“Well, I’ll give him a square meal and then he must return to whence he came,” said Anne resolutely.

The cat was fed and put out.  In the morning he was still on the doorstep.  On the doorstep he continued to sit, bolting in whenever the door was opened.  No coolness of welcome had the least effect on him; of nobody save Anne did he take the least notice.  Out of compassion the girls fed him; but when a week had passed they decided that something must be done.  The cat’s appearance had improved.  His eye and cheek had resumed their normal appearance; he was not quite so thin; and he had been seen washing his face.

“But for all that we can’t keep him,” said Stella.  “Aunt Jimsie is coming next week and she will bring the Sarah-cat with her.  We can’t keep two cats; and if we did this Rusty Coat would fight all the time with the Sarah-cat.  He’s a fighter by nature.  He had a pitched battle last evening with the tobacco-king’s cat and routed him, horse, foot and artillery.”

“We must get rid of him,” agreed Anne, looking darkly at the subject of their discussion, who was purring on the hearth rug with an air of lamb-like meekness.  “But the question is—­how?  How can four unprotected females get rid of a cat who won’t be got rid of?”

“We must chloroform him,” said Phil briskly.  “That is the most humane way.”

“Who of us knows anything about chloroforming a cat?” demanded Anne gloomily.

“I do, honey.  It’s one of my few—­sadly few—­useful accomplishments.  I’ve disposed of several at home.  You take the cat in the morning and give him a good breakfast.  Then you take an old burlap bag—­there’s one in the back porch—­put the cat on it and turn over him a wooden box.  Then take a two-ounce bottle of chloroform, uncork it, and slip it under the edge of the box.  Put a heavy weight on top of the box and leave it till evening.  The cat will be dead, curled up peacefully as if he were asleep.  No pain—­no struggle.”

“It sounds easy,” said Anne dubiously.

“It is easy.  Just leave it to me.  I’ll see to it,” said Phil reassuringly.

Accordingly the chloroform was procured, and the next morning Rusty was lured to his doom.  He ate his breakfast, licked his chops, and climbed into Anne’s lap.  Anne’s heart misgave her.  This poor creature loved her—­trusted her.  How could she be a party to this destruction?

“Here, take him,” she said hastily to Phil.  “I feel like a murderess.”

“He won’t suffer, you know,” comforted Phil, but Anne had fled.

The fatal deed was done in the back porch.  Nobody went near it that day.  But at dusk Phil declared that Rusty must be buried.

“Pris and Stella must dig his grave in the orchard,” declared Phil, “and Anne must come with me to lift the box off.  That’s the part I always hate.”

The two conspirators tip-toed reluctantly to the back porch.  Phil gingerly lifted the stone she had put on the box.  Suddenly, faint but distinct, sounded an unmistakable mew under the box.