pect, or even a very real one to her.

"There'll be little boys and girls to play with," pursued Nurse, trying
to heighten the picture; "and flowers--and birds and such--and medders,
and a garding, and all manner."

But nothing could rouse Ruth to more than a very languid interest in
these delights. Her thoughts were all with her little friend
downstairs; and she felt certain that it had often been hungry, and no
doubt thought very badly of her for her neglect. If she could only see
it and explain that it had not been her fault!

The next day Aunt Clarkson herself came. She always had a great deal on
her mind when she came up to town, and liked to get through her shopping
in time to go back in the afternoon, so she could never stay long with
Ruth. She came bustling in, looking very strong, and speaking in a loud
cheerful voice, and all the while she was there she gave quick glances
round her at everything in the room. Ruth was well enough to be up, and
was sitting in a big chair by the nursery fire, with picture-books and
toys near; but she was not looking at them. Her eyes were fixed
thoughtfully on the fire, and her mind was full of the kitchen cat. She
had tried to write to it, but the words would not come, and her fingers
trembled so much that she could not hold the pencil straight. The
vexation and disappointment of this had made her head ache, and
altogether she presented rather a mournful little figure.

"Well, Nurse, and how are we going on?" said Aunt Clarkson, sitting down
in the chair Nurse placed for her. Remembering her dream, Ruth could
not help giving a glance at Aunt Clarkson's hands. They were fat, round
hands, and she kept them doubled up, so that they really looked rather
like a cat's paws.

"Well, ma'am," replied Nurse, "Miss Ruth's better; but she's not, so to
say, as cheerful as I could wish. Still a few _fancies_, ma'am," she
added in an undertone which Ruth heard perfectly.

"Fancies, eh?" repeated Aunt Clarkson in her most cheerful voice. "Oh,
we shall get rid of them at Summerford. You'll have real things to play
with there, Ruth, you know. Lucy, and Cissie, and Bobbie will be better
than fancies, won't they?"

Ruth gave a faint little nod. She did not know what her aunt meant by
"fancies." The cat was quite as real as Lucy, or Cissie, or Bobbie.
Should she ask her about it, or did she hate cats like Nurse Smith? She
gazed wistfully at Mrs Clarkson's face, who had now dr