"Nonsense!" cried Dorothy, trying to be severe. "If he killed the cat, it
couldn't come back--you must know that."

"I don't know w'y not, Miss. Anyhow, 'e killed the cat, that's wot 'e did,
and I saw 'is dead body, and even buried 'im, on account of your uncle not
bein' able to abide cats, and 'ere 'e is. Somebody 's dug 'im up, and 'e
's come to life again, thinkin' to 'aunt your uncle, and your uncle 'as
follered 'im, that's wot 'e 'as, and there bein' nobody 'ere to 'aunt but
us, 'e's a 'auntin' us and a-doin' it 'ard."

"Mrs. Smithers," said Dorothy, rising, "I desire to hear no more of this
nonsense. The cat happens to be somewhat similar to the dead one, that's
all."

"Begging your parding, Miss, for askin', but did you bring that there cat
with you from the city?"

Affecting not to hear, Dorothy went out, followed by Claudius Tiberius,
who appeared anything but ghostly.

"I knowed it," muttered Mrs. Smithers, gloomily, to herself. "'E was 'ere
w'en 'er come, and 'e's the same cat. 'E's come back to 'aunt us, that's
wot 'e 'as!"

"Harlan," said Dorothy, half-way between smiles and tears, "she's come."

Harlan dropped his saw and took up his hammer. "Who's come?" he asked.
"From your tone, it might be Mrs. Satan, or somebody else from the
infernal regions."

"You're not far out of the way," rejoined Dorothy. "It's Sa--Mrs.
Smithers."

"Oh, our maid of all work?"

"I don't know what she's made of," giggled Dorothy, hysterically. "She
looks like a tombstone dressed in deep mourning, and carries with her the
atmosphere of a graveyard. We have to call her 'Mrs. Smithers,' if we
don't want her to call us by our first names, and she has two dollars a
week. She says Claudius is a cat that uncle killed the week before he
died, and she thinks you hit me and gave me this bruise on my cheek."

"The old lizard," said Harlan, indignantly. "She sha'n't stay!"

"Now don't be cross," interrupted Dorothy. "It's all in the family, for
your uncle hit me, as you well know. Besides, we can't expect all the
virtues for two dollars a week and I'm tired almost to death from trying
to do the housework in this big house and take care of the chickens, too.
We'll get on with her as best we can until we see a chance to do better."

"Wise little woman," responded Harlan, admiringly. "Can she milk the
cow?"

"I don't know--I'll go in and ask her."

"Excuse me, Miss," began Mrs. Smithers, before Dorothy had a chance to
speak,