ay of encouragement.

"A kitten." The train was carrying them on again, without any intruder
to cut off the thread of their talk, except the guard, who put his head
in at the window, and beamed a smile on Inna, as her caretaker; then he
shut the door, and locked them in, and here was the train tearing on
again.

"Well, now, you are a good guesser for a girl," said Dick.

"I didn't guess: I knew it. I heard her mew," smiled Inna.

"Ah! Miss Inna is a little pitcher, pussy; she has sharp ears," said
pussy's master, peering and speaking through the hamper.

"Me--e--e--w!" came like a prolonged protest against all the
hurry-scurry and noise, so confusing to a kitten shut up in a hamper,
not knowing why nor whither she was travelling.

"Now, who am I taking her to? guess that; and if you guess right, I
should say you're a seventh daughter of a seventh daughter, and of gipsy
origin"--so the merry boy challenged her.

"To your sister."

"Right!" laughed Dick.

"But I'm not a seventh daughter--I'm only daughter to mamma, and so was
mamma before me; and I'm not a gipsy." Inna's face was brimming over
with shy merriment.

"Well, you ought to be, for you're a clever guesser of dark secrets,"
returned the boy. "Yes: I'm taking pussy home to my sister. Her name
is--now, what is her name?"

Inna shook her head.

"Something pretty I should say, but I don't know what."

"Oh! you're not much of a witch after all," said Dick. "No, it isn't
anything pretty--it's Jane."

Inna smiled, and looked wise.

"Well, what is it, Miss Inna? Out with it!" cried Dick, watching her
changeful little face.

"Mamma says, when one has an ugly name one must try to live a life to
make it beautiful."

"Hum! Well, that isn't bad. And when one has a beautiful name--like
Dick, for instance," said he waggishly, "what then?"

"Then the name should help the life, and the life the name--so mamma
said when I asked her."

"Well, your mother must be good," said Dick to this.

"Yes, she is." Wistful lights were stealing into Inna's eyes, and Dick
had a suspicion that there were tears in them.

"I'm not blest with one," spoke he, carelessly to all seeming.

"With no mother?" inquired his companion gently.

"I'm sort of foster-child to Meggy, our cook and housekeeper--ours is
Meggy, you know, and yours is Peggy, at Willett's Farm."

"Yes," smiled Inna, "yes." She had tided over that tenderness of spirit
caused by speaking of her mother.