From that day onward she had lavished the whole affection of her broken heart upon little Squarky-woo. He was indeed a mouse of which any mother might have been proud. His coat was as brown as the Thames water at London Bridge, his eyes were as black as Maria, and his teeth were as sharp as needles and as white as ivory. Deep down in her heart Mammy-ana thought him perfect, but it must not be supposed from this that she in any way neglected her duties as a mother. She insisted on his getting up at twelve o'clock every night, and going into his hole at six o'clock every morning. He was never allowed to play with the other young mice, or to use any vulgar expressions, such as "Go to Felis!" or "You be trapped!" Above all, he was strictly forbidden, on any excuse whatever, to go near the kitchen in which his beloved father had met so dreadful a fate. With the foolishness of youth, Squarky-woo chafed under this admirable discipline. Not that he ever complained to his mother--oh, dear, no! He loved her too much, and, besides, she would probably have beaten him. Of course, if she had done so, it would only have been for his own good; but Squarky-woo, being modest by nature, felt that he was quite good enough. So he kept his thoughts to himself, and did what he was told, and Mammy-ana frequently informed him that he was the best behaved and the most satisfactory little mouse in the whole of Berkeley Square. "This," she would add, "is rather due to your excellent upbringing than to any innate virtue that you yourself possess." And Squarky-woo, who had quite made up his mind to pay a visit to the kitchen on the first possible occasion, used to bow his head gracefully, as though recognising the truth of her remark, and then wink at himself in the looking-glass under the dining-room sideboard. Though nothing can excuse such duplicity, especially in early life, Squarky-woo's conduct was not really quite so reprehensible as it appears at first sight. He suffered from temptations of which Mammy-ana was ignorant, for the other young mice had the most offensive habit of jeering at him whenever she was not present. "Yah!" they would cry, "Who's afraid of the cat? Look at little Stay-in-hole!" Then they would tell him wonderful stories about the kitchen, how the floor was strewn with crumbs, and how exciting it was to creep in quietly and pick them up, while the great, ugly brute of a cat nodded away sleepily in front of the fire. And Squarky-woo would grind his teeth with impotent fury, and swear to himself that, come what might, nothing should stop him from sharing in their adventures.