Max came over and we had another search, but without result.  Days passed, but we did not find Fatima.  I would certainly have gone crazy had it not been for Max.  He was worth his weight in gold during the awful week that followed.  We did not dare advertise, lest Aunt Cynthia should see it; but we inquired far and wide for a white Persian cat with a blue spot on its tail, and offered a reward for it; but nobody had seen it, although people kept coming to the house, night and day, with every kind of a cat in baskets, wanting to know if it was the one we had lost.

“We shall never see Fatima again,” I said hopelessly to Max and Ismay one afternoon.  I had just turned away an old woman with a big, yellow tommy which she insisted must be ours—­“cause it kem to our place, mem, a-yowling fearful, mem, and it don’t belong to nobody not down Grafton way, mem.”

“I’m afraid you won’t,” said Max.  “She must have perished from exposure long ere this.”

“Aunt Cynthia will never forgive us,” said Ismay, dismally.  “I had a presentiment of trouble the moment that cat came to this house.”

We had never heard of this presentiment before, but Ismay is good at having presentiments—­after things happen.

“What shall we do?” I demanded, helplessly.  “Max, can’t you find some way out of this scrape for us?”

“Advertise in the Charlottetown papers for a white Persian cat,” suggested Max.  “Some one may have one for sale.  If so, you must buy it, and palm it off on your good Aunt as Fatima.  She’s very short-sighted, so it will be quite possible.”

“But Fatima has a blue spot on her tail,” I said.

“You must advertise for a cat with a blue spot on its tail,” said Max.

“It will cost a pretty penny,” said Ismay dolefully.  “Fatima was valued at one hundred dollars.”

“We must take the money we have been saving for our new furs,” I said sorrowfully.  “There is no other way out of it.  It will cost us a good deal more if we lose Aunt Cynthia’s favor.  She is quite capable of believing that we have made away with Fatima deliberately and with malice aforethought.”

So we advertised.  Max went to town and had the notice inserted in the most important daily.  We asked any one who had a white Persian cat, with a blue spot on the tip of its tail, to dispose of, to communicate with M. I., care of the Enterprise.

We really did not have much hope that anything would come of it, so we were surprised and delighted over the letter Max brought home from town four days later.  It was a type-written screed from Halifax stating that the writer had for sale a white Persian cat answering to our description.  The price was a hundred and ten dollars, and, if M. I. cared to go to Halifax and inspect the animal, it would be found at 110 Hollis Street, by inquiring for “Persian.”

“Temper your joy, my friends,” said Ismay, gloomily.  “The cat may not suit.  The blue spot may be too big or too small or not in the right place.  I consistently refuse to believe that any good thing can come out of this deplorable affair.”