“I told her all about it,” said Philippa. “I told her it was given to the tinsmith’s wife.”
“And, of course, you said we shouldn’t take it away?” said Maisie.
“Well, no,” said Philippa, looking a little ashamed, as she remembered her hasty departure; “I didn’t tell her that. I thought she would know it.”
Maisie put the kitten gently back into Becky’s arms.
“Don’t be unhappy,” she said. “Of course I’d much rather it stayed with you than with old Sally’s Eliza; and I am sure she won’t mind, because, you see, she hardly knew it before it ran away. And we couldn’t have it at Fieldside, because we mustn’t keep more than two cats, and we’ve got Madam and Darkie. And I don’t want it either, because now I know it’s happy and comfortable, I don’t mind any longer.”
Becky found it almost as hard not to cry now as it had been before, the relief was so great; but she managed to whisper some earnest thanks, as she clasped her pet closely to her.
“I hope it will always be a comfort to you,” said Maisie, as the children said good-bye. “I always said it would grow up a nice little comforting cat, though it was never so pretty as the others. And now,” she remarked to Philippa as they drove home, “the kittens are settled. They’ve each got a good home, and we know which has grown up the greatest comfort.”