“It’s a very old-fashioned way,” she said, knitting industriously at something as dainty and pink as a sunset cloud.  “But I am old-fashioned.  My clothes are, and it stands to reason my opinions are, too.  I don’t say they’re any the better of that, mind you.  In fact, I daresay they’re a good deal the worse.  But they’ve worn nice and easy.  New shoes are smarter than old ones, but the old ones are more comfortable.  I’m old enough to indulge myself in the matter of shoes and opinions.  I mean to take it real easy here.  I know you expect me to look after you and keep you proper, but I’m not going to do it.  You’re old enough to know how to behave if you’re ever going to be.  So, as far as I am concerned,” concluded Aunt Jamesina, with a twinkle in her young eyes, “you can all go to destruction in your own way.”

“Oh, will somebody separate those cats?” pleaded Stella, shudderingly.

Aunt Jamesina had brought with her not only the Sarah-cat but Joseph.  Joseph, she explained, had belonged to a dear friend of hers who had gone to live in Vancouver.

“She couldn’t take Joseph with her so she begged me to take him.  I really couldn’t refuse.  He’s a beautiful cat—­that is, his disposition is beautiful.  She called him Joseph because his coat is of many colors.”

It certainly was.  Joseph, as the disgusted Stella said, looked like a walking rag-bag.  It was impossible to say what his ground color was.  His legs were white with black spots on them.  His back was gray with a huge patch of yellow on one side and a black patch on the other.  His tail was yellow with a gray tip.  One ear was black and one yellow.  A black patch over one eye gave him a fearfully rakish look.  In reality he was meek and inoffensive, of a sociable disposition.  In one respect, if in no other, Joseph was like a lily of the field.  He toiled not neither did he spin or catch mice.  Yet Solomon in all his glory slept not on softer cushions, or feasted more fully on fat things.

Joseph and the Sarah-cat arrived by express in separate boxes.  After they had been released and fed, Joseph selected the cushion and corner which appealed to him, and the Sarah-cat gravely sat herself down before the fire and proceeded to wash her face.  She was a large, sleek, gray-and-white cat, with an enormous dignity which was not at all impaired by any consciousness of her plebian origin.  She had been given to Aunt Jamesina by her washerwoman.

“Her name was Sarah, so my husband always called puss the Sarah-cat,” explained Aunt Jamesina.  “She is eight years old, and a remarkable mouser.  Don’t worry, Stella.  The Sarah-cat never fights and Joseph rarely.”

“They’ll have to fight here in self-defense,” said Stella.

At this juncture Rusty arrived on the scene.  He bounded joyously half way across the room before he saw the intruders.  Then he stopped short; his tail expanded until it was as big as three tails.  The fur on his back rose up in a defiant arch; Rusty lowered his head, uttered a fearful shriek of hatred and defiance, and launched himself at the Sarah-cat.