But the wee,
wiry, weird Widow Wiggins watched wearily by the bedside of the sick Mrs.
Pettibone. And still Deacon Pettibone refused to break his word, though
he was breaking his wife's heart, and breaking God's command, and ruining
his son.
At last the sick mother, longing for her son, thought of a plan by which
to bring her husband to reason.
"Fetch your cat over the next time you come," she said to the wee, wiry,
widow woman.
And so when the wee, weird Widow Wiggins came again, the wonderful cat
followed her and lay down by the stove. Soon after the deacon came in,
looking very sad but very stern.
"Did you see Tom?" asked his wife.
"No, I didn't," said the deacon, "and I don't want to."
"Mew!" said the cat.
The deacon noticed the cat, and got a little red in the face; but he went
on talking.
"I tell you what, wife, Tom has made his bed and he must lie on it,
that's all!"
"Mew! mew! mew!"
"I can't break my word anyhow; I said he shouldn't come back, and he
shan't; so now there's no use in pining yourself to death over a
scapegrace."
"Mew! mew! mew! m-e-e-o-w!" shrieked the cat, with every bristle on end,
and her claws scratching the floor.
"Mrs. Wiggins, I wish you would keep that miserable cat at home," said
the deacon; and so the wee widow woman took up the wonderful cat and
carried it home.
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