“Some day, Olivia,” went on Uncle Roger, “you and I may find ourselves the aunt and uncle of the foremost actress of her day. If a girl of fourteen can make a couple of practical farmers and a pair of matter-of-fact housewives half believe for ten minutes that she really is a snake, what won’t she be able to do when she is thirty? Here, you,” added Uncle Roger, perceiving me, “cut along and get off to your bed. And mind you don’t eat cucumbers and milk before you go.” CHAPTER XXIV. THE BEWITCHMENT OF PAT We were all in the doleful dumps--at least, all we “young fry” were, and even the grown-ups were sorry and condescended to take an interest in our troubles. Pat, our own, dear, frolicsome Paddy, was sick again--very, very sick. On Friday he moped and refused his saucer of new milk at milking time. The next morning he stretched himself down on the platform by Uncle Roger’s back door, laid his head on his black paws, and refused to take any notice of anything or anybody. In vain we stroked and entreated and brought him tidbits. Only when the Story Girl caressed him did he give one plaintive little mew, as if to ask piteously why she could not do something for him. At that Cecily and Felicity and Sara Ray all began crying, and we boys felt choky. Indeed, I caught Peter behind Aunt Olivia’s dairy later in the day, and if ever a boy had been crying I vow that boy was Peter. Nor did he deny it when I taxed him with it, but he would not give in that he was crying about Paddy. Nonsense! “What were you crying for, then?” I said. “I’m crying because--because my Aunt Jane is dead,” said Peter defiantly. “But your Aunt Jane died two years ago,” I said skeptically. “Well, ain’t that all the more reason for crying?” retorted Peter. “I’ve had to do without her for two years, and that’s worse than if it had just been a few days.” “I believe you were crying because Pat is so sick,” I said firmly. “As if I’d cry about a cat!” scoffed Peter. And he marched off whistling. Of course we had tried the lard and powder treatment again, smearing Pat’s paws and sides liberally. But to our dismay, Pat made no effort to lick it off. “I tell you he’s a mighty sick cat,” said Peter darkly. “When a cat don’t care what he looks like he’s pretty far gone.” “If we only knew what was the matter with him we might do something,” sobbed the Story Girl, stroking her poor pet’s unresponsive head. “I could tell you what’s the matter with him, but you’d only laugh at me,” said Peter. We all looked at him. “Peter Craig, what do you mean?” asked Felicity. “‘Zackly what I say.” “Then, if you know what is the matter with Paddy, tell us,” commanded the Story Girl, standing up. She said it quietly; but Peter obeyed. I think he would have obeyed if she, in that tone and with those eyes, had ordered him to cast himself into the depths of the sea. I know I should. “He’s BEWITCHED--that’s what’s the matter with him,” said Peter, half defiantly, half shamefacedly.