SUNDAY brought rain, and Mrs. Bennett that May Nell must remain quietly in the house. The only apparent result of her exciting day, and the faint, was a that made her willing to obey, to curl up by the fire, with Sir Thomas by her side. He was a tremendous cat, who accepted lazily all the upon him, while Flash, his white mate, was shy, and unless forced, would not appear before strangers.  
“They’re great frauds, those aristocratic cats of sister’s,” Billy explained; “not a bit of use. They won’t fight, and—”
 
“O Billy, think how many gophers Flash catches, and what gentlemen they are in the house,” Edith defended. She was chorister for one of the churches, and was now her music.
 
“You never give my cats a chance,” Billy complained.
 
“Yes, we have, Billy,” Mrs. Bennett corrected. “Bring them in now. Let May Nell see our entire cat family.” She followed him out, and presently returned with a plate of cut meat which she placed on a newspaper on the .
 
“A cat !” the little girl laughed.
 
“That’s for Billy’s cats; mine need none,” Edith declared.
 
The child reared without pets was delighted with the animal life about her; the cats, old Bouncer, the white chickens, and pigeons cooing in the .
 
Mrs. Bennett called. The cats walked to the hearth, sat down, one on either side, and began to eat, each from his own side of the plate. They were as deliberate and dainty as well-bred children.
 
Billy entered with a cat under each arm. “Geewhillikins,” he introduced, “the best fighter in town,” and put down a stub-tailed, gray cat, half as large as the house pets, with “tom-cat” speaking from every hair of him. “I think mamma’s partial,—she lets sister’s cats come in the house, but not mine.”
 
Geewhillikins did not wait for four feet to be on the floor to spring at the plate. He put his paws on one pile of meat, and began to gobble the other, . The house cats drew back, curled their tails around their forefeet, and looked at the in calm .
 
“You haven’t noticed Jerusalem Crickets, yet,” Billy said impressively, anxious to distract attention from the little drama at the plate. He placed his second cat on the floor, a gaunt creature, in many colors, with great scared-looking eyes. “She’s afraid of everybody. She never had any home till I brought her here, poor thing! Just kicked from door to door. And Geewhillikins, too—he was a tiny kitten put in a sack to drown out in the . And he was so he just wiggled to shallow water and hollered for a deliverer. Of course that kind of cats don’t have manners. How could they?” Billy was a fine special pleader.
 
“He was a real little cat Moses, wasn’t he? And you—you must be Pharaoh’s son instead of daughter.” The child laughed and clapped her hands.
 
Meantime Jerusalem Crickets, escaped from Billy’s arm and eye, was about for ; and a clinking sound from the pantry warned them that she had found it.
 
“Run, Billy! You left the door open—she’ll get the dinner!” Mrs. Bennett cautioned, hurrying out herself to reckon the loss.
 
“It’s only a chop left from yesterday,” he excused on his return.
 
“It might have been to-day’s roast,” Edith protested, as she took the Geewhillikins from his feast. “You see why Billy’s cats don’t come in the house, May Nell.”
 
“Did you forget their breakfast, Billy?” the child questioned earnestly.
 
“No, Billy never forgets his cats,” his sister answered for him; “though the chickens might sometimes suffer but for mamma. Take your ill-bred out, Billy.”
 
He obeyed, talking whimsically to his pets as he went.
 
“Flash and Tom wouldn’t touch meat left on the table alone with them for a day,” Edith said as she the plate, shook and folded away the paper, and called her cats.
 
They walked up as before, and ate slowly, piece by piece, neither a on the opposite side of the division line. Sir Thomas finished first, and looked on while Flash more daintily. He did not eat all, but walked off to the plush-cushioned chair they claimed as their own. Sir Thomas watched him curl up and rest his nose on his white forepaws, then quickly finished the rest of the meat and joined him. And now such a toilet began. Each the other; yet, as always, Tom tired first while Flash worked on till they both shone like silk, when he put his long arms about Tom, nestled his head close down, and both slept.
 
The little girl forgot herself in watching them, till Billy came in, smart and almost handsome in his best suit.
 
“Are your going to church?” she asked, disappointment drawing her lips to a tremulous curve.
 
“I have to help sister, you know.”
 
“But it isn’t ten o’clock.”
 
“Sunday School comes first.”
 
“Sunday School, too? How long you’ll be away!”
 
Billy made no reply. He wondered if he ought to stay at home.
 
“Do you like it, Sunday School, I mean? I don’t. I like church, though,—the great booming organ, the beautiful singing. And when the minister speaks I just float away into fairy-land and never come back till he says, ‘The-Lord-make-his-face-to-shine-upon-us-amen.’”
 
“I like Sunday School best ’cause I do things there.”
 
“What things?”
 
“I’m sec’etary; and I pass the books, and sing; and I’m—I’m .”
 
“What a funny word! What do you mean?”
 
“Why, you see,” Billy hesitated, for he was modest, “sister has a class of us heathen boys, and—well, you see, it’s this way; sister says,—she’s partial, you know,—she says I have influence; if I don’t giggle the others won’t, and she gets on O. K.”
 
“How splendid! You must go, Billy. Do all the boys mind you?”
 
“All but Sour; an’ sister’s him. He’s crazy over music, and she got his father to let him take lessons, and that kid’s her slave ever since. But it isn’t minding, Ladybird; the guys take my cue, and we tell things we’ve hunted up in the week about the lesson; and sister tells things, and we’re so busy we forget to be silly.”
 
May Nell looked at him a minute before speaking. “You like doing things, but you don’t like work. Isn’t work doing things?”
 
Billy stooped to tie already tidy; he was gaining time for thinking. “I reckon doing things you don’t like is work, and doing things you do like is play,” he explained, doubtfully.
 
“But some people like their work, don’t they?” May Nell persisted. She was exploring strange country.
 
“I guess so. Teacher says every live thing that’s happy works; birds, flowers, children; that those that won’t work shouldn’t eat. He says the greatest joy is to do the work you like best as well as you can.”
 
“I’ve never worked,” May Nell said reminiscently; “but there’s one hard thing I’ve done—I’ve kept very still when mama has her headaches.”
 
“Gee ! That’s the hardest work of all,” Billy complimented.
 
Edith came in dressed for church.
 
“My conscience! How lovely and you look!” The child, accustomed to elegant dress, praised with eyes.
 
When brother and sister left her, strange thoughts flitted through her head. She heard Mrs. Bennett beating eggs in the kitchen; saw the logs Billy had piled in the wood-box. On the wall above the piano hung Edith’s schedule—time table, Billy called it. May Nell had already studied it, had seen the fifty or more lessons set for each week; and needlework on the music table, and books there the child had discovered were for music study,—these told her what a busy woman Billy’s sister must be.
 
Yet it was very strange, they were all happy! Happier, she felt, than her own mother with maids and money, , rich gowns, and her motor car at command. Why was it? “Those that won’t work shouldn’t eat.” Could that be true? Then she should not eat, for she never worked. She wondered how it would seem to work.
 
Full of her thought she slipped from the couch, and went to the kitchen. “Mrs. Bennett, haven’t you some work a little girl could do?”
 
The divining woman looked into May Nell’s beautiful eyes, too deep and thoughtful for her slender body; drew her close and kissed her. “Yes, dear, just the nicest sort of work for a little girl. You may these strawberries; and if you eat some for I shan’t be looking.”
 
The child seeing the twinkle in the older eyes, laughed aloud; and, wrapped in a voluminous , began the first task that had ever left its stain on her pretty fingers.
 
Her questions brought long and wonderful tales of Billy’s younger life; of Edith when she, too, was a little girl. The child helped to set the table, carried in bread, salad plates, and jelly. “It shakes like the fat woman at the circus when she laughed. How do you make jelly?”
 
“Next month when currants are ripe you shall see.”
 
“And help?” May Nell asked, eagerly.
 
“If you wish to do so.”
 
Why, it was going to be fine to work! Why had she not known it before?
 
Services were over before she found time to be lonely. Dinner passed happily. The cats stayed quietly in their chair till dessert, when they came, one on either side of Edith, and stood with their forepaws on the table, their heads and shoulders above it.
“Flash has cake, Sir Thomas cheese,” Edith explained, giving each his bit. They took the from her fingers, ate them delicately, and mewed once. “That’s ‘Thank you,’” Edith interpreted.
 
“It’s a hurry-up order for more,” Billy .
 
“No more, kitties; that’s all that is good for you. Go back to your chair.”
 
They looked at her a minute, dropped reluctantly to the floor, and .
 
“Why, they know what you say—mind!” May Nell exclaimed, admiringly.
 
“Obedience, thy name is cats,” Billy preached solemnly.
 
It had stopped raining, but was still cloudy. This was the hour when Billy usually wheeled long miles by himself, dreaming dreams no one but a boy knows how to dream. Nothing short of a downpour ever hindered him; thus mother and sister knew it was genuine self-sacrifice that kept him beside the little girl through the long afternoon.
 
All his treasures, pictures, marbles, mineral , what not, were displayed and explained. And finally came the books, when Billy discovered that she knew most of his favorites, loved them as he did, and could introduce him to new ones that promised delight.
 
So the hours passed. The two women had their quiet rest till five o’clock when they came down for the usual singing. May Nell had a sweet voice, surprisingly strong for a child; and when she asked to play her own accompaniment to a little song unknown to Edith, the latter was surprised by the child’s skill, and still more by her rare feeling and expression.
 
“I can dance, too,” she said with childish pride.
 
“Sister, she’ll be hunkey for the fairy queen in your Spring Festival, won’t she? She’s a regular progidy, isn’t she?” Billy’s eyes shone.
 
“Can he mean ‘prodigy,’ do you think, May Nell?” Edith’s eyes were .
 
“I mix up words that way sometimes, too,” the child excused.
 
“Bully for you, Ladybird. I’ve got a backer you see, sister.”
 
“I like ‘Ladybird,’ but not ‘bully,’” the little girl returned shyly.
 
Supper passed. Edith went to church, Billy to keep an appointment with his teacher; and the spring settled down over the room. Mrs. Bennett knew this would be a trying hour, and hastened her work, inventing some light task for May Nell; hastened also the errand to her own room. Yet though she was gone but a moment, on returning a greeted her from the cuddled heap on the couch.
 
She took the child in her comforting arms. “Don’t cry, little one! We shall find her, never fear.”
 
“But this is the time my mama needs me,” May Nell ; “Sunday night in the two-light time, before the stars come out, really, and when the shadow people creep from the corners and blink at you.”
 
“We won’t have any shadow people to-night, darling.” Mrs. Bennett rose and turned on the lights, though it was not yet dark; drew the curtains, and punched the fire till a storm of sparks up the chimney.
 
“My papa told me to be a very brave little girl, and no matter what happened to take care of my mama. And now—I’ve l-lost her; and my braveness is all leaking away.” She covered her face with her hands and sobbed bitterly.
 
Mrs. Bennett hugged her closer and patted her cheek softly, but let the passion of tears spend itself a little before trying the comfort of words. Then she questioned of the child’s parents, her past life, and the events just preceding the in San Francisco, that she herself might better understand how to shield and make happy the little waif that a terrible, heaving earth had cast into her home, her arms.
 
“Papa went away to South America when I was eight. He told me I must be very wise and help mama to do what was right,—sometimes she does take my advice, you know. I’ve tried to be brave so God would bring her back to me; but my braveness isn’t very strong yet, or I wouldn’t cry so, would I?” she questioned, with a teary little smile.
 
Not all at once but slowly, with mother’s , Mrs. Bennett won the little heart to partial peace; and when the gate clicked, and Billy’s voice was heard, she was almost gay. “I must be laughing when they come in,” she whispered, “so they won’t see the tears in my eyes and think I am unthankful.”
 
The door opened on a smiling little face, though she tried to keep in the shadow. Still when Billy kissed his mother good-night, caught his sister in his arms and raced up and down with her, singing a snatch from some opera, May Nell hid her face and cried again.
 
Mrs. Bennett was not far away. She stopped the boy’s noise, and cuddled the one once more. “What is it, child? You are to be brave, you know.”
 
“Y-yes, b-but how can I when I have no one to say ‘mama’ to, only a Mrs.”
 
“You have, you have, dear baby! I’ll be your mother, and you can call me ‘mamma’ as Billy does.”
 
“And you’re my Ladybird sister,” Billy said, very softly for him, and threw his arm about them both.
 
“And, darling, I know how to find your mother,” Edith encouraged, brushing her own moist eyes, and clasping them all in her round young arms. “I’ll have your picture taken, and get it in all the papers—”
 
“Just like a football champion,” Billy interrupted.
 
“No, like a prima donna,” his sister retorted.
 
“Rather like a dear little girl, that so will find her mother,” Mrs. Bennett .
 
Amid the wealth of love how could the little heart refuse comfort? Billy tossed her to his shoulder and carried her to his mother’s room, where both women coddled her and Edith sang her into a sweet sleep.