Eleanor H. Porter

“ The kitten stopped and eyed the coaxing hand with a calmly critical gaze. She was warm—she was comfortable—the outstretched hand contained no tempting dainty;—she could see no reason for immediate capitulation. Very slowly she settled back on her tiny haunches, winking and blinking solemnly.
"Provoking thing—cats are so independent!" murmured Mrs. Merriam, drawing back her hand.
"But what am I going to do with it?" asked Heywood. ”

“ Merriam's self-imposed duties during all those days to stand often at her gate and call for the lost kitten; and it was with a heart swelling with triumphant pleasure that she carried the visible reward of her faithful search up to Heywood's studio.
"I've got her," she announced breathlessly, "but I guess she's found her home, Mr. Heywood. I don't know's we ought to keep her—you see her ribbon's changed."
"Yes; I see it is," the man acknowledged with a grim smile. "But that's easily remedied. I shan't paint her in a white one," he concluded, fumbling at the knot. ”

“ Mrs. Marsh unconsciously came to the rescue.
"Why, it is our kitten, isn't it? This must be where she goes so often, daughter."
The color deepened in the girl's cheeks and she threw a quick glance at Heywood.
"It evidently is, mother," she laughed, her fingers nervously toying with the white ribbon about the kitten's neck.
Heywood's approving eyes dropped from the girl's face to the kitten, and even the hated white ribbon appeared lovely to him, so glorified was it by the slim gray-gloved fingers slipping in and out of the loops.
Mrs. Marsh turned to the artist. ”

“ He surveyed with much satisfaction the result of his artistic combination of colors; but the roll of ribbon soon began to show signs of a rapid disappearance, so frequently was the necklet renewed. This was owing to the fact that the kitten's usual companions, during her waking hours, were Heywood's tubes of paint.
The first time she had jumped upon his low stand and poked her inquisitive nose into his paint box, he had looked on in dumb dismay. A skirmish, a sweep of a yellow paw—and a tube of Rose Madder leaped from the box and scurried across the floor with the kitten in full pursuit. ”

“ Merriam, timidly.
Heywood pulled at the ribbon impatiently.
"We'll try to—until the picture is done, anyway," he said with decision, reaching for the roll of blue ribbon.
Mrs. Merriam noticed that he wrote something on a scrap of paper, and tied it in with the knot as he fastened the ribbon about the yellow throat.
"What ever in the world are you doing?" she demanded, with the freedom of a privileged character.
"Merely giving a bit of advice over against the time it may be needed," retorted Heywood with a short laugh, going back to his easel. ”

“ My picture isn't half done—I tell you I must have that cat!"
"Well, I'll look again," murmured Mrs. Merriam, hurriedly—she had never seen Heywood quite like this before. "Maybe the little thing's in the lot—I'll see," and the woman backed toward the door.
Heywood climbed the stairs with a wrathful emphasis on each step. In his studio his face brightened, and he looked around eagerly—perhaps she was there asleep. How quiet everything was! Even the clock had ceased to tick; he had forgotten to wind it the night before. The tubes of paint in his box were pathetic in their quiet order. ”

“ It was two weeks before Her Majesty's new surroundings palled upon her and she longed for other worlds to conquer. Coincident with this longing came the open back-yard gate. A wild scamper, and she was free—out in the wide, wide world! ”

“ She is plump, sleek, and of stately dignity, and her eyes—once turquoise—gleam with shifting amber lights. Her present realm is a certain mansion in Belgrave Square. Incidentally, it is also the home of the artist, Heywood, and of his wife, Dorothy. ”

“ Some one has appreciated you," she added, with another hug. "But they've taken off your pretty white ribbon and put on a horrid blue one. We'll go and change it right away, sweetheart. I never did like blue!" And Miss Dorothy, with her restored treasure in her arms, went up-stairs to the parlor.
Meanwhile, on the other side of the square at thirty-four Union Avenue something very like consternation reigned.
"Where's Her Majesty?"—Heywood was the most patient of men save only where his art was concerned. Just now the curve of an ear, or the shade of a bit of fur was baffling him. ”