remember, as soon as possible,--close knitted, plain stitch, rather
coarse worsted; and don't forget the hitch, Mrs. Grumbit, don't forget
the hitch."

Ah! reader, there are many Mrs. Grumbits in this world, requiring
_hitches_ to be made in their stockings!

At this moment the door burst open. Mrs. Dorothy Grumbit uttered a
piercing scream, Mr. Jollyboy dropped his spectacles and sat down on
his hat, and Martin Rattler stood before them with the white kitten
in his arms.

For a few seconds there was a dead silence, while an expression of
puzzled disappointment passed over Mr. Jollyboy's ruddy countenance. At
last he said,--

"Is this, madam, the nephew who, you told me a little ago, is not
addicted to fighting?"

"Yes," answered the old lady faintly, and covering her eyes with her
hands, "that is Martin."

"If my aunt told you that, sir, she told you the truth," said Martin,
setting down the blood-stained white kitten, which forthwith began to
stretch its limbs and lick itself dry. "I don't ever fight if I can help
it, but I couldn't help it to-day."

With a great deal of energy, and a revival of much of his former
indignation, when he spoke of the kitten's sufferings, Martin recounted
all the circumstances of the fight; during the recital of which Mrs.