So this is what happens when the British lower classes begin to think! There really ought to be some better way of bridging the gulf between their old, automatic habits and the new working of their minds. "They are carrying soldiers across the Channel by thousands," I say indignantly. "All bunkum, if you'll kindly excuse the word, Miss. Did Robinson Crusoe really happen? We 'ear of these things going on, but do _you_ know of anybody who has actually been killed, 'm?" asks Peter. I looked at him, but I could not speak. Where are you lying, dear, in that awful field of death? October 11. I was pruning and tying up rose vines, by my wrought-iron gate that stands ajar, when I heard a noise,--first, a skurrying of feet, and a shout, then a rush of something small and swift. The tiniest grey kitten imaginable had dashed in through the opening and was trembling in a corner under my rosebush. I picked it up and went quickly to the gate; there was a red-faced urchin waiting, his mouth open, a stone in one hand ready to throw at the kitten if it came out, but shy of entering,--the British respect for a gate! Neither my pleas nor my scolding brought a shade of expression to his face; it was as guileless, as soulless, as a jack-o'-lantern. I give the boy tuppence, and tell him to go away, and to be kind to animals; the kitten curls itself about my neck and purrs, as I work in the earth. Of course I shall keep it; I am glad that the latch will not hold, and I shall not even try to have it repaired. Perhaps my garden may serve as a refuge for small hunted things, suffering things. I might have a ring put on my gate; you remember the ring upon the cathedral door at Durham to which a fugitive could cling? All the village criminals--I wonder who the village criminals are? Probably the ones who look least so!--could cling to it, and Peter could rescue them, and Madge and I could give them tea. And now to help on the millennium a bit by establishing an intimacy between the refugee kitten and snobbish little Don. In his heart I think he wants to make friends; but when a common kitten, with no pedigree and no Oxford training, spits at him, what is he to do? He looks piteously at me as I bid him be gentle; sniffs in half friendly fashion, and keeps his delicate nose well away from the claws. Meanwhile, how can I teach the kitten _noblesse oblige_? I shall name it the Atom, because, it being (so much of the time) invisible, like the scientists I am unable to tell whether or not it exists; and because at moments it seems only a "mode of motion."