She had never known any father or mother, and people didn’t have time to hold her that way at the Home.
“Could we go again?” she asked, as they crossed the river.
“Well, perhaps. We’ll see.”
When they got home, Mrs. Alder was sitting on the back steps.
Beside her, in the grass, lay three dead chickens.
“How on earth did those chickens get killed?” asked Mr. Alder, as he took one in his hand.
“Why on earth did that child ever bring her old cat up here? That’s what I’d like to know.” Mrs. Alder was cross.
“Did Deborah do that? Dear me! We’ll have to shut her up in the loft.”
“That’s where she is, and that’s where she’ll stay,” said Mrs. Alder. “Remember now, Clematis. Don’t you let her get out again.”
“Yes’m,” said Clematis.