had given Anne.  He said his mother used to make quilts like that, and by Jove, he wanted one to remind him of her.  Anne would not sell it, much to his disappointment, but she wrote all about it to Mrs. Lynde.  That highly-gratified lady sent word back that she had one just like it to spare, so the tobacco king got his quilt after all, and insisted on having it spread on his bed, to the disgust of his fashionable wife.

Mrs. Lynde’s quilts served a very useful purpose that winter.  Patty’s Place for all its many virtues, had its faults also.  It was really a rather cold house; and when the frosty nights came the girls were very glad to snuggle down under Mrs. Lynde’s quilts, and hoped that the loan of them might be accounted unto her for righteousness.  Anne had the blue room she had coveted at sight.  Priscilla and Stella had the large one.  Phil was blissfully content with the little one over the kitchen; and Aunt Jamesina was to have the downstairs one off the living-room.  Rusty at first slept on the doorstep.

Anne, walking home from Redmond a few days after her return, became aware that the people that she met surveyed her with a covert, indulgent smile.  Anne wondered uneasily what was the matter with her.  Was her hat crooked?  Was her belt loose?  Craning her head to investigate, Anne, for the first time, saw Rusty.

Trotting along behind her, close to her heels, was quite the most forlorn specimen of the cat tribe she had ever beheld.  The animal was well past kitten-hood, lank, thin, disreputable looking.  Pieces of both ears were lacking, one eye was temporarily out of repair, and one jowl ludicrously swollen.  As for color, if a once black cat had been well and thoroughly singed the result would have resembled the hue of this waif’s thin, draggled, unsightly fur.

Anne “shooed,” but the cat would not “shoo.”  As long as she stood he sat back on his haunches and gazed at her reproachfully out of his one good eye; when she resumed her walk he followed.  Anne resigned herself to his company until she reached the gate of Patty’s Place, which she coldly shut in his face, fondly supposing she had seen the last of him.  But when, fifteen minutes later, Phil opened the door, there sat the rusty-brown cat on the step.  More, he promptly darted in and sprang upon Anne’s lap with a half-pleading, half-triumphant “miaow.”

“Anne,” said Stella severely, “do you own that animal?”

“No, I do not,” protested disgusted Anne.  “The creature followed me home from somewhere.  I couldn’t get rid of him.  Ugh, get down.  I like decent cats reasonably well; but I don’t like beasties of your complexion.”

Pussy, however, refused to get down.  He coolly curled up in Anne’s lap and began to purr.

“He has evidently adopted you,” laughed Priscilla.

“I won’t be adopted,” said Anne stubbornly.

“The poor creature is starving,” said Phil pityingly.  “Why, his bones are almost coming through his skin.”