wly station to great
honour, and its life henceforth was one of peace and freedom. It went
where it would, no one questioned its right of entrance to the nursery
or dared to slight it in any way. In spite, however, of choice meals
and luxury it never grew fat, and never, except in Ruth's eyes, became
pretty. It also kept to many of its old habits, preferring liberty and
the chimney-pots at night to the softly-lined basket prepared for its
repose.

But with all its faults Ruth loved it faithfully as long as it lived,
for in her own mind she felt that she owed it a great deal.

She remembered that evening when, a lonely little child, she had called
it her "best friend." Perhaps she would not have discovered so soon
that she had a better friend still, without the kitchen cat.

CHAPTER THREE.

"Who saw Sarah last?"

It was Hester who had seen her last when she had said good-bye to a
friend at the hall door. That was at eleven o'clock in the morning; now
it was one o'clock in the afternoon, and there was no Sarah to be found
anywhere. Not in the nursery, not in any of the bedrooms, not upstairs,
not downstairs; every hole and corner and crevice much too small to hide
Sarah was thoroughly searched. Her name was called in the fondest tones
by every member of the family from father and mother down to little
Diana, and by all the servants, but there was no answer. There could be
no doubt about it--Sarah was lost!

Little Diana was heart-broken. It was dreadful to think of Sarah out
alone in the noisy London streets, where she knew no one and no one
would know her, where she would soon get confused and lose her way, and
where all the houses looked so much alike that she would never, never be
able to find her home again. Perhaps even some wicked person might
steal Sarah, or she might be run over by a carriage, or bitten by a dog,
or--there were no end of misfortunes which might happen to her, for it
made it all the more sad to remember that Sarah could not speak.

Who was Sarah?

Perhaps you may have been thinking that she was a little girl. Nothing
of the kind. She was the dearest little dog in the world, with a yellow
and white silky coat, and a very turned-up nose, and goggling,
affectionate dark eyes. She was a gay-tempered little creature, full of
playful coaxing ways, and a great pet with everyone; but she was fondest
of her mistress, Diana. She went everywhere with her, knew her step
from that of