Patrick Kirk was raking the gravel on the road into pretty criss-cross patterns, and Tattine was pretending to help him with her own garden rake. Patrick was one of Tattine’s best friends and she loved to work with him and to talk to him. Patrick was a fine old Irishman, there was no doubt whatever about that, faithful and conscientious to the last degree. Every morning he would drive over in his old buggy from his little farm in the Raritan Valley, in abundant time to begin work on the minute of seven, and not until the minute of six would he lay aside spade or hoe and turn his steps towards his old horse tied under the tree, behind the barn. But the most attractive thing about Patrick was his genial kindly smile, a smile that said as plainly as words, that he had found life very comfortable and pleasant, and that he was still more than content with it notwithstanding that his back was bowed with work month in and month out, and the years were hurrying him fast on into old age.

And so Tattine was fond of Patrick, for what (child though she was) she knew him to be, and they spent many a delightful hour in each other’s company.

“Patrick,” said Tattine, on this particular morning, when they were raking away side by side, “does Mrs. Kirk ever have a day at home?” and she glanced at Patrick a little mischievously, doubting if he would know just what she meant.

“Shure she has all her days at home, Miss Tattine, save on a holiday, when we go for a day’s drive to some of our neighbors’, but I doubt if I’m catching just what you’re maning.”

“Oh! I mean does she have a day sometimes when she gets ready for company and expects to have people come and see her, the way ladies do in town?”

“Well, no, miss; she don’t do that, for, tin to one, nobody’d come if she did. We belongs to the workin’ classes, Molly and I, and we has no time for the doing of the loikes of city people.”

“I’m sorry she hasn’t a day,” said Tattine, “because—because—”

“If ye’re maning that you’d like to give us a call, miss,” said Patrick, beginning to take in the situation, “shure she could have a day at home as aisy as the foinest lady, and proud indeed she’d be to have it with your little self for the guest of honor.”

“I would like to bring Rudolph and Mabel, Patrick.”

“And what should hinder, miss?”

“And I’d like to have it an all-day-at-home, say from eleven in the morning until five in the afternoon, and not make just a little call, Patrick.”

“Of course, miss, a regular long day, with your donkey put into a stall in the barn, and yourselves and the donkey biding for the best dinner we can give ye.”

“And I’d like to have you there, Patrick, because we might not feel AT HOME just with Mrs. Kirk.”

“Well, I don’t know, miss; do you suppose your Father could spare me?” and Patrick thought a little regretfully of the dollar and a half he would insist upon foregoing if he took a day off, but at the same moment he berated himself soundly for having such an ungenerous thought. “Indade, miss, if you’ll manage for me to have the day I’ll gladly stay to home to make ye welcome.”

“Then it’s settled, Patrick, and we’ll make it the very first day Papa can spare you.” They had raked down, while they had been having this conversation, to close proximity to two pretty rows of apple-trees that had been left on the front lawn, a reminder of the farm that “used to be,” and the sight of the trees brought a troubled look into Tattine’s face. “Patrick,” she said ruefully, “do you know that some of the nests in these trees have been robbed of their eggs? Four or five of them are empty now. Have you an idea who could do such a thing?”

“Yes, I have an idea,” and Patrick rested his hands upon the handle of his rake and looked significantly towards the barn; “somebody who lives in the barn, I’m thinkin’.”

“Why, Joseph would not do it, nor Philip the groom, and little Joey is too small to climb these trees.”

“It’s something smaller than Joey, miss. Whisht now, and see if she’s not up to mischief this minute.”

Tattine’s little black-and-white kitten, whose home was in the barn, had been frisking about her feet during all the raking, but as the raking came under the apple-trees, other thoughts came into her little black-and-white head, and there she was stealthily clawing her way up the nearest tree. Tattine stood aghast, but Patrick’s “whisht” kept her still for a moment, while the cat made its way along one of the branches. Tattine knowing well the particular nest she was seeking, made one bound for her with her rake, and with such a scream as certainly to scare little Black-and-white out of at least one of the nine lives to which she is supposed to be entitled. But pussy was too swift and swiftly scrambled to the very topmost twig that would hold her weight, while Tattine danced about in helpless rage on the grass beneath the tree. “Tattine is having a fit,” thought little Black-and-white, scared half to death and quite ready to have a little fit of her own, to judge from her wild eyes and bristling tail.

Tattine’s futile rage was followed in a few minutes by, “Oh, Patrick, I never dreamt it was Kittie. Has SHE been TRAINED to do it, do you think?”

“Oh. no, miss; it just comes natural to cats and kittens to prey upon birds and birds’ nests.”

“Patrick,” said Tattine solemnly, “there is not going to be any four-legged thing left for me to love. I am done with Betsy and Doctor, and now I’m done with Black-and-white. I wonder if Mamma can make it seem any better,” and then she turned her steps to the house in search of comfort, but she had gone only half-way when the coachman, who was waiting at the door with the little grey mare and the phaeton, motioned to her to come quietly. Tattine saw at a glance what had happened, and sped swiftly back to Patrick. “Keep Black-and-white up the tree,” she said, in a breathless whisper; “don’t let her go near the nest, and don’t let her come down for the world. The little Phoebe-birds have lit.”

“All right, miss,” not at all understanding the situation, but more than willing to obey orders. Tattine was in such haste to get back to the house that she hardly heard his answer. What she had tried to tell him was that the five little fledglings, crowded into the tiny nest under the eaves of the porch, had taken it into their heads to try their first flight at that precise moment, and there they were perched on the shafts of the phaeton, lighting, as it seemed, on the first thing they came to, while the father and mother birds were flying about in frantic anxiety to see them in such a perilous situation. How could those tiny little untrained claws keep their hold on that big round, slippery shaft, and if the carriage started down they would surely go under the wheels or under the feet of that merciless little grey mare. But the little fledglings were in better hands than they knew, for, with the exceptions of Betsy, Doctor, and Black-and-white, every living thing at Oakdene was kind to every other living thing.

“Whoa, girlie; whoa, girlie,” had been Patrick’s quieting words to Lizzie, and then when Tattine came hurrying that way he had motioned her to come quietly for fear of frightening them. Then, as you know, Tattine flew to make sure that treacherous Black-and-white was kept close guarded, and then back she flew again to the aid of the little birds themselves. Softly she drew nearer and nearer, saying over gently, “Whoa, Lizzie! dear little birdies!” until she came very near and then she put out one hand towards them. That was enough for the fledglings. Refreshed by their rest on the shafts, they flapped their tiny wings and fluttered up to the anxious mother bird on the branches above them, wholly unconscious that they had been in any peril whatsoever.

“And Black-and-white would have killed them, every one, if she had had the chance,” thought Tattine; “oh, if I only knew how to teach her a lesson!”