"Poor Mr. Gordon!" was all she could say. "My poor, hunted friend!"
Then she thought of her own fireside, the cozy home that she had known. And simply to think of the saucers of cream, and the plates of dainty pieces from her mistress' table, made Tabby Green's poor mouth water.
"Ah, me!" she sighed, and was pretty near to crying when a thought flashed to her mind. "There's one more chance!" she suddenly exclaimed. "You have a fine strong voice, and you can make folks hear. Now just below this house, where that shoemaker's sign hangs out, is a little girl, and a boy whom I know to be her brother. They stopped and spoke to me but this very day. I felt that they were kind and understood my case. But, although I followed to their door, they didn't see me. And, call out as loudly as I could, my poor voice has grown so weak I know they didn't hear me."
"It's little use," was all the weary dog could say. "I've barked at a hundred doors."
Kitty waited and yielded to his discouragement. Of course it was no use, she thought. They must simply wait and wait until the cold and hunger did its work.
The wind howled, and the snow, which was piling higher and higher on the steps, was drifting around them.
"We Scotchmen die hard," said Bob at last. "The Gordons are a brave lot. I have to remember that."
"My mother purred away her life in song," cried Tabby Green. "She was mindful of her kittens to the last. She said almost in her dying breath: 'Remember, children! Never scratch, and always dry your tails when you come in out of the rain.'"
Suddenly a voice came through the cold night air. It was a child's voice, as sweet and clear as a bell.
"Kitty! Kitty! Come, Kitty, come!"