Weejums visited no more yards after that, but skirted along the edges of lawns, and when any one looked at her, shot up a tree. But as most of the people who appeared to be looking at her were really looking at something else, it is quite likely that she went up more trees than were necessary.
Soon after she had washed off the cranberry sauce, a little girl drove along in a dog-cart with a lady beside her and a groom behind. And this time Weejums did not run up a tree, because the little girl’s curls reminded her of Eunice.
“Why, Auntie, it’s Octavia!” she said, pulling up her horse; “it’s Mrs. Slocum’s Octavia! Some one must have stolen her and brought her way out here.”
“My dear, are you sure?” asked the lady, as the child scrambled out of the cart.
“Sure? Why every marking is the same! The white nose, orange cape, and bronze lights on the paws. Come, Octavia, come, dear kitty—I’ll take you home!”
“I’m not Octavia,” mewed Weejums; “but I’m tired of boarding-house life, and will be glad to visit with you until my family gets settled.”
“See, I believe she knows me!” said the child whom the lady called “Marian.” “We’ll take her right in on the train with us,—won’t we, Auntie? And won’t Mrs. Slocum be pleased?”
“Yes, she was terribly distressed last night,” said Marian’s aunt. “You know she said that Octavia had never run away before, and was afraid she had been stolen. I suppose she must have escaped from the people who carried her off. Dear me, it’s fortunate we found her! And the Cat Show beginning to-morrow!”
“Mrs. Slocum will think it’s pretty dreadful that they carried her out of town,” said Marian.
“It’s natural that they should. She’s too valuable to exhibit near home,” said the Aunt.