So back to his garret and his work went Dick, resolved to stay a while longer at least, and give the Bow Bells’ prophecy a chance to come true. The cook was still cross, the work was as hard as ever, and, as the mice and rats gnawed and gnawed, Dick missed his furry friend very much. But he kept on steadily working, and, by and by, his patience was rewarded. The ship that had sailed so long before with his little venture on board, returned, and the captain told a marvellous tale. A favorable wind had brought the vessel quickly to the coast of Barbary, and there the sailors went ashore, carrying with them some bales of merchandise to sell to the Sultan, who was so much pleased with the wonderful things that he bought them all, and bade the captain and his officers dine at the palace. They went, but, no sooner were they seated at a long table spread with magnificent gold and silver dishes, and everything good to eat and drink, than swarms of rats and mice ran out of the walls, and devoured all the banquet. The captain, vexed to lose his dinner so, sent the cabin-boy for the cat which had been left on board the vessel, and, as soon as she came to the palace-door, and saw the mice and rats, she sprang from the boy’s arms and chased them all away, just as she had done in Dick’s attic in far-off London. Then the Sultan of Barbary begged to buy this wonderful creature, and offered the captain three hundred thousand pounds for her. So pussy was sold, and a great fortune came in her stead to the little scullion. And Dick Whittington was worthy of his good luck, for he sent for all his family to come to London and live like lords; he even gave presents to the servants who had laughed at him and his cat. His master, the wealthy merchant, made him a partner in his ships and ventures; his fortune yearly increased, and when he had grown to be a young man, he married Alice Fitzgerald, and, last of all, he was knighted by the king, became Sir Richard Whittington, and was thrice Lord Mayor of London, as the Bow Bells had long, long ago chimed in his ears. * * * * * “And the best of it all is,” added Impty, with a wide, red yawn, “that Sir Richard never forgot what had brought him his good-fortune when he was only poor little Dick Whittington; for, in all his statues and pictures, there is a little cat curled down in one corner, in memory of his own puss.” “How I wish I could see one of them,” said Dolly, earnestly. “I do love people to remember things.” “My grandfather, the King of the Cats, has lots in his palace in Cat-Land. Now, if I could only take you with me--but I can’t; it’s no use wishing, so good night!” THE EIGHTH NIGHT As Impty settled down into his place the next night, his purr sounded almost like a laugh. “Why, Kitty, what _are_ you laughing at?” Dolly asked, for the black kitten was usually a sober little person.