yellow, and white egg was not yet hatched, but I could see that very soon a little tortoise-shell kitten would claim her maternal care.

So this was the explanation of Tom-Tom’s defection! Where he had found his mate, I did not know. Close by was a square of red blanket, which had been mysteriously cut out of my bed covering, and my best tin cup, freshly filled with cream, was within the mother’s easy reach. One of Tom-Tom’s worn-out shoes, at a little distance from the nest, completed the evidence.

I took pains, after this, to scatter desirable food and clothing for mother and children along Tom-Tom’s ghostly trail. The next day these were always missing, and Tom-Tom seemed grateful in his dumb way, though he presumed too far upon my sympathies and took to petty larceny.

For instance, I had a little black box, with a hinged cover, upon my table. I kept in it pens, postage stamps, and other small implements of the writer’s craft. One day I found my pens neatly piled upon my table and the stamps blowing about the cabin. Upon searching for the box, I found it, carefully placed at the foot of a tree, and freshly filled with catnip. Upon the cover were scratched these words: “Magdalene Tom-Tom, from her devoted Cat-band.” I inferred from this that the tortoise-shell egg had hatched and that the seven youngsters were all lively. I meditated reclaiming my property, but after thinking it over, concluded to let the incident pass without comment. It might be in celebration of some sentimental anniversary, and Tom-Tom’s peace of mind might be at stake; but I took the precaution to lock up everything else which I wished to keep.

Upon the shelf in the cabin was a cigar box where Little Upsidaisi slept. I had made a very soft nest for him with some returned manuscripts, and endeavoured to keep food and drink in one corner of it. Thus, at any hour of the day or night, he might be safe from the Cat and well provided for.

After a little, as the trying duties of paternity relaxed, Tom-Tom, thin and pale as he was, took to spending a part of his evenings at home, and I trembled lest his acute senses should lead him to the cigar box. It was tightly closed, except for the little opening gnawed just below the cover, which made sort of a slot for Little Upsidaisi’s tail and kept it from being pinched when he got into the box.

Still, things went on smoothly, and Tom-Tom claimed his old place in my affections, ignorant of the fact that his rival slept in the cigar box above. There was a 

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