“I don’t care, as long as we saved the kitty. Maybe the dogs would have caught him, if he had tried to come down when we were not there. Anyhow, the old Quaker lady was awfully distressed about him.”
“Yes, and do you know, I believe those fellows were just waiting around, for I saw two or three peep out from the corner of a house, and they were snickering and whispering; I believe they were the very ones.”
Although Bobby struggled and squirmed, he could not escape from the bag, and was safely brought home, Harold not loosing his hold till he had landed his charge within doors.
They were greeted joyfully by the old lady, who led them into a neat sitting room. “Now, sit down here, my dears,” she said. “My name is Deborah Knight, and I want to give thee a taste of my old-fashioned cinnamon-bun. I don’t think there is any better made in Philadelphia and I never ate it anywhere else. I am going to take Bobby upstairs in my room, and give him a saucer of milk; so, wait here till I come back.”
Left to themselves, the children looked around the room, which was cosy and filled with old-fashioned furniture. Mabel’s eyes wandered over the various articles on the mantel, and the tables, but Harold’s attention was attracted by an old bookcase filled with books. He tip-toed over to it, and began to read the titles. “We might find the book here,” said Harold; “See, there are some real old ones here, and this is an old house; the furniture is, I know, and so are those portraits in the queer frames.”
The two children knelt before the shelves, and eagerly read each title as best they could, but the book they so desired was not among them.
Mrs. Knight entering the room, found them thus occupied. “What do you find there, children?” she asked. “Does thee like books, Harold? I’ll show thee one with some pretty pictures in it. But here now, help thyself and thee too, Mabel,” and she set a plate of toothsome bun and two glasses of milk before them. “Bobby’s all right,” she told them. “No one knows how I felt about him. When one doesn’t have anyone much but a cat to care for, it becomes a matter of deep concern if anything happens to him. Some persons set store by old furniture and houses and books, but my cat is worth more to me than all such things.”
“Mabel’s father just loves old books,” Harold informed her, “and we’ve been hunting for a very special one for him, but we can’t find it; we’ve been to all the old book-stores in the city.”
“Indeed, that is too bad,” returned Mrs. Knight. “I wish I might be able to help thee.” She considered the subject for a moment and then went on: “I have a pile of old books up in the garret, but I fear it would not be much use to examine them. I was intending to sell them to the junk man; they are of no use to me, and I am getting ready to go into the country, where I can live secure from dogs and bad boys.”
At the mention of the old books, Mabel became too excited to help herself to the tempting food before her, and began breathlessly: “Those books, I wonder if you would let us see them before you do the junk man. It is a very old book that we have been hunting for, and you know, it might happen to be among those you have.”