ghter gray. And she's got a different character."

"Has she?" said their grandmother, as pussy began to sharpen her claws
on the sofa. "It seems to me her nature is very much the same. Do you
let her come into the parlor?"

"Sometimes," said Mrs. Owen. "If the children see that she doesn't go up
into the bedrooms and make small footmarks on the bed quilts--that is
all I ask."

"You don't like cats very well, do you, grandmother?" said Peggy.

"Yes, I like them in their proper place."

"What is their proper place?" Peggy asked.

"I like to see a cat sitting patiently in front of a mouse-hole, or
lying on the bricks in front of the kitchen stove; but I don't like to
see it scratching the parlor furniture."

"Neither do I," said Mrs. Owen. "Put Lady Janet out into the kitchen,
Alice."

They all went out to supper, and again the older Mrs. Owen praised the
dainty appearance of the table.

"Mary, I don't know how you have done it, but you have made this tiny
house just as attractive as your large one."

"All the paper and paint are new and fresh here, and I got rid of all my
ugly furniture and have only kept the old pieces."

"I wish you would come and do my house over for me. And, by the way, I
am hoping you and the children will come and spend three months with me
this summer. I am sure the sea air will do the children good."

She did not notice how their faces clouded over. The mere suggestion
filled them with despair. Leave her beloved Rhode Island Reds, Peggy was
thinking, just as Henrietta had hatched out twelve downy, fluffy balls?
Why, they would be big chickens when they came back. Leave Lady Janet?
was Alice's thought. No sea-bathing and boating could make up for the
loss of her friendly little face.

"Could I take Lady Janet with me, grandmother?" Alice asked.

"I hardly think so. A cat does not like to be moved."

"It is very kind of you to think of it," said Mrs. Owen, "but I am
afraid I shall have to stay right here by my garden and my hens."

"Oh, have you hens?" Mrs. Owen asked.

"Yes, grandmother, seven of them and a cock," Peggy said; "and twelve
teenty, tinety chickens, the dearest, cunningest things. Don't you
remember," she added, reproachfully, "how I wrote and told you we had a
birthday surprise party of hens for mother?"

"I do remember it now."

Peggy said no more about the hens. How terrible it was to be so old that
the idea of seven hens and a cock and twelve chickens made no