I can’t help it. Everything was so different from what I had thought it would be. Betty never came out in the morning. Oh, dear! oh, dear! she never came out again! I got up early enough myself, and it was a beautiful, beautiful morning. There was dew on the grass and on the flowers, and the sun made it sparkle so that it was lovely to look at. I did so want Betty to see it! I ran to the white rose-bush, and, sure enough, there were four or five roses—such white roses, and with such sparkling drops of dew on them! I ran back to the house and called to Betty, as I always did. I wanted her to come. But she did not come! She was not even at breakfast, eating her bread and milk. I looked for her everywhere except in her bedroom. Her bedroom door was closed, and I could not get in. And though I called and called, nobody seemed to take any notice of me. Somehow, something seemed to be the matter. The house was even quieter than usual, but I felt as if every one was busy and in trouble. I kept asking and asking where Betty was, but nobody would answer me. Once I went to her closed bedroom door and called her there, and told her about the white roses, and asked her why she did not come out. But before I had really finished telling her, my feelings were quite hurt by her papa. He came, and spoke to me in a way that was not kind. “Go away, kitty,” he said, “don’t make such a noise; you will disturb Betty.” I went away waving my tail. I went out into the garden and sat under the rose-bush. As if I could disturb Betty! As if Betty did not always want me! She wanted me to sleep with her in her little bed, but her mamma would not let me. But—ah, how could I believe it!—she did not come out the next day, or the next, or even the next. It seemed as if I should go wild. People can ask questions, but a little cat is nothing to anybody unless to some one like Betty. She always understood my questions and answered them. In the house they would not answer me. They were always busy and troubled. It did not seem like the same house. Nothing seemed the same. The garden was a different place. In the playhouse the Sunday doll and the everyday doll sat and stared at the tea-things we had used that happy afternoon at the party. The Sunday doll sat bolt upright and looked prouder than ever, as if she felt she was being neglected; but the everyday doll lopped over, as if she had grieved her strength away because Betty did not come. I had made up my mind at the first tea-party that I would never speak to the Sunday doll, but one day I was so lonely and helpless that I could not help it. “Oh, dear!” I meeiaoued, “oh, dear! do you know anything about Betty? Do you? do you?” And that heartless thing only sat up and stared at me, and never answered, though the tears were streaming down my nose.