What could a poor little cat do? I looked and looked everywhere, but I could not find her. I went round the house and round the house, and called in every room. But they only drove me out, and said I made too much noise, and never understood a word I said. And the white rose-bush—it seemed as if it would break my heart. “There will be more roses, and more roses,” Betty had said, and every morning it was coming true. I used to go and sit under it, and I had to count ten over and over, there were so many. It was such a great rose-bush that it looked at last like a cloud of snow-white bloom. And Betty had never seen it! “Ah, Betty! Betty!” I used to cry when I had counted so many tens that I was tired. “Oh! do come and see how beautiful it is, and let us have our tea-party. Oh, white rose-bush, where is she?” They drove me out of the house so many times that I had no courage; but one morning the white rose-bush was so splendid that I made one desperate effort. I went to the bedroom door and rubbed against it, and called with all my strength: [Illustration: “I LEFT HER LAP AND CURLED UP IN HER ARM”] “Betty, if you are there!—Betty, if you love me at all, oh, speak to me and tell me what I have done! The white rose-bush has tens and tens and tens of flowers upon it. It is like snow. Don’t you care about it? Oh, do come out and see! Betty, Betty! I am so lonely for you, and I love you so!” And the door actually opened, and her mamma stood there looking at me, with great tears rolling down her cheeks. She bent down and took me in her arms and stroked me. “Perhaps she will know it,” she said in a low, strange voice to some one in the room. She turned and carried me into the bedroom, and I saw that it was Betty’s papa she had spoken to. The next instant I sprang out of her arms on to the bed. Betty was there—my Betty! It seemed as if I felt myself lose my senses. My Betty! I kissed her and kissed her and kissed her! I rubbed her little hands, her cheeks, her curls. I kissed her and purred and cried. “Betty,” said her mamma, “Betty, darling, don’t you know your own little kitty?” Why did not she? Why did she not? Her cheeks were hot and red, her curls were spread out over the pillow, her pansy eyes did not seem to see me, and her little head moved drearily to and fro. Her mamma took me in her arms again, and, as she carried me out of the room, her tears fell on me. “She does not know you, kitty,” she said. “Poor kitty, you will have to go away.” * * * * * I cannot understand it. I sit by the fire and think and think, but I cannot understand. She went away after that, and I never saw her again. I have never felt like a kitten since that time. I went and sat under the white rose-bush all day, and slept there all night.