"I'm going to feed you now," laughed Ralph, with a swift change of mood, "and when I come to see you to-morrow, I'm going to bring you a book."
"What kind of a hook?" asked Araminta, between spoonfuls.
"A novel--a really, truly novel."
"You mustn't!" she cried, frightened again. "You get burned if you read novels."
"Some of them are pretty hot stuff, I'll admit," returned Ralph, missing her meaning, "but, of course, I wouldn't give you that kind. What sort of stories do you like best?"
"Daniel in the lions' den and about the ark. I've read all the Bible twice to Aunt Hitty while she sewed, and most of the Pilgrim's Progress, too. Don't ask me to read a novel, for I can't. It would be wicked."
"All right--we won't call it a novel. It'll be just a story book. It isn't wrong to read stories, is it?"
"No-o," said Araminta, doubtfully. "Aunt Hitty never said it was."
"I wouldn't have you do anything wrong, Araminta--you know that. Good-bye, now, until to-morrow."
Beset by strange emotions, Doctor Ralph Dexter went home. Finding that the carriage was not in use, he set forth alone upon his feline quest, reflecting that Araminta herself was not much more than a little grey kitten. Everywhere he went, he was regarded with suspicion. People denied the possession of cats, even while cats were mewing in defiance of the assertion. Bribes were offered, and sternly refused.
At last, ten miles from home, he found a maltese kitten its owner was willing to part with, in consideration of three dollars and a solemn promise that the cat was not to be hurt.
"It's for a little girl who is ill," he said. "I've promised her a kitten."
"So your father's often said," responded the woman, "but someway, I believe you."
On the way home, he pondered long before the hideous import of it came to him. All at once, he knew.