ack her tangled hair, she rushed out of the house and up the
hill toward the office of the surveyor.

Tom was standing by the big draughting table lettering a map, the
surveyor was busy with some blueprints in the window, and Mr. Carson sat
near by with a notebook in hand which he was searching industriously.
All this Tabitha saw as she stumbled over the threshold, but without
heeding either of the two men, she cast herself into Tom's arms with the
wail, "O, Tom, you ain't to blame, and you don't deserve to be thrashed!
I told a lie and I stole the white silk dress with those lovely
scallops. But those were such grand names--yours 'specially, though mine
was longer--and oh, I hate being a cat all my life! I said more'n Dad
gave me to say and I told folks that his name was 'lean Manx Catt,' and
I told 'em Aunt Maria's name. Miss Brooks won't like me any more, and I
expect Carrie will hate me, too."

There was a stifled exclamation--she thought from Tom--then two strong
arms closed around her, and she found herself crying into someone's vest
pocket, but it wasn't Tom's. He had not yet attained the dignity of
vests. Surprised, she hushed her sobs, though she still clung to the
protecting arms, and in a moment she heard Tom say, "She will be all
right now, sir. I will take her home."

But the big arms only held her closer and Mr. Carson's voice, trembling
a little and husky with emotion, replied, "I want her for a little
while, Tom. Leave her with me."

Laying aside the notebook with its fascinating rows of figures, the man
led the amazed child out of the building and down the steep rocky path
toward the Carson home, holding her hand fast in his own, and speaking
gently, cheerily as they walked.

"It was all a mistake, little girl, and everyone makes mistakes. It
wasn't a lie and it wasn't stealing. You ought to have asked someone
about it and everything would have been all right, but you mustn't cry
about it any more. Carrie loves you just the same and so does Mother
Carson and so do I. I don't think Tabitha is a horrid name--"

"But Tabitha _Catt_!" quavered the tearful little voice. "Folks make fun
of me and say hateful things and call me Tabby Catt--"

"Tabby cats are such nice pets," the man interrupted, "so gentle and
nice and pretty."

"But I'm homely. If I was pretty maybe they wouldn't call me names."

"No, dear, it isn't that. When they plague you, you scratch; and so they
like to tease. If you paid no a