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 at her reproachfully out of his one good eye; when she resumed her walk he followed. Anne resigned herself to his company until she reached the gate of Patty’s Place, which she coldly shut in his face, fondly supposing she had seen the last of him. But when, fifteen minutes later, Phil opened the door, there sat the rusty-brown cat on the step. More, he promptly darted in and sprang upon Anne’s lap with a half-pleading, half-triumphant “miaow.”

“Anne,” said Stella severely, “do you own that animal?”

“No, I do not,” protested disgusted Anne. “The creature followed me home from somewhere. I couldn’t get rid of him. Ugh, get down. I like decent cats reasonably well; but I don’t like beasties of your complexion.”

Pussy, however, refused to get down. He coolly curled up in Anne’s lap and began to purr.

“He has evidently adopted you,” laughed Priscilla.

“I won’t be adopted,” said Anne stubbornly.

“The poor creature is starving,” said Phil pityingly. “Why, his bones are almost coming through his skin.”

“Well, I’ll give him a square meal and then he must return to whence he came,” said Anne resolutely.

The cat was fed and put out. In the morning he was still on the doorstep. On the doorstep he continued to sit, bolting in whenever the door was opened. No coolness of welcome had the least effect on him; of nobody save Anne did he take the least notice. Out