Mother quietly helped the two combatants, apologised to Miss Brown for Ernie’s “awkwardness,” and dined upon dry bread herself. It was later in the kitchen that we gave Haze a talking to,—Ernie and I. He was very repentant, said he really had not noticed the scarcity before (!), and thought Ernie’s idea of a “system” excellent. So the society was organised. We are to take turns saying we do not care for things:—meat, vegetables, or pudding, as the case may be. But,—would you believe it?—this noon at luncheon Miss Brown actually refused a fishcake, remarking that she believed she was suffering from “a slight plethora”! Perhaps she has suspected all along?—perhaps we need not worry as we do each Saturday morning? Oh, if this is true, what a _trump_ she has been! For she talks politics and the latest novel in the most natural manner in the world, neither complains nor criticises, and seems quite oblivious to our many and obvious shortcomings,—the prim, generous, tactful darling! Saturday, January 24. We have had to give Rosebud away, and Ernie and Robin are quite heartbroken. It was because he drank so much of Robin’s milk. “It seems pretty hard to have to regard a kitten as an extravagance!” muttered Ernie, rebelliously, as she sat in the coal-scuttle this morning, clasping Rosebud to an indignant brown gingham bosom. “Who’s going to tell Bobs, I’d like to know? It’s all very well for mother to say we can’t afford it. There are some things that people _ought_ to afford.” “He’ll be very happy with Mary Hobart, dear,” I coaxed. “And you know he is growing up, and has an enormous appetite; and he won’t even try to catch mice,—except Robin’s white ones,—and milk is eight cents a quart! Don’t make it any harder for mother. She feels it as much as any of us.” “Of course, Mary will be delighted,” continued Ernie, bitterly; “and I’ll have to lie, and say it is because we want to make her a handsome present. Chums are pretty disappointing, sometimes,—and I can’t understand Geof, Elizabeth! A boy who has three dollars a week pocket-money could certainly afford to offer to buy a little cat-meat once in a while. Not that we’d let Geoffrey do it, of course; but it would be nice to feel that he wanted to. He used to be so sweet and sympathetic when I was in trouble; and he hardly seems to notice, any more. Why,—he’s not been in to see me for over a week!” “Perhaps he is busy at school,” I answered. “I’d be glad to think Geof was really studying in earnest.” “Oh, it isn’t that,” returned Ernie. “He has extra tutoring, I know; but he shirks it whenever he gets the chance, and slips off to keep some appointment with that horrid Jim Hollister and Sam Jacobs. They are not the kind of fellows he ought to go with.” Then, with a swift return to the more immediate and poignant woe,—“Dear Rosebud! dear pussy! It’s too ridiculous,—being so poor one can’t afford to keep a kitten!”