She was a queer old woman, and lived alone in a little tumble-down house with nineteen cats.

Folks called her a witch, but she wasn't, though she looked like an old rag-bag.

She was real kind to me when I lived in that place, and used to let me get warm at her fire when the folks at the poorhouse were hard on me." "Did you live in a poorhouse ?" "A little while.

Never mind that I didn't mean to speak of it;" and Dan stopped short in his unusual fit of communicativeness.
"Tell about the cats, please," said Demi, feeling that he had asked an unpleasant question, and sorry for it.
"Nothing to tell; only she had a lot of 'em, and kept 'em in a barrel nights; and I used to go and tip over the barrel sometimes, and let 'em out all over the house, and then she'd scold, and chase 'em and put 'em in again, spitting and yowling like fury." "Was she good to them ?" asked Demi, with a hearty child's laugh, pleasant to hear.
"Guess she was.

Poor old soul! she took in all the lost and sick cats in the town; and when anybody wanted one they went to Marm Webber, and she let 'em pick any kind and color they wanted, and only asked ninepence, she was glad to have her pussies get a good home." "I should like to see Marm Webber.