One day, a couple of years before this time, when Lumberlegs, the St. Bernard, then an awkward pup, was a new arrival, and the Widow Dog Lily, who had been rescued from starving by Miss Jule, had been adopted by Tommy and become his guardian, Aunt Prue had come unexpectedly to pay her brother, Anne’s father, a visit. She had not intended to arrive unannounced, for she liked to be met by the best go-to-meeting surrey and pair. But travelling and even planning for it always flustered her; and when she wrote to tell of her plans, after spoiling three sheets of paper, she directed the letter to another brother in Texas. Consequently, when she arrived at the Woodlands station at noon of a blazing July day,--she always took midday trains, it’s apt to thunder in the afternoon,--there was no one there to meet her. “No, marm, no hacks here to-day,” said the station master in answer to her request for one; “no use in ’phoning the stable either, all the teams here about have gone to the Sunday-school picnic, and I reckon the only folks to home is dogs.” So saying he banged down his office window and drifted across the road to dinner. Aunt Prue paused and set down a stout wicker basket with an openwork top that she carried, straightened her bonnet, felt in her glove to be sure that her trunk check and return ticket were safe. She always bought a return ticket as a sort of guarantee of safety, but usually lost it before it could be used. She looked up the hill road. There was the store and post-office, then a quarter of a mile of open before the shade began, not a living thing was in sight; it was too hot for even the chickens to scratch up the dust. The basket at her feet began to roll about uncannily, for in it was Miss Prue’s tortoise-shell tabby cat, which she always took visiting when she was going to stay more than two nights. In politics Miss Prue was a stanch monarchist of the old-time, “off-with-his-head” variety. The cat’s name was Kaiserin Augusta Victoria, and never, even in the most informal and playful moments, was she called either Gussie or Vic. A violent scratching in the basket was followed by a long-drawn meow! Miss Prue took a small tin pan from her satchel and went toward the pump to give the pet a drink; but as she only pumped a couple of strokes, the water was tepid and not to her taste. She always gave the cat iced water, so she put up the tin. Poor K. A. V., smothering in the basket, would have been grateful for a lap of anything that was wet--even puddle water or sour milk; but she was not consulted, and her temper waxed fierce. If people could only realize that the faults of their pets are chiefly of their own making, they would be more careful to look at those things that concern an animal from its point of view instead of their own. With one more glance at the road, Miss Prue settled the basket firmly on her arm and trudged off. Augusta Victoria was not happy and, moreover, she was determined to get out of the basket.