he words so as to suggest their
grieved abandonment of faith, their depth of loving condemnation.

If Bartholomew had been a human being! But he was not; he was only a
great gray cat. He retreated, shamefaced enough for the moment,
under the table. He knew he was scolded at; he was found out and
disappointed; but there was no heart-shame in him; he would do
exactly the same again. As to being trusted or not, what did he care
about that?

"I don't believe you do," said Aunt Blin, thinking it out to this
same point, as she watched his face of greed, mortified, but
persistent; not a bit changed to any real humility. Why do they say
"_dogged_," except for a noble holding fast? It is a cat which is
selfishly, stolidly obstinate.

"I don't know as I shall really like you any more," said Aunt Blin,
with a terrible mildness. "To think you would have ate that little
bird!"

Aunt Blin's ideal Bartholomew was no more. She might give the
creature cheese, but she could not give him "_con_fidence."

Bel and the bird illustrated something finer, higher, sweeter to her
now. Before, there had only been Bartholomew; he had had to stand
for everything; there was a good deal, to be sure, in that.

But Bel was so astonished at the sudden change,--it was so funny in
its meek manifestation,--that she forgot her wrath, and laughed
outright.

"Why, Auntie!" she cried. "Your beautiful Bartholomew, who
understood, and let alone!"

Aunt Blin shook her head.

"I don't know. I _thought_ so. But--I've no--_con_-fidence in him!
You'd better hang the cage up high. And I'll go out for the
muffins."

Bel heard her saying it over again, as she went down the stairs.

"No, I've no--_con_-fidence in him!"

CHAPTER VIII.

TO HELP: SOMEWHERE.

There was an administratrix's notice tacked up on the great elm-tree
by the Bank door, in Upper Dorbury Village.

All indebted to the estate of Joseph Ingraham were called upon to
make payment,--and all having demands against the same to present
accounts,--to Abigail S. Ingraham.

The bakery was shut up. The shop and house-blinds were closed upon
the street. The bright little garden at the back was gay with summer
color; roses, geraniums, balsams, candytuft; crimson and purple, and
white and scarlet flashed up everywhere. But Mrs. Ingraham had on a
plain muslin cap, instead of a ribboned one such as she was used to
wear; and Dot was in a black calico dress; they sat in the kitchen
window t