Hobbling to the stove, she examined the battered tin can, letting the moonlight shine into its rusty depths. A little water or tea remained in it, and with this she moistened some of the bread and placed it before the cat, which devoured it now eagerly. Then she took the animal in her arms and laid herself down on the mattress, drawing the ragged covers over them. The cat nestled against her side; the warmth of the two poor bodies mingled, and both slept. The moon-ray crept along and spread itself over the heap of rags, the knotted fingers resting on the cat's rough fur, the seamed old face; it passed away, and morning dawned, with a peal of bells and the sound of footsteps on the pavement below, and still the two slept on. Angela stood near the door, receiving her Christmas guests. They came straggling in, in twos and threes, some boldly and impudently, some shame-faced and shy, some eager, some indifferent, but all poverty-pinched. Each one was pleasantly welcomed, and passed on to the feast. Angela watched and waited, and at last the door opened slowly to admit old Marg, who stopped short on the threshold, with a look at once stubborn, appealing, suspicious, ashamed. Like a wild animal on the alert for the faintest sign of repulsion or danger, she stood there, but Angela only smiled, proffering her white, soft hand, destitute of jewels, but the hand of a lady. "A Merry Christmas!" she said brightly. "I was ugly to ye last night," said old Marg huskily, ignoring the beautiful hand she dared not touch. "Never mind!" Angela answered sweetly. "You were tired." "I am a bad old woman!" said old Marg, mistrustfully. "Never mind that, either!" said Angela. "Let me be your friend. If you will, you shall never be cold or hungry again." A profound wonder came into the old face--then it began to writhe, and from each eye oozed scant tears, seeking a channel amid the seams and wrinkles of the sunken cheeks. "You will let me be your friend," urged Angela. Still old Marg wept silently, the scant tears of age. "You shall have a pleasant home and----" A swift, suspicious glance darted from the wet eyes. "Not a 'sylum, miss, please!" said the old woman. "No," said Angela quietly. "Not an asylum, A home--a bright, clean, comfortable home----" "I can work, miss!" put in old Marg, doubling her knotted hands to show their strength. "I can wash, an' scrub----" "Yes," said Angela, "you may work all you are able, helping to keep things clean and comfortable." Still old Marg looked doubtful. Wiping her cheeks with a corner of the shawl, she half turned toward the door. "Have you a family, or any one belonging to you?" asked Angela, thinking to have reached the root of the difficulty. "Yes," said the old woman stoutly. "I have a cat. Where I go, she must go, too!" Angela patted the grimy hand, with a laugh which was good to hear. "I understand you perfectly," she said. "I have a cat of my own. You and _your_ cat shall not be separated."