mothballs to such an extent that they had to be hung in the orchard of Patty’s
Place a full fortnight before they could be endured indoors. Verily, aristocratic
Spofford Avenue had rarely beheld such a display. The gruff old millionaire who
lived “next door” came over and wanted to buy the gorgeous red and yellow
“tulip-pattern” one which Mrs. Rachel had given Anne. He said his mother used
to make quilts like that, and by Jove, he wanted one to remind him of her. Anne
would not sell it, much to his disappointment, but she wrote all about it to Mrs.
Lynde. That highly-gratified lady sent word back that she had one just like it to
spare, so the tobacco king got his quilt after all, and insisted on having it spread
on his bed, to the disgust of his fashionable wife.
Mrs. Lynde’s quilts served a very useful purpose that winter. Patty’s Place for
all its many virtues, had its faults also. It was really a rather cold house; and
when the frosty nights came the girls were very glad to snuggle down under Mrs.
Lynde’s quilts, and hoped that the loan of them might be accounted unto her for
righteousness. Anne had the blue room she had coveted at sight. Priscilla and
Stella had the large one. Phil was blissfully content with the little one over the
kitchen; and Aunt Jamesina was to have the downstairs one off the living-room.
Rusty at first slept on the doorstep.
Anne, walking home from Redmond a few days after her return, became
aware that the people that she met surveyed her with a covert, indulgent smile.
Anne wondered uneasily what was the matter with her. Was her hat crooked?
Was her belt loose? Craning her head to investigate, Anne, for the first time, saw
Rusty.
Trotting along behind her, close to her heels, was quite the most forlorn
specimen of the cat tribe she had ever beheld. The animal was well past kitten-
hood, lank, thin, disreputable looking. Pieces of both ears were lacking, one eye
was temporarily out of repair, and one jowl ludicrously swollen. As for color, if
a once black cat had been well and thoroughly singed the result would have
resembled the hue of this waif’s thin, draggled, unsightly fur.
Anne “shooed,” but the cat would not “shoo.” As long as she stood he sat
back on his haunches and gazed at her reproachfully out of his one good eye;
when she resumed her walk he followed. Anne resigned herself to his company
until she reached the gate of Patty’s Place, which she coldly shut in his face,
fondly supposing she had seen the last of him. But when, fifteen minutes later,
Phil opened the door, there sat the rusty-brown cat on the step. More, he
promptly darted in and sprang upon Anne’s lap with a half-pleading, half-
triumphant “miaow.”
“Anne,” said Stella severely, “do you own that animal?”