"Tom, what on earth ails that cat?"

     "I don't know, aunt," gasped the boy.

     "Why, I never see anything like it. What did make him act so?"

     "Deed I don't know, Aunt Polly; cats always act so when they're having a good time."

     "They do, do they?" There was something in the tone that made Tom apprehensive.

     "Yes'm. That is, I believe they do."

     "You do?"

     "Yes'm."

     The old lady was bending down, Tom watching, with interest emphasized by anxiety. Too late he divined her "drift." The handle of the telltale tea-spoon was visible under the bed-valance. Aunt Polly took it, held it up. Tom winced, and dropped his eyes. Aunt Polly raised him by the usual handle--his ear--and cracked his head soundly with her thimble.

     "Now, sir, what did you want to treat that poor dumb beast so, for?"

     "I done it out of pity for him--because he hadn't any aunt."