Further Chronicles of Avonlea | Page 8

hair--and now you are
the joint owners of Fatima. Good luck to your bargain!"
"Mean old thing," sniffed Ismay. She meant Aunt Cynthia, and,
remembering our shabby furs, I didn't disagree with her.
"But there is no Fatima," I said, dubiously. "How shall we account for
her when Aunt Cynthia comes home?"
"Well, your aunt isn't coming home for a month yet. When she comes
you will have to tell her that the cat--is lost--but you needn't say
WHEN it happened. As for the rest, Fatima is your property now, so
Aunt Cynthia can't grumble. But she will have a poorer opinion than
ever of your fitness to run a house alone."
When Max left I went to the window to watch him down the path. He
was really a handsome fellow, and I was proud of him. At the gate he
turned to wave me good-by, and, as he did, he glanced upward. Even at
that distance I saw the look of amazement on his face. Then he came
bolting back.

"Ismay, the house is on fire!" I shrieked, as I flew to the door.
"Sue," cried Max, "I saw Fatima, or her ghost, at the garret window a
moment ago!"
"Nonsense!" I cried. But Ismay was already half way up the stairs and
we followed. Straight to the garret we rushed. There sat Fatima, sleek
and complacent, sunning herself in the window.
Max laughed until the rafters rang.
"She can't have been up here all this time," I protested, half tearfully.
"We would have heard her meowing."
"But you didn't," said Max.
"She would have died of the cold," declared Ismay.
"But she hasn't," said Max.
"Or starved," I cried.
"The place is alive with mice," said Max. "No, girls, there is no doubt
the cat has been here the whole fortnight. She must have followed
Huldah Jane up here, unobserved, that day. It's a wonder you didn't
hear her crying--if she did cry. But perhaps she didn't, and, of course,
you sleep downstairs. To think you never thought of looking here for
her!"
"It has cost us over a hundred dollars," said Ismay, with a malevolent
glance at the sleek Fatima.
"It has cost me more than that," I said, as I turned to the stairway.
Max held me back for an instant, while Ismay and Fatima pattered
down.
"Do you think it has cost too much, Sue?" he whispered.
I looked at him sideways. He was really a dear. Niceness fairly exhaled
from him.
"No-o-o," I said, "but when we are married you will have to take care
of Fatima, I won't."
"Dear Fatima," said Max gratefully.

II. THE MATERALIZING OF CECIL
It had never worried me in the least that I wasn't married, although
everybody in Avonlea pitied old maids; but it DID worry me, and I
frankly confess it, that I had never had a chance to be. Even Nancy, my
old nurse and servant, knew that, and pitied me for it. Nancy is an old
maid herself, but she has had two proposals. She did not accept either

of them because one was a widower with seven children, and the other
a very shiftless, good-for-nothing fellow; but, if anybody twitted Nancy
on her single condition, she could point triumphantly to those two as
evidence that "she could an she would." If I had not lived all my life in
Avonlea I might have had the benefit of the doubt; but I had, and
everybody knew everything about me--or thought they did.
I had really often wondered why nobody had ever fallen in love with
me. I was not at all homely; indeed, years ago, George Adoniram
Maybrick had written a poem addressed to me, in which he praised my
beauty quite extravagantly; that didn't mean anything because George
Adoniram wrote poetry to all the good-looking girls and never went
with anybody but Flora King, who was cross-eyed and red-haired, but
it proves that it was not my appearance that put me out of the running.
Neither was it the fact that I wrote poetry myself--although not of
George Adoniram's kind--because nobody ever knew that. When I felt
it coming on I shut myself up in my room and wrote it out in a little
blank book I kept locked up. It is nearly full now, because I have been
writing poetry all my life. It is the only thing I have ever been able to
keep a secret from Nancy. Nancy, in any case, has not a very high
opinion of my ability to take care of myself; but I tremble to imagine
what she would think if she ever found out about that little book. I am
convinced she would send for the doctor post-haste and insist on
mustard plasters while waiting for