Our beautiful October was by one day of black tragedy—the day Paddy died. For Paddy, after seven years of as happy a life as ever a cat lived, died suddenly—of poison, as was supposed. Where he had wandered in the darkness to meet his we did not know, but in the frosty dawnlight he dragged himself home to die. We found him lying on the doorstep when we got up, and it did not need Aunt Janet’s announcement, or Uncle Blair’s reluctant shake of the head, to tell us that there was no chance of our pet recovering this time. We felt that nothing could be done. Lard and sulphur on his paws would be of no use, nor would any visit to Bowen avail. We stood around in mournful silence; the Story Girl sat down on the step and took poor Paddy upon her lap.  
“I s’pose there’s no use even in praying now,” said Cecily .
 
“It wouldn’t do any harm to try,” Felicity.
 
“You needn’t waste your prayers,” said Dan mournfully, “Pat is beyond human aid. You can tell that by his eyes. Besides, I don’t believe it was the praying cured him last time.”
 
“No, it was Peg Bowen,” declared Peter, “but she couldn’t have bewitched him this time for she’s been away for months, nobody knows where.”
 
“If he could only TELL us where he feels the worst!” said Cecily piteously. “It’s so dreadful to see him suffering and not be able to do a single thing to help him!”
 
“I don’t think he’s suffering much now,” I said comfortingly.
 
The Story Girl said nothing. She passed and repassed her long brown hand gently over her pet’s fur. Pat lifted his head and essayed to creep a little nearer to his beloved mistress. The Story Girl drew his limp body close in her arms. There was a little mew—a long quiver—and Paddy’s friendly soul had fared to wherever it is that good cats go.
 
“Well, he’s gone,” said Dan, turning his back to us.
 
“It doesn’t seem as if it can be true,” sobbed Cecily. “This time yesterday morning he was full of life.”
 
“He drank two full saucers of cream,” moaned Felicity, “and I saw him catch a mouse in the evening. Maybe it was the last one he ever caught.”
 
“He did for many a mouse in his day,” said Peter, anxious to pay his tribute to the departed.
 
“‘He was a cat—take him for all in all. We shall not look upon his like again,’” quoted Uncle Blair.
 
Felicity and Cecily and Sara Ray cried so much that Aunt Janet lost patience completely and told them sharply that they would have something to cry for some day—which did not seem to comfort them much. The Story Girl shed no tears, though the look in her eyes hurt more than weeping.
 
“After all, perhaps it’s for the best,” she said . “I’ve been feeling so badly over having to go away and leave Paddy. No matter how kind you’d all be to him I know he’d miss me terribly. He wasn’t like most cats who don’t care who comes and goes as long as they get plenty to eat. Paddy wouldn’t have been without me.”
 
“Oh, no-o-o, oh, no-o-o,” Sara Ray .
 
Felix shot a disgusted glance at her.
 
“I don’t see what YOU are making such a fuss about,” he said unfeelingly. “He wasn’t your cat.”
 
“But I l-l-oved him,” sobbed Sara, “and I always feel bad when my friends d-do.”
 
“I wish we could believe that cats went to heaven, like people,” sighed Cecily. “Do you really think it isn’t possible?”
 
Uncle Blair shook his head.
 
“I’m afraid not. I’d like to think cats have a chance for heaven, but I can’t. There’s nothing heavenly about cats, creatures though they are.”
 
“Blair, I’m really surprised to hear the things you say to the children,” said Aunt Janet .
 
“Surely you wouldn’t prefer me to tell them that cats DO go to heaven,” protested Uncle Blair.
 
“I think it’s wicked to carry on about an animal as ............