thods on which it was
conducted. To one another they expressed an unfavorable opinion of the
intelligence of Lady Ryehampton.

The home was now working quite smoothly; and with a clear conscience
the Twins drew their salary for "overseering." It provided them with
many of the less expensive desires of their hearts. Now and again
Erebus, mindful of the fact that they had still a little more than ten
pounds left out of the original thirty, urged that it should be raised
to a shilling a week. But the Terror would not consent: he said their
salaries for "overseeing" would naturally be much higher, and that they
would have charged for their work in constructing the home, if it had
not been for the bicycles. As it was, they were bound to work off the
price of the bicycles. Besides, he added with a philosophical air,
six-pence a week for a year was much better than a shilling a week for
six months.

Lady Ryehampton was duly informed that the home now contained
twenty-three inmates; and the children of Great Deeping, Muttle
(probably a corruption of Middle) Deeping, and Little Deeping were
informed that for the time being the home was full. Erebus clamored to
have its full complement of thirty kittens made up; but the Terror
maintained very firmly his contention that twenty-three was quite
enough. Everything was working smoothly. Then one evening just before
dinner there came a loud ringing at the front-door bell.

It was so loud and so importunate that with one accord the Twins dashed
for the door; and Erebus opened it. On the steps stood their Uncle
Maurice; and he wore a harried air.

"Why, it's Uncle Maurice!" cried Erebus springing upon him and
embracing him warmly.

"It's Uncle Maurice, mother!" cried the Terror.

"It may be your Uncle Maurice, but I can tell you he's by no means sure
of it himself! Is it my head or my heels I'm standing on?" said Sir
Maurice faintly, and he wiped his burning brow.

On his words there came up the steps the porter of Little Deeping
station, laden with wicker baskets. From the baskets came the sound of
mewing.

"Whatever is it?" cried Mrs. Dangerfield, kissing her brother.

"Cats for the cats' home!" said Sir Maurice Falconer.

He waved his startled kinsfolk aside while the baskets were ranged in a
neat row on the floor of the hall, then he paid the porter, feebly, and
shut the door after him with an air of exhaustion. He leaned back
against it and said:

"I had