pantry shelves.

Grand-daddy Whiskers and Uncle Squeaky searched all that evening,
flashing their lanterns into every dark corner, but at midnight they
had to tell Mother Graymouse that no trace of Limpy-toes was to be
found.

Poor Mammy cried and cried. All night long she wondered which enemy
had captured her oldest son. Could it be old Thomas Cat? Was he
caught in some dreadful trap, or had he eaten poison like poor Daddy?
At last she fell asleep.

[Ilustration: My poor, dear Limpy-toes, she sobbed.]

In the morning as she prepared the little bowls of oat-meal, she kept
wiping her eyes.

"How shall I ever tell the poor dears that their brother is dead?"
she sighed.

At last, Silver Ears, Buster, Tiny and Teenty were seated around the
breakfast-table sipping their hot porridge. Mother Graymouse was
dressing Baby Squealer who was howling, as usual.

"Where is Limpy-toes, Mammy?" asked Tiny. "Didn't he come home?"

"Sniff! sniff!" went Mother Graymouse. "My poor children, I fear you
will never see your dear brother again."

While she was speaking, there came the far-off patter, patter,