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even the grim windows of Victorian Gay were abloom. Jane did not mind the bitter wind, but something else did. Jane heard the most pitiful, despairing little cry and looked down to see the kitten, huddled miserably against an iron fence. She bent and picked it up and held it against her face. The little creature, a handful of tiny bones in its fluffed-out Maltese fur, licked her cheek with an eager tongue. It was cold, starving, forsaken. Jane knew it did not belong to Gay Street. She could not leave it there to perish in the oncoming stormy night.
    â€œGoodness’ sake, Miss Victoria, wherever did you get that?” exclaimed Mary, when Jane entered the kitchen. “You shouldn’t have brought it in. You know your grandmother doesn’t like cats. Your Aunt Gertrude got one once but it clawed all the tassels off the furniture and it had to go. Better put that kitten right out, Miss Victoria.”
    Jane hated to be called “Miss Victoria,” but grandmother insisted on the servants addressing her so.
    â€œI can’t put it out in the cold, Mary. Let me give it some supper and leave it here till after dinner. I’ll ask grandmother to let me keep it. Perhaps she will if I promise to keep it out here and in the yard. You wouldn’t mind it round, would you, Mary?”
    â€œI’d like it,” said Mary. “I’ve often thought a cat would be great company…or a dog. Your mother had a dog once but it got poisoned and she would never have another.”
    Mary did not tell Jane that she firmly believed the old lady had poisoned the dog. You didn’t tell children things like that, and anyway, she couldn’t be dead sure of it. All she was sure of was that old Mrs. Kennedy had been bitterly jealous of her daughter’s love for the dog.
    â€œHow she used to look at it when she didn’t know I saw her,” thought Mary.
    Grandmother and Aunt Gertrude and mother were taking in a couple of teas that day, so Jane knew she could count on at least an hour yet. It was a pleasant hour. The kitten was happy and frolicsome, having drunk milk until its little sides tubbed out almost to the bursting point. The kitchen was warm and cozy, Mary let Jane chop the nuts that were to be sprinkled over the cake and cut the pears into slim segments for the salad.
    â€œOh, Mary, blueberry pie! Why don’t we have it oftener? You can make such delicious blueberry pie.”
    â€œThere’s some who can make pies and some who can’t,” said Mary complacently. “As for having it oftener, you know your grandmother doesn’t care much for any kind of pie. She says they’re indigestible…and my father lived to be ninety and had pie for breakfast every morning of his life! I just make it occasional for your mother.”
    â€œAfter dinner I’ll tell grandmother about the kitten and ask her if I may keep it,” said Jane.
    â€œI think you’ll have your trouble for your pains, you poor child,” said Mary as the door closed behind Jane. “Miss Robin ought to stand up for you more than she does…but there, she’s always been under the thumb of her mother. Anyway, I hope the dinner will go well and keep the old dame in good humor. I wish I hadn’t made the blueberry pie after all. It’s lucky she won’t know Miss Victoria fixed the salad…what folks don’t know never hurts them.”
    The dinner did not go well. There was a tension in the air. Grandmother did not talk…evidently some occurrence of the afternoon had put her out. Aunt Gertrude never talked at any time. And mother seemed uneasy and never once tried to pass Jane any of the little signals they had…the touched lip…the lifted eyebrow…the crooked finger…that all meant “honey darling” or “I love you” or “consider yourself kissed.”
    Jane, burdened by her secret, was even more awkward than usual, and when she