Aunt Hannah shook her head.

"I must confess I don't see it," she declared. "My dear, just look at
that hopeless snarl!"

"Oh, but it isn't hopeless at all," laughed Billy. "It's like one of
those strings they unwind at parties with a present at the end of it.
And Spunk is the present," she added, when she had extricated the small
gray cat. "And you shall hold him," she finished, graciously entrusting
the sleepy kitten to Mrs. Stetson's unwilling arms.

"But, I--it--I can't--Billy! I don't like that name," blurted out the
indignant little lady with as much warmth as she ever allowed herself to
show. "It must be changed to--to 'Thomas.'"

"Changed? Spunk's name changed?" demanded Billy, in a horrified voice.
"Why, Aunt Hannah, it can't be changed; it's HIS, you know." Then she
laughed merrily. "'Thomas,' indeed! Why, you old dear!--just suppose I
should ask YOU to change your name! Now _I_ like 'Helen Clarabella' lots
better than 'Hannah,' but I'm not going to ask you to change that--and
I'm going to love you just as well, even if you are 'Hannah'--see if I
don't! And you'll love Spunk, too, I'm sure you will. Now watch me find
the end of this snarl!" And she danced over to the dumbfounded little
lady in the big chair, gave her an affectionate kiss, and then attacked
the tangled mass of black with skilful fingers.

"But, I--you--oh, my grief and conscience!" finished the little woman
whose name was not Helen Clarabella.--"Oh, my grief and conscience,"
according to Bertram, was Aunt Hannah's deadliest swear-word.

In Aunt Hannah's black silk lap Spunk stretched luxuriously, and blinked
sleepy eyes; then with a long purr of content he curled himself for
another nap--still Spunk.

It was some time after luncheon that day that Bertram heard a knock at
his studio door. Bertram was busy. His particular pet "Face of a Girl"
was to be submitted soon to the judges of a forthcoming Art Exhibition,
and it was not yet finished. He was trying to make up now for the many
hours lost during the last few days; and even Bertram, at times, did not
like interruptions. His model had gone, but he was still working rapidly
when the knock came. His tone was not quite cordial when he answered.

"Well?"

"It's I--Spunk and I. May we come in?" called a confident voice.

Bertram said a sharp word behind his teeth--but he opened the door.

"Of course! I was--painting," he announced.

"How lovely! And I'll watch you. Oh, my--what a pre