uty of the heavens, the splendor of the moon tangled in the lace-like
carvings of the belfry as in a net, she leaned some moments against the
sill, looking out and down. Far below lay the deserted square, its white
bosom traced with the sharp shadow of the tower. With a keen eye old
Marg measured the distance, a sheer descent of fifty feet. Nothing to
break the fall--nothing!

One movement, a swift fall, and that white surface would be broken by a
black shapeless heap. A policeman would find it on his next round, or
some drunken reveler would stumble over it, or the good people on their
way to early mass--ah! The seamed countenance lit up suddenly with a
malignant joy.

Why not wait until they began to pass--those pious, respectable people
in their comfortable furs and wools--and cast herself into their midst,
a ghastly Christmas offering from Poverty to Riches, from Sin to Virtue?
This suggestion commended itself highly to her sense of humor. With a
hoarse chuckle she was about to close the window when a portion of the
shadow that lay alongside the chimney showed signs of life, and, rising
on four long and skinny legs, became a cat--a lean, black cat, which
crept meekly toward the window, its phosphorescent eyes gleaming, its
lank jaws parted in a vain effort to mew. Startled, old Marg drew back
for an instant; then, glancing from the animal to the pavement below, a
brutal cunning, a malicious pleasure, lit up the witch-like features.
Reaching out one skinny arm, she called coaxingly: "Puss! Puss!"

The cat dragged herself up to the outstretched arm, rubbing her lank
body caressingly against it.

The cruel, cunning old face softened suddenly. "Lord!" muttered old
Marg, "if she ain't a-tryin' to _purr_! Wall, that beats me!"

The poor beast continued its piteous appeal for aid, arching its
starved frame, waving its tail, fawning unsuspectingly against the arm
that had threatened.

With an impulse new to her misery-hardened heart, old Marg drew the
animal in and closed the window. Far from resisting, the cat nestled
against her with every sign of pleasure.

"She's been somebody's pet," said the old woman, placing her on the
floor. "She ain't always been like this."

The divine emotion of pity, so new to this forlorn creature, grew and
swelled in her bosom. The man at the hall had _not_ lied, after all.
Here was another of God's creatures as miserable as herself--nay, more
so, for she had a roof to shelter her! A