'Of course it will not eat. It will die,' said mother gently, and as usual Rosamond didn't understand. 'Oh yes, you may mew, and try to palaver me, but that won't stop me thinking you a heartless beast!' 'I _am_ a beast,' answered mother sweetly. 'Oh, please, please, make it eat! or else it will starve!' 'It _will_ starve,' said mother, but she made no opposition when Rosamond tried to make the poor little Blanch feed like the rest of us. We had never stopped eating; we knew we couldn't do anything for poor Blanch, and we knew, too, that it was Zobeide who had been held out of the window, and longed to tell May she was mistaken and put her out of her misery. When Dr. Hobday came twenty minutes later, we had to listen to Auntie May telling him the story, and asking him if that was what had made Blanch ill? 'It is very unlikely,' said he. 'This kitten was probably unhealthy from the first. It has pneumonia now, and I am afraid in such a young kitten the case is pretty well hopeless; but we will try to save it, if you think it worth while?' 'It is _not_ worth while,' said mother loudly and clearly, but, of course, no one took any notice of her--she was _called_ the Talking Cat, but they didn't really think it was talking, only general friendliness--and Auntie May said she meant to try and save Blanch's life. First of all Blanch was put into a separate basket, lined with flannel; a piece of flannel was to be sewn round her with little holes for her front paws to go out of. She had to lie on a hot bottle. The temperature of the room had to be kept up to sixty-three degrees. She was to be fed every two hours, on a mixture of milk and sugar and hot water, about equal parts, so as to make something as like mother's milk as possible. 'I shall have to sit up with her,' said Auntie May, 'or buy an alarm clock to wake me up every two hours.' 'Oh, Auntie May, do let _me_ sit up!' cried Rosamond. 'Why, you are but a kitten yourself!' 'Ah, but I'm over three years old,' said Rosamond. 'I am twelve years old. I suppose that represents a kitten's twelve weeks, doesn't it? So this kitten is three weeks, that is to say three years old.' 'It is a baby in arms,' said Auntie May, 'and is going to be fed with a bottle, like other babies.' She had got a doll's feeding-bottle she had bought once at a bazaar, and she tried that, but it was defective and would not let the milk run through. Then she got her stylographic pen-filler and dipped that in the milk she had arranged and sucked some up, and squirted it out into Blanch's mouth, and really got some in that way; but it was a slow business, and poor Blanch used to hate being disturbed dreadfully. She was too young to talk, but she used to get into a regular temper sometimes and turn away her body with a scraping noise in her throat that meant how disgusted she was with life and people trying to cure her.