For two days more Blackie traveled on. She came out of the woods, she left the fields, and then she found herself in a city. She walked through the streets. Sometimes boys would chase her, or throw stones at her, and sometimes dogs would run after her. Once or twice Blackie had to go up a tree to get away.
And then, one day, Blackie found herself on a street that she seemed to know. She looked up at the houses, hardly believing it at first, and then she saw that she was really right on the street where she had lived.
“Oh, why! I do believe I’m back in my own city again!” said the delighted Blackie to herself. “Yes, I know these houses, and there is the one I live in! Oh, how glad I am!”
Blackie ran up the front steps. But, somehow or other the house did not seem to be the same as when Blackie had lived there. The stoop was covered with dust, and it was never that way as long as Blackie could remember, for Mabel used to sweep it off every morning.
“This is queer,” said Blackie. “I’ll go around to the back.”
The back door was closed, and so were the windows. Blackie ran all the way around the house, mewing. No one came out to let her in.
Blackie looked up at all the windows. They were closed down, and the shades were drawn.
“Why—why the family must have moved away!” thought Blackie, and she was very sad. “Oh, dear! After my long journey, and my many adventures, to get home and find the house locked up and the family gone! Oh, isn’t it too bad! What shall I do?”