didn’t die. Now, we’ve got to do it all over again.”
“No, we haven’t,” declared Anne suddenly. “Rusty isn’t going to be killed
again. He’s my cat—and you’ve just got to make the best of it.”
“Oh, well, if you’ll settle with Aunt Jimsie and the Sarah-cat,” said Stella,
with the air of one washing her hands of the whole affair.
From that time Rusty was one of the family. He slept o’nights on the
scrubbing cushion in the back porch and lived on the fat of the land. By the time
Aunt Jamesina came he was plump and glossy and tolerably respectable. But,
like Kipling’s cat, he “walked by himself.” His paw was against every cat, and
every cat’s paw against him. One by one he vanquished the aristocratic felines of
Spofford Avenue. As for human beings, he loved Anne and Anne alone. Nobody
else even dared stroke him. An angry spit and something that sounded much like
very improper language greeted any one who did.
“The airs that cat puts on are perfectly intolerable,” declared Stella.
“Him was a nice old pussens, him was,” vowed Anne, cuddling her pet
defiantly.
“Well, I don’t know how he and the Sarah-cat will ever make out to live
together,” said Stella pesimistically. “Cat-fights in the orchard o’nights are bad
enough. But cat-fights here in the livingroom are unthinkable.” In due time Aunt
Jamesina arrived. Anne and Priscilla and Phil had awaited her advent rather
dubiously; but when Aunt Jamesina was enthroned in the rocking chair before
the open fire they figuratively bowed down and worshipped her.
Aunt Jamesina was a tiny old woman with a little, softly-triangular face, and
large, soft blue eyes that were alight with unquenchable youth, and as full of
hopes as a girl’s. She had pink cheeks and snow-white hair which she wore in
quaint little puffs over her ears.
“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.”