Somehow Whitefoot felt unusually safe, safer than he had ever felt in any of his other homes. You see, he had seen several feathered folk alight close to it and not give it a second look. He knew that they had seen that home, but had mistaken it for what it had once been, the deserted home of one of their own number. Whitefoot had chuckled. He had chuckled long and heartily. “If they make that mistake,” said he to himself, “everybody else is likely to make it. That home of ours is right in plain sight, yet I do believe it is safer than the best hidden home I ever had before. Shadow the Weasel never will think of climbing up this little tree to look at an old nest, and Shadow is the one I am most afraid of.” It was only a day or two later that Buster Bear happened along that way. Now Buster is very fond of tender Wood Mouse. More than once Whitefoot had had a narrow escape from Buster's big claws as they tore open an old stump or dug into the ground after him. He saw Buster glance up at the new home without the slightest interest in those shrewd little eyes of his. Then Buster shuffled on to roll over an old log and lick up the ants he found under it. Again Whitefoot chuckled. “Yes, sir,” said he. “It is the safest home I 've ever had.” So Whitefoot and little Mrs. Whitefoot were very happy in the home which they had built, and for once in his life Whitefoot did very little worrying. Life seemed more beautiful than it had ever been before. And he almost forgot that there was such a thing as a hungry enemy. CHAPTER XXXI: Whitefoot Is Hurt The hurts that hardest are to bear Come from those for whom we care. --Whitefoot. Whitefoot was hurt. Yes, sir, Whitefoot was hurt. He was very much hurt. It wasn't a bodily hurt; it was an inside hurt. It was a hurt that made his heart ache. And to make it worse, he couldn't understand it at all. One evening he had been met at the little round doorway by little Mrs. Whitefoot. “You can't come in,” said she. “Why can't I?” demanded Whitefoot, in the greatest surprise. “Never mind why. You can't, and that is all there is to it,” replied Mrs. Whitefoot. “You mean I can't ever come in any more?” asked Whitefoot. “I don't know about that,” replied Mrs. Whitefoot, “but you can't come in now, nor for some time. I think the best thing you can do is to go back to your old home in the hollow stub.” Whitefoot stared at little Mrs. Whitefoot quite as if he thought she had gone crazy. Then he lost his temper. “I guess I'll come in if I want to,” said he. “This home is quite as much my home as it is yours. You have no right to keep me out of it. Just you get out of my way.”