eat, knelt in front of it with a pencil in
her hand, and ruled some lines. She could not write very well, and was
often uncertain how to spell even short words; so she bit the end of her
pencil and sighed a good deal before the letter was finished. At last
it was done, and put into the envelope. But now came a new difficulty:
How should it be addressed? After much thought she wrote the following:

THE KITCHEN CAT,
The Kitchen,
17 Gower Street.

CHAPTER II

Her Best Friend

After this letter had been dropped into the pillar-box just in front of
the house, Ruth began to look out still more eagerly for the kitchen
cat, but days passed and she caught no glimpse of it anywhere.

It was disappointing, and troublesome too, because she had to carry the
Bath bun about with her so long. Not only was it getting hard and dry,
but it was such an awkward thing for her pocket that she had torn her
frock in the effort to force it in.

"You might a' been carrying brick-bats about with you, Miss Ruth," said
Nurse, "by the way you've slit your pocket open."

This went on till Ruth began to despair. "I'll try it one more evening,"
she said to herself, "and if it doesn't come then I shall give it up."

Once more, therefore, when she was ready to go downstairs, she took the
bun out of the dolls' house, where she kept it wrapped up in tissue
paper, and squeezed it into her pocket. Rather hopelessly, but still
keeping a careful look-out, she proceeded slowly on her way, when
behold, just as she reached the top of the last flight, a little
cringing grey figure crossed the hall below.

"It's come!" she exclaimed in an excited whisper. "It's come at last!"

But though it had come, it seemed now the cat's greatest desire to go,
for it was hurrying towards the kitchen stairs.

"Puss! puss!" called out Ruth in an entreating voice as she hastily ran
down. "Stop a minute! _Pretty_ puss!"

Startled at the noise and the patter of the quick little feet, the cat
paused in its flight and turned its scared yellow-green eyes upon Ruth.

She had now reached the bottom step, where she stood struggling to get
the Bath bun out of her small pocket, her face pink with the effort and
anxiety lest the cat should go before she succeeded.

"_Pretty_ puss!" she repeated as she tugged at the parcel. "Don't go
away."

One more desperate wrench, which gashed open the corner of the pocket,
and the bun was out. The cat looked on