"Why, Santa Claus himself," said the old clock.

"Oh, no," answered the little mauve mouse. "It was that wicked, murderous
cat! Just as Satan lurks and lies in wait for bad children, so does the
cruel cat lurk and lie in wait for naughty little mice. And you can depend
upon it, that when that awful cat heard Squeaknibble speak so
disrespectfully of Santa Claus, her wicked eyes glowed with joy, her sharp
teeth watered, and her bristling fur emitted electric sparks as big as
marrowfat peas. Then what did that bloodthirsty monster do but scuttle as
fast as she could into Dear-my-Soul's room, leap up into Dear-my-Soul's
crib, and walk off with the pretty little white muff which Dear-my-Soul
used to wear when she went for a visit to the little girl in the next
block! What upon earth did the horrid old cat want with Dear-my-Soul's
pretty little white muff? Ah, the duplicity, the diabolical ingenuity of
that cat! Listen.

"In the first place," resumed the little mauve mouse, after a pause that
testified eloquently to the depth of her emotion,--"in the first place,
that wretched cat dressed herself up in that pretty little white muff, by
which you are to understand that she crawled through the muff just so far
as to leave her four cruel legs at liberty."

"Yes, I understand," said the old clock.

"Then she put on the boy doll's fur cap," said the little mauve mouse,
"and when she was arrayed in the boy doll's fur cap and Dear-my-Soul's
pretty little white muff, of course she didn't look like a cruel cat at
all. But whom did she look like?"

"Like the boy doll," suggested the old clock.