"We'll putty the holes up when we leave, dear -- she'll never know,"

they said to protesting Anne.
Diana had given Anne a pine needlecushion and Miss Ada had given

both her and Priscilla a fearfully and wonderfully embroidered one.
Marilla had sent a big box of preserves, and darkly hinted at a

hamper for Thanksgiving, and Mrs. Lynde gave Anne a patchwork quilt
and loaned her five more.

"You take them," she said authoritatively. "They might as well be
in use as packed away in that trunk in the garret for moths to gnaw."

No moths would ever have ventured near those quilts, for they
reeked of mothballs to such an extent that they had to be hung in

the orchard of Patty's Place a full fortnight before they could
be endured indoors. Verily, aristocratic Spofford Avenue had

rarely beheld such a display. The gruff old millionaire who
lived "next door" came over and wanted to buy the gorgeous red

and yellow "tulip-pattern" one which Mrs. Rachel had given Anne.
He said his mother used to make quilts like that, and by Jove, he

wanted one to remind him of her. Anne would not sell it, much to
his disappointment, but she wrote all about it to Mrs. Lynde.

That highly-gratified lady sent word back that she had one just
like it to spare, so the tobacco king got his quilt after all,

and insisted on having it spread on his bed, to the disgust of
his fashionable wife.

Mrs. Lynde's quilts served a very useful purpose that winter.
Patty's Place for all its many virtues, had its faults also.

It was really a rather cold house; and when the frosty nights
came the girls were very glad to snuggle down under Mrs. Lynde's

quilts, and hoped that the loan of them might be accounted unto
her for righteousness. Anne had the blue room she had coveted

at sight. Priscilla and Stella had the large one. Phil was
blissfully content with the little one over the kitchen; and

Aunt Jamesina was to have the downstairs one off the living-room.
Rusty at first slept on the doorstep.

Anne, walking home from Redmond a few days after her return,
became aware that the people that she met surveyed her with a

covert, indulgent smile. Anne wondered uneasily what was the
matter with her. Was her hat crooked? Was her belt loose?

Craning her head to investigate, Anne, for the first time,
saw Rusty.

Trotting along behind her, close to her heels, was quite the
most forlornspecimen of the cat tribe she had ever beheld.

The animal was well past kitten-hood, lank, thin, disreputable
looking. Pieces of both ears were lacking, one eye was

temporarily out of repair, and one jowl ludicrously swollen.
As for color, if a once black cat had been well and thoroughly

singed the result would have resembled the hue of this waif's
thin, draggled, unsightly fur.

Anne "shooed," but the cat would not "shoo." As long as she
stood he sat back on his haunches and gazed at her reproachfully

out of his one good eye; when she resumed her walk he followed.
Anne resigned herself to his company until she reached the gate

of Patty's Place, which she coldly shut in his face, fondly
supposing she had seen the last of him. But when, fifteen

minutes later, Phil opened the door, there sat the rusty-brown
cat on the step. More, he promptly darted in and sprang upon

Anne's lap with a half-pleading, half-triumphant "miaow."
"Anne," said Stella severely, "do you own that animal?"

"No, I do NOT," protested disgusted Anne. "The creature followed
me home from somewhere. I couldn't get rid of him. Ugh, get down.

I like decent cats reasonably well; but I don't like beasties of
your complexion."

Pussy, however, refused to get down. He coolly curled up in
Anne's lap and began to purr.

"He has evidently adopted you," laughed Priscilla.
"I won't BE adopted," said Anne stubbornly.

"The poor creature is starving," said Phil pityingly. "Why, his
bones are almost coming through his skin."

"Well, I'll give him a square meal and then he must return to
whence he came," said Anne resolutely.

The cat was fed and put out. In the morning he was still
on the doorstep. On the doorstep he continued to sit, bolting

in whenever the door was opened. No coolness of welcome had
the least effect on him; of nobody save Anne did he take the

least notice. Out of compassion the girls fed him; but when
a week had passed they decided that something must be done.

The cat's appearance had improved. His eye and cheek had
resumed their normal appearance; he was not quite so thin;

and he had been seen washing his face.
"But for all that we can't keep him," said Stella. "Aunt Jimsie

is coming next week and she will bring the Sarah-cat with her.
We can't keep two cats; and if we did this Rusty Coat would

fight all the time with the Sarah-cat. He's a fighter by nature.
He had a pitched battle last evening with the tobacco-king's cat

and routed him, horse, foot and artillery."
"We must get rid of him," agreed Anne, looking darkly at the

subject of their discussion, who was purring on the hearth rug
with an air of lamb-like meekness. "But the question is -- how?

How can four unprotected females get rid of a cat who won't be
got rid of?"

We must chloroform him," said Phil briskly. "That is the most
humane way."

"Who of us knows anything about chloroforming a cat?" demanded
Anne gloomily.

"I do, honey. It's one of my few -- sadly few -- useful accomplishments.
I've disposed of several at home. You take the cat in the morning and

give him a good breakfast. Then you take an old burlap bag -- there's
one in the back porch -- put the cat on it and turn over him a wooden box.

Then take a two-ounce bottle of chloroform, uncork it, and slip it under
the edge of the box. Put a heavy weight on top of the box and leave it

till evening. The cat will be dead, curled up peacefully as if he
were asleep. No pain -- no struggle."

"It sounds easy," said Anne dubiously.
"It IS easy. Just leave it to me. I'll see to it," said Phil reassuringly.

Accordingly the chloroform was procured, and the next morning Rusty was
lured to his doom. He ate his breakfast, licked his chops, and climbed

into Anne's lap. Anne's heart misgave her. This poor creature loved her
-- trusted her. How could she be a party to this destruction?

"Here, take him," she said hastily to Phil. "I feel like a murderess."
"He won't suffer, you know," comforted Phil, but Anne had fled.

The fatal deed was done in the back porch. Nobody went near it
that day. But at dusk Phil declared that Rusty must be buried.

"Pris and Stella must dig his grave in the orchard," declared Phil,
"and Anne must come with me to lift the box off. That's the part

I always hate."
The two conspirators tip-toed reluctantly to the back porch.

Phil gingerly lifted the stone she had put on the box. Suddenly,
faint but distinct, sounded an unmistakable mew under the box.

"He -- he isn't dead," gasped Anne, sitting blankly down on the
kitchen doorstep.

"He must be," said Phil incredulously.
Another tiny mew proved that he wasn't. The two girls stared at

each other."
What will we do?" questioned Anne.

"Why in the world don't you come?" demanded Stella, appearing in
the doorway. "We've got the grave ready. `What silent still and

silent all?'" she quoted teasingly.
"`Oh, no, the voices of the dead Sound like the distant torrent's fall,'"

promptly counter-quoted Anne, pointing solemnly to the box.
A burst of laughter broke the tension.