so remarkably amiable."
"You must come after her pretty soon, if you want her, Ella," observed Agnes, vexed at her cousin, and unable entirely to conceal her habitual disposition. "She is such a thief, and so troublesome that mother thinks she will have to send her away. She gets upon the table, and breaks dishes, and does all sorts of bad things."
"Oh! Don't send her away, please!" exclaimed Ella and Marian both together. "Let her stay in the barn or somewhere till we can come for her."
"Of course she shall," said Barbara, who had been listening to the latter part of the conversation. "Agnes rather exaggerated her offence, Ella. She only jumped upon the table once, and the cup she broke was of no value. I will see that she is safely kept for you."
"Maybe you will, and maybe you won't," said Agnes to herself. "There are two words to that bargain, Miss Barbara."
"Miss Fanny," said a little girl, "are not cats a kind of tiger?"
Two or three of the children laughed rather rudely at this question, but the little girl was not abashed.
"I am sure I have read some such thing in one of my books," said she. "I do not see what there is to laugh at."
"Nor I," said Miss Fanny. "It is a very sensible question, Minnie, though it would be more correct to say that tigers are a species of cat. Lions and tigers, with leopards, panthers, lynxes, and all the smaller varieties, belong to one great family, which naturalists call the genus 'felis,' or the cat tribe."
"Then our little kittens are cousins to lions and tigers," observed Ella. "How funny! But, sister, why do they put so many animals together in one class, and all so unlike?"
"Because, unlike as they appear to you, there are more points of likeness than of difference," replied Miss Fanny, "as you would see if you were to examine them closely."
"I know lions have a good many of the actions of cats," said Tessy, "and so have panthers. Once I saw an old panther and two cubs in a large cage together, and they played with their mother and each other, and washed their faces and paws, exactly like great kittens."
"There are many other points of resemblance," said Miss Fanny. "You have all observed how peculiar the cat's paw is. Feel it when she is at rest or good-natured, and it is like velvet; you would not think she had any claws: but tease her, or give her something to eat, and you will soon see her talons. All the cat tribe have these 'retractile' claws as they are called—that is, their claws when not in use are drawn back into a sheath, which covers them, and keeps them from being blunted by walking. All the family have also the same number and kind of teeth; they have all smooth, short fur and long whiskers, and are very cleanly in their habits. They all seize their prey in the same way, by stratagem or surprise, and prefer to hunt in the night."
"Cats can see in the night as well as in the day-time," said the little girl who had spoken first.
"Yes, as well or better; and their eyes are beautifully contrived for the purpose. Look at a cat's eyes by a strong light, and you will see the pupil—that is to say, the dark hole in the middle of the eye—contracted to a narrow line, so as to let in but a few of the rays at once. But carry the animal into a dark room, and you will see the pupil expand so as to cover almost the whole eye. This is more or less true of all eyes belonging to the higher orders of animals, but all have not that great sensibility which enables the cat to see perfectly well in what is pitch darkness to us. Observe, too, their slender forms, and delicate yet muscular limbs, which enable them to walk without making the slightest noise, or to spring with crushing force upon their prey, and you will admit that they are admirably adapted to the kind of life they are intended to lead."
"It must have taken a great deal of sense to contrive a cat!" said little Minnie very seriously.
"You may say the same of any animal, my dear Minnie," replied Miss Fanny, "and the more you study natural history, which means the study of all things in nature, the more you will be struck with the care with which all species, not only of animals but of plants, are adapted to the stations they are intended to fill."
"Why do people say that cats have nine lives, Miss Fanny?" asked Dora.
"Because they are very tenacious of life," replied Miss Fanny. "A fall which would kill almost any other small animal instantly, will be sustained by a cat without apparent injury. You know it is a common saying that cats always fall on their feet, which I suppose is the reason they are not often hurt. Nevertheless I have known a cat killed by a very moderate fall."
"Did not some of the ancients worship cats?" asked Tessy.
"The Egyptians considered them sacred," replied Miss Fanny, "though I do not know that they actually worshipped them. They treated them always with much consideration when living, and embalmed their dead bodies with great care. These cat-mummies are now found in great numbers in Egypt, along with those of the Ibis, a kind of bird, and of the bull. It is now believed that a kind of wild cat found in Upper Egypt, and called by naturalists Felis Mamlata, is the original stock of the domestic cat."
"They are curious creatures," said Barbara. "I do not wonder that people used always to associate them with witches."
"Did they?" asked Dora.
"Yes, they play a prominent part in all the witch-stories of the last two or three centuries, and a great many tales were told of witches appearing in the form of cats to the persons they afflicted. The poor unfortunate wretches who were tried for witchcraft, when forced by abuse and torture to confess deeds which they never committed, almost always clothed their familiar imp in the form of a cat, usually a black one. And it must be confessed that there is something mysterious and almost alarming in the appearance of a large and well-fed coal-black cat. Then their property of emitting electrical sparks in cold weather—a property which they possess in a greater degree than almost any other animal, their great sagacity which is united to a degree of independence or wilfulness which makes it very difficult to train them, and the horrible and surprising noises in which they are accustomed to indulge at their nightly meetings, all combine to render them a terror to ignorant people whose resource it is to call everything witchcraft which appears mysterious to their minds."
"I don't like cats!" said Agnes. "I think they are treacherous, deceitful creatures. You never know what they are going to do. You may be playing with them as peaceably as possible, and the first thing you know up comes a paw, and you get a great scratch."
"I do not blame any cat for scratching you, Agnes," said Dora. "You are always teasing them."
"They are often teased unintentionally by those who play with them," said Miss Fanny. "Cats are nervous creatures, and are frequently annoyed by having their fur stroked the wrong way, and their ears pulled. You may have observed with regard to yourself, that turning your hair in a new direction will often make your head very sore and uncomfortable."
"I have," murmured a little girl, whose long and thick hair was very elaborately curled and braided. "I have often wished I hadn't any."
"Then you may appreciate the feelings of a cat under the same circumstances, Adeline," replied Miss Fanny, smiling.
"I have often rubbed up our cat's fur to see the sparks fly out, but I never thought of its hurting her," said Minnie. "I remember now he never seemed to like it much, though he never scratched in his life. And, Miss Fanny, he can open any door in the house, even one with a round handle. He always comes up and opens mother's door in the morning, and then goes down to breakfast with her."
"Aunt had a more knowing cat than that," remarked Tessy. "She used to catch fish in the lake, and bring them up to the house. She once caught a pike that weighed two pounds. She used to lie on a stone a little way out from the bank to watch, and when she saw a fish coming, she would knock it out of the water with her paw. At first we thought she must steal them somewhere, but after a while we watched her, and saw how she managed."
"She was a clever cat," said Miss Fanny. "It was the more remarkable, as cats have usually such a great dislike to wetting their feet. We had a cat, when we lived in the country, that used to go out shooting. I do not mean that she actually used the gun with her own paws," she hastened to add, anticipating the exclamations of her auditors, "but she used to accompany my brother, and seemed to enjoy the sport amazingly. We had a great abundance of early cherries, and were in consequence very much annoyed by the legions of cherry-birds, which made their appearance with the first May Dukes, and never left a perfect cherry on the tree. Scarecrows, bells, and other devices were tried to no effect, and at last it became necessary to shoot them. The slaughter was very great for two or three days. Lupa soon comprehended the use of the gun, and as soon as my brother took up his fowling-piece, she was on the alert. She would follow close behind him, and stop when he did, crouching to the ground. The moment he fired, she would spring forward, and she almost invariably caught the bird before it came to the earth. As the game was abundant and my brother a capital marksman, Lupa soon became very fat, and grew indifferent to this kind of fare, after which she would amuse herself by dragging the dead birds together and piling them up in heaps. This same old cat would drink wine and even brandy, and was very fond of strong coffee, but she disliked milk, and would take cold water in preference."
"Tody likes tea," said Marian; "mother gives him some almost every night after she has finished her own, but Tabby never would touch it. Oh, I am so glad we have found out what has become of Tabby! But perhaps you would like to keep her, Theresa?" she added, seeing or fancying a shade upon Tessy's countenance.
"Oh no!" replied Tessy. "You know I am going to school after New Year, and I would rather you had her than not, since she belonged to you in the first place."
The children's conversation was here interrupted by a call to supper, which was bountiful and excellent, of course. Among the other beauties of the table was a basket of nicely frosted cakes, each ornamented with coloured sugar-plums, disposed in the form of a letter, there being one for each little guest. Thus there was an "M" for Minnie, an "E" for Emily, and a "T" for Theresa, and so on through the whole list. Now it so happened that by some mistake there was only one "A" among them, and the basket being passed first to Adeline, she took it as a matter of course, so that when Agnes Warrington's turn came there was none for her. Miss Fanny was very sorry, and looked again and again, but no other "A" was to be found. Agnes looked very much displeased indeed, and her anger would have found vent in something besides words if no older persons had been present, but Mrs. Merriam and the young ladies were in the room, and she did not exactly like to give way to her temper before them.
"I will give Agnes mine," said little Virginia Haskall, Ella's cousin. "If you turn the 'V' upside down, it will do very well for an 'A,' and cousin Fanny will make me one some other time."
Fanny looked at Agnes, expecting to see her at once decline the offer, but Agnes did nothing of the kind. She simply accepted it as a matter of course, and soon disposed of it, without even thanking the generous donor.
"Well, I would be ashamed to do that, any way!" said Adeline to her next neighbour. "She might have had mine and welcome, only I wanted to carry it to my little brother Albert, who has broken his leg, you know. I thought it would please him, but I would rather have given it to Agnes than have had dear little Virginia robbed of hers. I never heard anything so mean—a little thing not six years old, and Agnes is thirteen."
Adeline spoke in a whisper, but Agnes overheard her, and her already ruffled temper was still farther provoked. She would not join in any of the games after supper, objecting to everything proposed, and conducting herself so rudely that Tessy and Barbara were extremely mortified, and the latter resolved she would never go out with her again.
"Well, girls, have you had a pleasant party?" asked Mrs. Warrington, who was sitting in the parlour when they arrived at home.
"No," replied Agnes, snatching at the first word. "It was the dullest, stupidest thing I ever saw, and the supper was miserable. There was not half enough to go round."
"O Agnes!" exclaimed Tessy and Dora together, and Dora continued: "You only say that because you did not get one of the lettered cakes, though you did too, for Virginia gave you hers. I should have been ashamed to take it if I had been you."
"And only think, mother," continued Agnes, unheeding her sister's words, "that kitten is Ella Merriam's, and she is going to send for it. She told Tessy she might keep it if she liked, but Miss Tessy said she would rather they had it again as she was going to school, and she could not trust it with any of us."
This was no careless exaggeration on Agnes's part, but a deliberate lie. She knew perfectly well what her cousin had said, but she was very angry with her for disregarding her signals for silence when the kitten was first mentioned, and she was determined to have her revenge.
Mrs. Warrington turned to Theresa with a look of great displeasure, but Barbara interposed before she had time to speak.
"That is not true, mother! Ella asked Theresa if she would like to keep the kitten though they were plainly very anxious to have her back again, and she answered that as she was going to school after the holidays, she would rather the kitten were back at her own home. The word 'trust' was neither spoken nor implied, and Agnes has drawn upon her imagination for her facts. All the other children seemed to enjoy the evening very much, and so I think would Agnes have done, if she had taken the pains to behave like a lady."
She then informed her mother of Agnes's conduct. Mrs. Warrington was for once seriously angry. She knew from experience that Barbara's account was perfectly to be relied on, and she was very much annoyed that Agnes should have made such a display in the house of Mrs. Merriam, whom she respected more than almost any other friend she had. Almost for the first time in her life, she reproved Agnes severely, and declared she would not suffer her to go to another party during the holidays. Agnes went away crying, very angry at her sister, and determined to be revenged upon Theresa, whom she most unjustly regarded as the cause of her disgrace.
The next day was bright and clear, though cold, and as usual all the family went to church, except Agnes, who declared she had such a headache that she could hardly keep her eyes open. Mrs. Warrington admitted the excuse the more readily as she was quite hoarse, and seemed to have symptoms of a severe cold. So she was left at home on the sofa in the drawing-room with Tabby for company, and a pile of new books for amusement, her mother charging her upon no account to expose herself to the cold air.
She threw her into the snow.
No sooner had the bells stopped ringing than Agnes turned her feet off the sofa where she had been lying, and opening the parlour door, looked out into the hall and listened. She saw no one, and heard nothing except a distant sound of beating eggs and pounding down in the kitchen. All the servants had gone to church, except the cook and her assistant, who were busily engaged in the preparations for the Christmas dinner. The time was a favourable one for accomplishing her purpose.
In another moment, Tabby, who was lying peacefully before the fire, washing her face and paws and thinking of home, felt herself rudely snatched up and wrapped in an apron. Without stopping to put on bonnet or overshoes, Agnes ran down stairs, out of the back door, and down a lane, which led past the back of the barn. She went on through the deep snow, without heeding the cold wind, till she came to a large piece of unenclosed ground at some distance from the house, when, thinking she had gone far enough, she unrolled her apron, and taking poor frightened Tabby by the back of the neck, she hurled her from her as far as she could into the snow. Then without stopping to see what had become of the poor kitten, she ran home again as fast as she could go and slipped into the house, congratulating herself upon having accomplished her purpose unseen.
CHAPTER FOURTH.
AGNES'S REWARD.
AGNES had been so excited that she had not bestowed a thought on the severity of the weather, but when she was once more in the parlour, she found herself shivering violently. The snow had found its way into her boots and clung to the hems of her skirt so that they were wet through. And instead of changing them at once, as she should have done, she contented herself with standing before the fire, till she felt tolerably warm again, when she was glad to resume her place upon the sofa, for the excitement had increased her headache, and she felt very unwell.
Now that it was over, she began to feel rather frightened at what she had done, for she knew how much her mother regarded Mr. and Mrs. Merriam, and how angry she would be at any affront offered to them or their children, and she almost wished she had allowed matters to take their course. She was not altogether void of conscience, though she seldom permitted the voice of that inward monitor to be heard, or listened to her when she did speak. But now, as she lay on the sofa with her head aching too much to allow her to fix her thoughts upon her books, the still small voice made itself audible.
"Agnes Warrington," it said, "you have been guilty of a very treacherous, wicked, and cruel action; treacherous and unkind toward your cousin who never injured you and whose kindness and forbearance have been unvaried towards you, since the first moment that she came a guest into your mother's house; and cruel to a harmless and defenceless little animal, as well as to the little girls who were joyfully looking forward to the recovery of their pet kitten. All this you have been guilty of, and you are now contemplating the telling of several lies to conceal your fault!"
This and much more did conscience whisper into the ear of Agnes Warrington on that Christmas morning, while she lay on the sofa—while thousands of God's people, all over the land, were gathered in His courts to praise Him for the gift of His dear Son, sent us on that day for the salvation of the world—born of a woman, and coming in the shape of a little child, that children might realize how the Son of God could feel for the peculiar trials of children.
When Mrs. Warrington came home from church, she found Agnes very unwell indeed, and suffering greatly both from headache and oppression of the lungs. Agnes herself tried to make light of it, and assured her mother that it was only a little cold and that her headache was caused by something she had eaten the night before.
"Some of the cake was very rich," remarked Barbara, "and I rather think Agnes ate a good deal."
"Perhaps it was Virginia's cake that disagreed with her," said Dora in a half-whisper to Theresa; "I should think it would."
Tessy took no notice of the unkind remark, but Agnes heard it, and gave her sister a look which told of anything but sisterly feelings.
"I think it is very wrong to give such rich cake to children," said Mrs. Warrington, "but I do not believe it is that which now troubles Agnes. She seems to have taken a severe cold, and I am really afraid it will make her sick. Had you not better go to bed, Aggy, and not try to sit up to dinner?"
"Oh no, mother, I would rather not. I think I shall feel better by and by." Agnes exerted herself to sit up as she said this, and began to talk quite gaily with her cousin and sisters about the party and the presents they had received, though her contracted brow and now and then a deep sigh, showed how much it cost her.
"Oh! And by the way!" exclaimed Tessy. "We saw Ella and Marian going into church, and they said they would call for the kitten this afternoon, when they came from their grandmother's, where they were going after church. Do you know where Tabby is, Agnes?"
"No," replied Agnes, putting her hand to her head, "I have not seen her since you went away."
"You had better find her and feed her, Tessy," said Mrs. Warrington, as she gathered up her bonnet and furs. "I should not like Mrs. Merriam think that we starved her while she was here."
Tessy hunted the house and barn all over, calling "Kitty! Kitty!" and seeking in vain for her favourite.
"Isn't it queer, Agnes?" she said, returning to the parlour where her cousin was now lying on the sofa, with her face turned away from the light. "I cannot find Tabby anywhere. I have called her all over the house and in the barn, and looked in the cellar and every place for her. I wonder where she can be. She was lying here, I thought, when we went away."
"She wanted to go out a little while ago," said Agnes, "and I got up and opened the door for her. She went out towards the barn, and I daresay she is curled up on the hay somewhere, or watching for a mouse."
If Tessy had suspected anything wrong, her suspicions might have been strengthened by two circumstances, first, from her cousin's very confused and hesitating manner, and secondly, from the fact that her two statements contradicted each other, for Agnes had declared in the first place that she had not seen Tabby. Thinking no evil, however, she attributed her cousin's manner to her obviously increasing illness, and went out to take another look for the missing kitten.
Not so Barbara. Accustomed to her sister's manner, she perceived that something was wrong, and guessed at once that Agnes was concerned in the kitten's disappearance. She said nothing, however, till she had herself looked all over the house and grounds, satisfying herself that Tabby was not upon the premises.
"How sorry I am!" said Tessy, as they were all assembled in the parlour, waiting for the bell to ring for dinner. "How disappointed Ella and Marian will be! I wish they had come for her this morning."
"It is very strange," remarked Mrs. Warrington. "The kitten seemed so happy and contented here, I should hardly think she would have gone away of her own accord."
"She has never gone away without hands, I am certain, mother," remarked Barbara emphatically.
"What nonsense!" said Agnes peevishly. "Who do you suppose would trouble themselves to put her out of the way?"
"Whoever it is, will be found out sooner or later," replied Barbara; "you may depend upon that." She was about to add more, but was interrupted by a ring at the door-bell.
"There is Ella now," said Dora, looking out of the window. "I see Fanny and Sophia in the carriage."
"Miss Fanny and Miss Sophia," corrected her mother.
"How often shall I tell you, Dora, not to speak in that familiar way of ladies older than yourself? Ask the little girls to come in, Tessy."
"Don't bring them up here, I beg of you," said Agnes. "My head aches so, their chattering will drive me crazy."
But she spoke too late, and in a moment Ella and Marian were ushered into the room. Like well-bred little girls as they were, they replied politely to Mrs. Warrington's greeting, and repeated a message from their mamma to her, but their eyes were wandering about the room in search of their favourite.
Mrs. Warrington remarked it, and said kindly:
"You are looking for Tabby, my dears, and I wish she were here to greet you, but I am sorry to say she is not to be found. She was here at church time, apparently perfectly contented and happy, but she has disappeared in the most mysterious manner, and I am afraid she has run away."
The girls' eyes filled with tears. They had so confidently counted on seeing their dear little Tabby again, that they could hardly keep from crying at the disappointment. They asked about the circumstances, and Agnes again repeated her story, but with such slight variations as more and more to convince Barbara that her suspicions were well founded.
"Well, never mind," said Ella, after they had heard all that was to be said on the subject of Tabby's disappearance, and Mrs. Warrington had exhausted her praises of Tabby's beauty and docility. "I am sure we are all very much obliged to you, for taking such good care of her while she was here. If I only knew that she had a good home somewhere, I should not care so much, but I cannot bear to think of her being lost in the snow, and perhaps—" But Ella's voice failed her, and the eyes of both sisters filled with tears, as they pictured to themselves their little petted favourite starved to death, or lying frozen stiff and stark under some fence or deserted building.
Agnes turned suddenly, as if stung with pain, and almost groaned aloud.
"Is your head so very bad, dear?" asked Marian, diverted at once from her own grief by the thought of another's suffering. "How sorry I am! I hope you are not going to be sick."
She put her hand into her little muff as she spoke, and after exchanging a look with her sister, she pulled out a very large and beautiful orange—a welcome sight at Christmas time.
"Please take this orange, Aggy," said she. "Perhaps it will do your throat good. Aunt Hastings gave it to us, but I am sure she would rather you had it. Such things taste so good when one is feverish."
She laid the orange down by Agnes, who uttered some indistinct words in reply, and then repeating their thanks to Mrs. Warrington, they took their leave.
"Well, I will say, Agnes, notwithstanding what you say about them, I do think they are two of the sweetest girls in town," exclaimed Dora, as soon as the door was shut.
"Wasn't it kind in them, mother, to give Aggy their orange?"
"Very kind indeed," replied Mrs. Warrington, with more than usual animation. "I perfectly agree with you, Dora, and only wish you and Aggy would imitate them. I am afraid neither of you would have been willing to do the same, if the case had been yours."
"I shouldn't, I know," said Dora, who was much more straightforward than her sister. "Not unless any one was very sick indeed, I mean."
Mrs. Warrington sighed, as she thought of the difference between her children and those of her friend, and wondered what could be the cause of it; for that it was in any degree owing to her she never imagined. Perhaps if she had considered longer, she might have come to some correct conclusion upon the subject, but it was always a great deal of trouble for Mrs. Warrington to think, and besides, she was interrupted by a call to dinner.
Agnes went down with the rest though her head was giddy, and she had such a sharp pain in her chest, that she could hardly breathe without crying out. But she was determined not to confess herself sick if she could help it. Pain was too much for her, however; she could eat nothing, and before dinner was over, she burst into tears and declared she could sit up no longer.
Nothing had power to rouse Mrs. Warrington so effectually as the illness of any of her children. She hastened to put Agnes to bed, and sent off an express for the doctor. While helping her sister to undress, Barbara chanced to feel the hem of her petticoat, which was still quite wet.
"Why, Aggy," she exclaimed, "how wet all your clothes are, and your stockings and boots are quite wet through! Where have you been to get them into such a state?"
"I am sure I don't know," said Agnes, now really speaking with difficulty. "Perhaps I got snow on them when I opened the door for the kitten. I wish you would not talk, Barbara, it hurts my head so."
Barbara said no more, but her suspicions were now fully confirmed. It was some time before the doctor arrived, and when he did come, Agnes was so much worse that her mother was very much alarmed about her, nor did the doctor's opinion tend to soothe her. He pronounced the disorder to be a violent attack of inflammation of the lungs, requiring the most active treatment. Agnes was bled, which somewhat relieved the pain and oppression at her chest, but they returned with redoubled violence in the evening, and it seemed almost doubtful whether she would live through the night. Her head was very much disturbed, and her mind wandered at times, but though she was very anxious to talk, they could not understand what she said.
At last Tessy, who was sitting by her, distinguished the words, "Throw away the kitten."
"There is no kitten here, dear Aggy," she said soothingly, thinking that Agnes imagined the kitten to be on the bed. "That is only a fancy of yours; the kitten is not here."
But Agnes was not satisfied, and kept trying to make herself understood, repeating the word "kitten" again and again, with painful emphasis.
"She must not talk so," said Barbara. "The doctor said she must not speak a word. Never mind, Aggy," she added, answering to the thought she believed to be in her sister's mind. "Don't talk about it now, I daresay we can find the kitten in the morning, and then it shall be sent home directly."
"And tell Ella I am sorry," said Agnes, more calmly.
"Yes, we will tell her so. Now do try to go to sleep like a good girl."
For a little time Agnes seemed more composed, but soon her delirium returned, and she kept begging Theresa and Barbara to go and find the kitten before it froze to death in the snow. She got no rest till nearly daylight, when she fell into a troubled slumber, and George coming in, sent the girls up stairs to take some rest.
"What made you speak so to Agnes?" asked Theresa, as they parted at the top of the stairs. "Do you think she knows anything about Tabby's disappearance?"
"I am quite sure of it," said Barbara. "Her stories about it did not agree at all, and her manner was very confused, which led me to suspect something wrong. And when I came to undress her, I found her clothes all wet round the bottom, as though she had been out in the snow. Poor child! I am afraid she will pay dearly for her malice. The doctor admitted to me that he thought her in great danger."
Barbara kissed Theresa, and turned into her own room, while Theresa went on to the apartment which she occupied together with her cousins. Her entrance aroused Dora.
"Why, Tessy, are you up already?" said she, sitting up and rubbing her eyes. "It must be ever so early."
"Half-past five," said Tessy, setting down her candle. "I am up because I have not been in bed; I have been sitting up with Aggy."
"Sitting up!" said Dora, rousing herself. "She is not very sick, is she? I thought it was only a cold."
"She is very sick, indeed, and the doctor says she has inflammation of the lungs," replied Theresa. "I am afraid—" She could not finish the sentence.
Dora sprang up, and began to dress herself.
"What are you going to do?" asked Tessy.
"I am going to Agnes," was the reply. "You ought to have called me before."
"If you go down, Dora, you must be very still," said Theresa, stopping her cousin, whose trembling hands showed her excitement, as she vainly endeavoured to fasten her frock. "You must be composed, and not speak one word to Agnes, nor let her talk to you. It is as much as her life is worth."
Dora promised, and went hastily down stairs.
Agnes was still in a troubled sleep, and George allowed her to come in and look at her sister, whose countenance was already very much changed. Dora thought she should hardly have known her.
"Can I do anything for her, George?" she asked in a choked whisper.
"I don't know that you can," replied George. "Nurse is here, and I shall stay till the doctor comes. But you can run and get what is wanted," he added kindly, seeing how distressed Dora looked. "I am afraid it won't do for you to stay in the room much, for Aggy begins to talk as soon as any one comes near her."
The event proved that George was right, for the moment Agnes waked and saw Dora, she began to talk again; sometimes about the kitten, sometimes going over the events of the party, and accusing her of unkindness about the cake. It was too much for Dora's fortitude; she left the room hastily, and burst into tears when she got into the passage. George followed her out, and shut the door.
"You must be very quiet, my dear Dora, if you want to be of use to Aggy or any one," he said kindly but firmly. "You can be of much service if you can control yourself, for there is a great deal to be done. Mother is down with nervous headache, and Tessy and Barbara were up all night."
"Do you think Aggy will die, George?" asked Dora, making a great effort to restrain her sobs.
"I don't know," replied George, turning away his face. "She is very ill, and nobody can tell how it may turn out, but we will hope and pray for the best. Will you go up to mother's door very quietly, and see if she is awake and wants anything?"
Dora glided up stairs, and listened at her mother's door, but all was still; so she went down again, and took her seat on the stairs to be ready if she should be wanted in the sickroom. It was yet early morning—the gaslights were burning in the hall, and the servants were just beginning to set about their duties. It seemed an age afterwards to Dora that she sat meditating upon the top of the stairs. Her head was bent down, and rested on her hands, and she sat so still that one might have thought her asleep, but it was not so. She was going over and over her past life and conversations with the sister who was now to all appearance fast passing away—where?
Dora did not like to think of that. How mean and little did all their quarrels appear to her now—how every malicious ill-tempered word and action appeared in their true colours! The very last words to her sister had been words of unkindness, and they had parted in anger. Now, Agnes did not even know her, and perhaps would never speak to her again—would go away into that other unknown world, where Dora felt they might never meet, and she would never have the opportunity of making it up—never, never see her any more. She did not cry now. She was too miserable for tears. She did not know where to look for comfort and support, and help to do better, for Dora was not a religious child. It is true she had been taught to say her prayers as soon as she could speak, and she had always been to church and to Sunday-school, but she had never thought of religion as anything that concerned herself personally. She had thought there would be time enough for that when she was grown up.
So had Barbara always thought, and now that she was grown up, she found less time than ever. George and Tessy were the only persons in the family who really made Christian principles the rule of their lives, and that sympathy was a bond of union between them, stronger even than Tessy's helplessness, and George's thoughtful kindness of disposition.
All that dreary day, Dora wandered about the house restless and miserable, finding her only comfort in running up and down stairs, and waiting upon her mother, who was almost prostrated by one of the severe attacks of nervous headache, to which she was subject.
Renewed search was made for the kitten, as Agnes still continued very anxious about it, but no trace of her was to be found.
Agnes continued to grow worse. And at night-fall, the doctor had almost given up the hope of saving her life.
Just before dark, Ella Merriam came in to inquire for her. Dora burst into tears as Ella came in, and in answer to her questions, could only shake her head and sob. Ella cried in sympathy.
"She will never get well, Ella—the doctor says so. Oh! What shall I do when she is dead?"
"I don't know what I should do if Marian were to die," said Ella.
"You would not feel so bad as I do," replied Dora, "because you and Ella never quarrel. I don't believe you ever struck one another in your lives."
"No, indeed!" said Ella, shocked at the very idea. "We have not quarrelled for ever so long—not since we were little children. Nobody could quarrel with Marian, she is so sweet tempered. But is Aggy very ill?"
"The doctor says he has very little hope of saving her," replied Dora sadly, "but it seems to me as though she must be better, because she is not crazy as she was this morning. She seems to know everything now." The little girls were talking in the hall, when the door of Agnes's room was opened for a moment, and she caught the sound of their voices.
"Is not that Ella Merriam's voice?" she asked of Barbara, who was with her. "Do let her come in a moment; I want to see her so much. Oh, do please!"
She pleaded so earnestly that Barbara was afraid to oppose her, and called Ella in, giving her a caution to be very quiet. The two girls came in together, and stood by the bedside. Ella was terrified by the change in her playmate's appearance. She had never seen any one so sick before, and as Agnes struggled for breath, she almost expected to see her expire before her eyes. She stooped and kissed her, but did not speak. Agnes held her hands fast.
"I want to tell you about the kitten," she began, but Barbara interposed.
"You must not talk, Agnes. I will tell Ella."
"But you don't know, Barbara."
"I know you did something to the kitten to put her away."
"Threw her away in the snow in the meadow," Agnes explained. "It was very wicked—I am so sorry. Won't you—"
Her voice failed, but she still held Ella's hand tightly, and looked earnestly in her face.
Ella did not think at first what she meant to say, till Theresa whispered to her, "She wants you to forgive her, Ella."
"Yes, yes," was all Agnes could say, fixing her eyes upon those of her companion, as though she would read her very soul. At such a time no one could be angry, and it was hard for Ella at any time. She stooped and kissed Agnes, saying earnestly, "I do forgive you, Aggy; and so I am sure will Marian, and I hope God will forgive you too. Yes, if you are sorry, He will. Mother says so, and it is in the Bible, I know. Don't you remember what the minister reads in church:
"'If we confess our sins, He is faithful and just to forgive us our
sins, and to cleanse us from all unrighteousness.'"
Barbara was afraid to have the little girls remain longer, and took them out of the room while Theresa stayed with Agnes. They were afraid the excitement might have injured her, but on the contrary, she seemed more quiet and composed than she had done before since the commencement of her illness. She had almost a comfortable night, and when the doctor called in the morning, he announced that there was a slight, but decided improvement in all her symptoms.
When Ella turned to go home, she could not help going round by the meadow to see if she could find any trace of poor Tabby. But it had snowed all the morning, and the common was all one sheet of unbroken white. Ella thought of the poor kitty lying stiff and cold under the drifted snow, and her tears started afresh, as she turned slowly away, convinced that search was hopeless. She did not feel quite so much like forgiving Agnes then as she had done when standing by her bedside, and holding her feverish hand, but she knew that the feeling was wrong, and struggled against it.
"After all, if poor dear Tabby is dead, that is the last of her," she said to herself. "She will never suffer any more, and she has had a very happy life of it so far—but for Agnes and Dora! Oh! How glad I am that Marian and I have never quarrelled, though I am sure it is no thanks to me that we have not."
Then she remembered an instance that very morning, when they were putting their room in order, in which she had insisted on having her own way, and Marian had quietly given up to her, and how only the day before she had been angry at sister Sophia, for showing her that she had not wiped the tea-cups dry. She felt very much ashamed as she recalled these and similar instances of unkind temper and feelings, and it no longer seemed so hard for her to forgive Aggy.
When Ella and Marian said their prayers that night, they did not omit to remember Agnes and Dora, nor did they forget to ask that they might always live as little children should, in peace and unity.
CHAPTER FIFTH.
THE HARD ROAD.
WE must now return to Tabby, of whom we have almost lost sight. She was at first so stunned and amazed by her sudden change of circumstances, as hardly to understand what had happened to her. But by degrees she collected her senses, and shaking the snow from her eyes, she raised herself on her hind legs and looked about her. She was almost in the midst of a wild lonesome common, which was covered with snow, now about a foot deep, but not frozen sufficiently hard to allow of travelling on the crust.
At one side of this piece of ground lay a street or alley, and on the other some barns and several small houses. It was towards these, after some consideration, that Tabby directed her course. She thought it probable that she might find some sort of a home in one of the houses, and if not, she believed she should be able to make her living in a barn, as she had lately acquired some experience in mousing.
The snow was deep and powdery, and the bleak wind sweeping over it whirled it into the face and eyes of the poor kitten. Her little paws ached with the cold, and her ears felt as though they were being burned off, but still she toiled painfully along, directing her course towards the best-looking of the houses. She had just got into something like a path, made by some one who had crossed a little before, and was congratulating herself on finding easier travelling, when she heard a voice exclaim:
"Look, Fred! What is that over in the snow?" And looking up she saw two lads watching her from the window of a barn not very far off.
"It is a cat," replied the other. "See how neatly I'll fetch her over." And taking aim at poor Tabby, he threw with all his force a hard apple which he held in his hand. His aim was only too true. The missile struck her on the side, and laid her breathless on the ground.
"There now, you have killed the poor thing, I hope you feel better," said the other boy. "I do wonder what pleasure any fellow finds in tormenting everything that comes within his reach."
"Oh, nonsense!" returned the other, looking rather ashamed. "It is not so easy to kill a cat, I can tell you. I daresay she is only pretending, and if she is dead, there are more cats in the world. Come, I am going into the house. It is cold enough to freeze a dog out here."
"And I am going home," said the boy who had spoken for Tabby; "I have got my lessons to prepare yet."
"I haven't any lessons to prepare, thank you," said Fred.
"Maybe it would be better for you if you had," returned his companion. "But I must get mine done; so, good-night."
Tabby was not killed, but it was some minutes before she recovered her senses, and still longer before she was able to walk or even stand. The hard apple had hurt her cruelly, and it was with difficulty that she pursued her way, drawing her breath with increased difficulty at every step she made. More than once she felt as though she must give up the attempt, and lie down and die where she was, but as we have said before, she had a remarkable amount of perseverance, and besides, she had not quite given up the hope of finding her way home again, though her chances of doing so were growing smaller and smaller every day.
She was often obliged to stop and rest, and the short day was drawing to a close by the time that she found herself close behind one of the houses she had been approaching. She made several attempts before she was able to jump over the low wall at the back of the yard, but succeeding at last, she went slowly up the walk, and ascended the steps. There was a smell of cooking perceptible, and a clatter of plates and knives told Tabby that some one was engaged in setting a table.