Outside, the storm still raged and the old house shook and creaked in the blast. The rain swirled furiously against the windows, and a swift rush of hailstones beat a fierce tattoo on the roof. Built on the summit of a hill and with only a few trees near it, the Judson mansion was but poorly protected from the elements. None the less, there was a sense of warmth and comfort inside. "Let's build a fire in the kitchen," suggested Dorothy, "and then we'll try to find something to eat." "Which kitchen?" asked Harlan. "Any old kitchen. The one the back stairs end in, I guess. It seems to be the principal one of the set." Harlan brought more wood and Dorothy watched him build the fire with a sense that a god-like being was here put to base uses. Hampered in his log-cabin design by the limitations of the fire box, he handled the kindlings awkwardly, got a splinter into his thumb, said something under his breath which was not meant for his wife to hear, and powdered his linen with soot from the stove pipe. At length, however, a respectable fire was started. "Now," he asked, "what shall I do next?" "Wind all the clocks. I can't endure a dead clock. While you're doing it, I'll get out the remnants of our lunch and see what there is in the pantry that is still edible." In the lunch basket which the erratic ramifications of the road leading to Judson Centre had obliged them to carry, there was still, fortunately, a supply of sandwiches and fruit. A hasty search through the nearest pantry revealed jelly, marmalade, and pickles, a box of musty crackers and a canister of tea. When Harlan came back, Dorothy had the kitchen table set for two, with a lighted candle dispensing odorous good cheer from the centre of it, and the tea kettle singing merrily over the fire. "Seems like home, doesn't it?" he asked, pleasantly imbued with the realisation of the home-making quality in Dorothy. Certain rare women with this gift take their atmosphere with them wherever they go. "To-morrow," he went on, "I'll go into the village and buy more things to eat." "The ruling passion," she smiled. "It's--what's that!" Clear and high above the sound of the storm came an imperious "Me-ow!" "It's a cat," said Harlan. "You don't suppose the poor thing is shut up anywhere, do you?" "If it had been, we'd have found it. We've opened every door in the house, I'm sure. It must be outside." "Me-ow! Me-ow! Me-ow!" The voice was not pleading; it was rather a command, a challenge. "Kitty, kitty, kitty," she called. "Where are you, kitty?" Harlan opened the outside door, and in rushed a huge black cat, with the air of one returning home after a long absence. "Poor kitty," said Dorothy, kindly, stooping to stroke the sable visitor, who instinctively dodged the caress, and then scratched her hand. "The ugly brute!" she exclaimed. "Don't touch him, Harlan."