forth that it was "A testimonial of gratitude, for saving the life of
Ithuriel Jobson, aged seven, on the occasion of his being attacked with
quinsy sore throat." Miss Petingill was very proud of her knife. It and
the spoons travelled about in a little basket which hung on her arm, and
was never allowed to be out of her sight, even when the family she was
sewing for were the honestest people in the world.

Then, beside the plate-basket, Miss Petingill never stirred without Tom,
her tortoiseshell cat. Tom was a beauty, and knew his power; he ruled
Miss Petingill with a rod of iron, and always sat in the rocking-chair
when there was one. It was no matter where _she_ sat, Miss Petingill
told people, but Tom was delicate, and must be made comfortable. A big
family Bible always came too, and a special red merino pin-cushion, and
some "shade pictures" of old Mr. and Mrs. Petingill and Peter Petingill,
who was drowned at sea; and photographs of Mrs. Porter, who used to be
Marcia Petingill, and Mrs. Porter's husband, and all the Porter
children. Many little boxes and jars came also, and a long row of phials
and bottles, filled with homemade physic and herb teas. Miss Petingill
could not have slept without having them beside her, for, as she said,
how did she know that she might not be "took sudden" with something, and
die for want of a little ginger-balsam or pennyroyal?

The Carr children always made so much noise, that it required something
unusual to make Miss Petingill drop her work, as she did now, and fly to
the window. In fact there was a tremendous hubbub: hurrahs from Dorry,
stamping of feet, and a great outcry of shrill, glad voices. Looking
down, Miss Petingill saw the whole six--no, seven, for Cecy was there
too--stream out of the wood-house door--which wasn't a door, but only a
tall open arch--and rush noisily across the yard. Katy was at the head,
bearing a large black bottle without any cork in it, while the others