“I’m trying to count up how many times I have proposed to you,” he said.  “But I can’t remember whether I asked you to marry me that day we dug up the garden or not.  If I did it makes—­”

“No, you didn’t,” I interrupted.

“Well, that makes it eleven,” said Max reflectively.  “Pretty near the limit, isn’t it?  My manly pride will not allow me to propose to the same girl more than twelve times.  So the next time will be the last, Sue darling.”

“Oh,” I said, a trifle flatly.  I forgot to resent his calling me darling.  I wondered if things wouldn’t be rather dull when Max gave up proposing to me.  It was the only excitement I had.  But of course it would be best—­and he couldn’t go on at it forever, so, by the way of gracefully dismissing the subject, I asked him what Miss Shirley was like.

“Very sweet girl,” said Max.  “You know I always admired those gray-eyed girls with that splendid Titian hair.”

I am dark, with brown eyes.  Just then I detested Max.  I got up and said I was going to get some milk for Fatima.

I found Ismay in a rage in the kitchen.  She had been up in the garret, and a mouse had run across her foot.  Mice always get on Ismay’s nerves.

“We need a cat badly enough,” she fumed, “but not a useless, pampered thing, like Fatima.  That garret is literally swarming with mice.  You’ll not catch me going up there again.”

Fatima did not prove such a nuisance as we had feared.  Huldah Jane liked her, and Ismay, in spite of her declaration that she would have nothing to do with her, looked after her comfort scrupulously.  She even used to get up in the middle of the night and go out to see if Fatima was warm.  Max came in every day and, being around, gave us good advice.

Then one day, about three weeks after Aunt Cynthia’s departure, Fatima disappeared—­just simply disappeared as if she had been dissolved into thin air.  We left her one afternoon, curled up asleep in her basket by the fire, under Huldah Jane’s eye, while we went out to make a call.  When we came home Fatima was gone.

Huldah Jane wept and was as one whom the gods had made mad.  She vowed that she had never let Fatima out of her sight the whole time, save once for three minutes when she ran up to the garret for some summer savory.  When she came back the kitchen door had blown open and Fatima had vanished.

Ismay and I were frantic.  We ran about the garden and through the out-houses, and the woods behind the house, like wild creatures, calling Fatima, but in vain.  Then Ismay sat down on the front doorsteps and cried.

“She has got out and she’ll catch her death of cold and Aunt Cynthia will never forgive us.”

“I’m going for Max,” I declared.  So I did, through the spruce woods and over the field as fast as my feet could carry me, thanking my stars that there was a Max to go to in such a predicament.