“Missionary man, how could you kill my cousin’s cat?”

“Bless my soul! who are you?” said the old gentleman, staring at this unexpected actor on the field of battle.

“I’m Button-Rose, and I hate cruel people!  Tabby’s dead, and now there isn’t any one to play with over here.”

This sad prospect made the blue eyes fill with sudden tears; and the application of the dirty fingers added streaks of mud to the red cheeks, which much damaged the appearance of the angel, thought it added pathos to the child’s reproach.

“Cats have nine lives, and Tabby’s used to being chucked over the wall.  I’ve done it several times, and it seems to agree with her, for she comes back to kill my chicks as bold as brass.  See that!” and the old gentleman held up a downy dead chicken, as proof of Tabby’s sin.

“Poor little chicky!” groaned Rosy, yearning to mourn over the dear departed and bury it with tender care.  “It was very naughty of Tab; but, sir, you know cats are made to catch things, and they can’t help it.”

“They will have to help it, or I’ll drown the lot.  This is a rare breed, and I’ve but two left after all my trouble, thanks to that rascal of yours!  What are you going to do about it?” demanded Mr. Dover, in a tone that made Rosy feel as if she had committed the murder herself.

“I’ll talk to Tabby and try to make her good, and I’ll shut her up in the old rabbit-house over here; then I hope she will be sorry and never do it any more,” she said, in such a remorseful tone that the old gentleman relented at once, ashamed to afflict such a tender little soul.

“Try it,” he said, with a smile that made his yellow face pleasant all at once.  Then, as if ready to change the subject, he asked, looking curiously at the little figure perched on the wall,—­

“Where did you come from?  Never saw any children over there before.  They don’t allow ’em.”

Rosy introduced herself in a few words, and seeing that her new acquaintance seemed interested, she added with the wheedling smile Papa found so engaging,—­

“It’s pretty lonely here, I guess; so p’r’aps you’ll let me peep at your nice garden sometimes if it doesn’t trouble you, sir?”

“Poor little soul! it must be desperately dull with those three tabbies,” he said to himself, as he stroked the dead chicken in his hand, and watched the little face bent toward him.

“Peep as much as you like, child; or, better still, come over and run about. I like little girls,” he added aloud, with a nod and a wave of welcome.

“I told ’em I was sure you did!  I’d love to come, but they wouldn’t let me, I know.  I’m so sorry about the fight.  Couldn’t you make it up, and be pleasant again?” asked Rosy, clasping her hands with a beseeching gesture as her bright face grew sad and serious remembering the feud.

“So they’ve told you that nonsense already, have they?  Nice neighbors they are,” said the old gentleman, frowning as if ill pleased at the news.