bout him, an epitaph, she called
it."

"Who won the prize?"

"Bertie himself. I can't quite remember it, but it began:

'Under this rose tree's fragrant shade
Our little favourite is laid'.

It was quite the best of all. Frank was very indignant because he
didn't win, but we none of us liked his poetry. He'd put:

'Poor Tweetie is dead.
He ate up some lead
Which was lying about on the floor:
It stuck in his gizzard,
And as I'm no wizard,
He'll never eat lead any more'.

He said it was true, at any rate, but Granny decided that gizzard
wasn't as romantic as a rose tree, even if it did rhyme with wizard."

"We have a cat that stole a kitten," said Jessie Ellis. "She had two
kittens of her own, and our cook drowned them both. Poor Puss was so
miserable; she went about all day looking for them, mewing and wailing
till we felt quite wretched to hear her. Then she disappeared for
nearly a week, and came back one afternoon carrying a tiny kitten in
her mouth. She was so pleased with it, and kept licking it, and
purring all the time. Mother said she must have adopted it, and she
would let her keep it, and it's grown such a beautiful cat, a real
Persian with a ruff and a bushy tail. We often wonder where she took
it from."

While the children were talking they had been climbing steadily
uphill, and now left the glen by a path which led them directly on to
the open moor. It was glorious up there. In one direction rose the
mountains, peak beyond peak, till in the distance they could just
catch a glimpse of the rugged outline of Snowdon, half-hidden by a
wreath of cloud. Below them lay a vast expanse of sea, with Anglesey
stretched out like a map, and little Puffin Island close by.

"We ought almost to see Ireland to-day," said Mercy, straining her
eyes to discover whether any faint speck of blue outline were visible
on the distant horizon. "People say they've seen the Isle of Man, too,
but it has never been clear enough when I've been up here. Look at the
steamers out on the water; I wonder if one of them's going to China. I
can just remember coming home in a big vessel, and passing the Stack
Lighthouse at Holyhead, and then landing at Liverpool."

"It's splendid to be able to look miles whichever way you turn," said
Sylvia.

She liked the solitude of the moors, which were covered only with
short grass and low whinberry bushes; there was no sound except the
occasional blea