Poor Jeremy. He was not physically injured when Lady Longford whacked him so soundly with her cane. He is a tall, strong young man, and it would take more than an old lady’s smacks to cause any serious damage. But his spirits were very low, and he was blaming himself for what had happened. It was his fault, he told himself. He should have been more sensitive to Caroline’s feelings. He should have known better. He had injured one of his oldest and dearest friends.

Head down, hands in his pocket, Jeremy looks nothing like the self-satisfied boy who started off for Tidmarsh Manor that afternoon with a Peter Pannish air of “How clever I am. Oh, the cleverness of me!” Occupied with his unhappy recriminations, he reached the end of Tidmarsh Lane and turned toward the village. At that moment, a small fawn-colored terrier—full of Bosworth’s birthday cake and the good fellowship of his animal friends—scrambled over the stone wall and rushed up to him.

“Hullo, Jeremy!” Rascal barked. “Nice to see you today! I’ve been having the most wonderful time at The Brockery.”

Jeremy Crosfield was another of Rascal’s favorite people. In Rascal’s informed opinion, Jeremy had always been much nicer than the other village boys, who teased small dogs and tied rattles to their tails and were often cruel. Jeremy had made something of himself, too—going away to grammar school (none of the other boys had ever done that!), becoming an artist, and now teaching at the village school. Unfortunately, though, the little dog didn’t see much of Jeremy these days. The boy seemed to spend much of his time at Courier Cottage, where the Suttons lived. Rascal didn’t like to go with him, because Mr. Sutton had adopted a fierce black dog with huge white teeth, abandoned by a client who did not pay his bill. Rascal, who rarely admitted to being afraid of anything, was more than a little afraid of the fellow.

“Hullo, Rascal,” Jeremy said unhappily. “Well, I’ve put my foot in it this time.”

“Uh-oh,” Rascal yipped. “What happened?”

Jeremy looked down at the dog, who was always so perky and cheerful. He was glad that Rascal had happened along. He needed to give voice to his thoughts, needed someone to talk to—someone who would never tell anybody what he said.

“Well, to start with,” Jeremy said, “I never meant to propose to Caroline, and it was wrong of her grandmother to think so.”

“You proposed to Caroline?” Rascal barked incredulously. “You and Caroline Longford are getting married?”

He knew, of course, that grownup people did this, all the time—people as old as Miss Potter and Mr. Heelis, or the vicar and Mrs. Lythecoe. People were forever falling in love and saying their vows in the church and moving into their own houses and having babies, like Major Kittredge and Miss Woodcock, who was now Mrs. Kittredge and a mother.

But Rascal had never imagined that Jeremy might get married. The boy had always seemed to him to be a free spirit, liking nothing better than to ramble through the woods and fells—with Rascal himself by his side—looking for plants and animals to draw. People who got married didn’t have time for rambles or drawing pictures. They were too busy fixing things around the house, or taking care of babies, or digging in the garden. And he somehow couldn’t imagine Jeremy living happily at Tidmarsh Manor, under the stern gaze of that crepe-hung portrait of old Lord Longford.

Jeremy kicked at a stone. “I feel that I’ve been tarred by the wrong brush, Rascal,” he muttered. “I’ve always understood who I am, you see. I’m not a gentleman’s son. I’ve always known that Lady Longford would never consider me as a proper suitor for Caroline. Anyway, I didn’t think of it because . . . well, because I don’t care for Caroline. At least, not in that way.”

“Oh, good,” Rascal said, much relieved. “You’re not getting married. Sorry—I misunderstood.” There would be rambles, after all, and fun. Things would go on as they had in the past, and all would be well.

“And I had no idea—not the remotest sort of a glimmer—that Caroline might care for me.”

“She does?” Rascal asked, skipping to keep up. “Caroline Longford loves you?” Not that this was surprising. Jeremy (in Rascal’s experience) was an exceedingly lovable person. But Caroline had gone to London. In Rascal’s experience, Big People who went into the Great Wide World rarely came back to live in the village, where there was so little excitement.

Jeremy kicked at another stone. He had begun to understand what was behind Caroline’s anguished wail, “Then you don’t love me?” Like her grandmother, Caroline had completely misunderstood his intentions. She must have assumed—perhaps from the moment he had asked to call on her—that he was coming to tell her that he loved her.

“I don’t think she really loves me,” he went on, talking mostly to himself. “But she thinks she does, which amounts to the same thing.” He looked down at Rascal. “Doesn’t it?”

“How should I know?” Rascal replied ruefully. “I don’t have any idea what goes on in the minds of ladies. I don’t have time for romance.”

This was true. Rascal was fully employed (and then some) as Near Sawrey’s Chief Dog. His job was a twenty-four-hour, seven-day-a-week assignment that required him to monitor strangers in the village, settle disagreements among other dogs, and sleep with one eye open on the porch at Belle Green, on guard against trespassers and evildoers. He had his duty, and romance would only get in the way.

“I’m sure she’ll get over it,” Jeremy said, although he wasn’t. He knew that he had never tried to mislead Caroline about his feelings for her. But he also knew Caroline, too, and pretty well. He had perceived, several years before, that she was developing a certain romantic streak, a tendency to dream about the future. It hadn’t crossed his mind, though, that her romantic dreams might center on him. What a thick-headed clod he had been!

Now, you and I might say that if Jeremy hadn’t intentionally led Caroline on, he couldn’t be held responsible for her misunderstanding. But that didn’t keep him from feeling absolutely rotten about it, and cursing himself for causing her pain. Or (which was even worse, he thought) causing a rift between Caroline and Deirdre. He knew that the two girls didn’t see each other very often these days—Caroline had become quite the lady and Deirdre was . . . well, Deirdre, and still as hardworking and down-to-earth as ever. Nobody would ever call her a lady, and she would laugh in their faces if they did. But lady or no, she was a splendid girl. As far as Jeremy was concerned, she was pretty nearly perfect.

“What I really hate,” he said out loud, “is the idea that Caroline will be angry at Deirdre, and think that she is the cause of it all, when getting married was totally my idea, not Deirdre’s. She kept saying no, over and over again, until I finally wore her down.”

Now, Rascal was really confused. “You are getting married after all?” he growled. So that was what was behind all those visits to Courier Cottage! Jeremy had been visiting Deirdre. Fierce black dog or no, he told himself, he should have gone along, to keep an eye on the two of them.

The boy bent over, picked up a stone, and shied it at the hedge. “Happiest day in my life when she said yes,” he said and grinned. “Just wish we had a little more money coming in. With the cottage and all—well, it’s going to be a near thing.” He looked down at the dog and brightened even more. “But if I can sell a painting every fortnight or two, it’ll help matters considerably. And if I can just get this awful business with Caroline smoothed out, I’ll be happy.”

“Well, if you’re happy, I’m happy,” said the dog. Still, he was doubtful. To him, it seemed like a risky proposition. But he was just a dog—what did he know?

By this time, they had reached the top of the village. Mrs. Crook was out in the yard at Belle Green, calling for Rascal, so the dog excused himself and trotted home to see what was wanted.

Jeremy himself didn’t have far to go, only to the Llewellyns’ house next door, where he was boarding. He let himself in at the back, for, like the other homes in the village, High Green Gate was never locked. Inside, it was dim and silent. Mr. Llewellyn had gone to Carlisle two days before to visit his ailing father, and Mrs. Llewellyn was probably out calling. She went out a lot in the late afternoons, and often had tea with her cousin, who was the housekeeper at the vicarage. The two of them seemed to be very close.

Still feeling unhappy about the ugly scene at Tidmarsh Manor, Jeremy wandered through the quiet rooms. High Green Gate was a pleasant house, situated on the shoulder of the hill with a view of the buildings on the other side of the street below, the joinery and the smithy and Rose Cottage and the shop that Miss Potter (in one of her books) had called Ginger and Pickles. But while the house itself was nice enough, even Jeremy, boy that he was, could see that Mrs. Llewellyn was not a careful housekeeper. The sitting room was littered with newspapers, odd bits of clothing, a plate with a stale slice of bread left on it, and various cats, most of them napping. One, an orange tabby named Treacle, had recently given birth to kittens, and was curled contentedly on a pillow, nursing them. They were being watched by a rather plump calico with an orange-and-white bib. When Jeremy came in, she looked up and meowed.

“I’ve been waiting for you, Jeremy.” It was Tabitha Twitchit.

Jeremy sat down beside her and rubbed her ears. “What are you doing here, Tabitha?” he asked. “You belong across the street at Mrs. Lythecoe’s, don’t you?” A silly question, that, since the village cats belonged wherever they happened to sit down, which could be anywhere.

“I dropped in on my way home from Bosworth’s birthday party to visit Treacle and her new kittens,” Tabitha said, purring warmly. “I brought her a bit of birthday cake.” Indeed she had, for if you looked closely, you could see traces of crumbs on the pillow where Treacle was nursing her babies. The kittens were too young to eat cake, but Treacle had enjoyed it very much.

Jeremy smiled at the mother cat and her kittens. “Nice,” he said. Thinking out loud, he added, “Maybe Mrs. Llewellyn will let Deidre and me have one of those kittens when we’re married and living in Slatestone Cottage. I’m sure there will be mice. There always are.” He was right, for every cottage in the village was staffed by at least one tribe of mice, and possibly two. A cat was a prudent investment.

“You and Deirdre are getting married!” Tabitha exclaimed. “Why, that’s wonderful news, Jeremy! I’m delighted to hear it.” And she jumped into his lap and began to purr quite loudly, rubbing her face against his arm.

Jeremy chuckled and stroked her. “I guess it’s time I thought about getting some tea. Mrs. Llewellyn will probably be home late, and I’m hungry.”

At the mention of Mrs. Llewellyn, Tabitha stopped purring. “I found something a minute ago,” she said. “I got up on the table to look out the window, and I saw something. I want you to have a look at it. Please.” And with that, she put out a claw and snagged his sleeve.

Jeremy disengaged the claw. “Silly old Tabitha,” he said affectionately. “But now you must excuse me. I’m going to find something to eat.”

“Not just yet,” Tabitha insisted, and jumped to the floor, planting herself firmly in front of him. “It’s over here, on the table in front of the window.”

Jeremy frowned. It looked as if the cat was trying to get his attention. What was this all about? Was she wanting to show him something? The next minute, she had leapt up on the small writing table that sat in front of the window. She put her paw on a piece of paper. “This.” Her whiskers twitched briskly. “Read this.”

Now, it must be admitted that our Tabitha is not much of a reader. Unlike Thackeray the guinea pig and Bailey the badger, she does not live in a library or spend her days and nights with her pretty nose in a book. However, she had been raised from kittenhood by Mrs. Abigail Tolliver, who lived in Anvil Cottage before Sarah Barwick came there. Mrs. Tolliver used to read aloud, and Tabitha loved to sit on her mistress’ shoulder and follow the words on the page as Mrs. Tolliver said them. In this way, Tabitha had learnt to read printed words, although her vocabulary was limited to the words that occurred most often. She was especially expert in words like the and and. So whilst she had an idea of what might be written on this particular paper, she wasn’t sure.

“Read this!” she commanded again, louder. “And tell me what it says.”

Jeremy frowned. “I don’t read people’s letters,” he said. “That’s against all the rules.” But his glance strayed to the paper, just the same, because the cat was so insistent, and—now that he looked at it—this one was so odd. It was written in pencil, on a piece of plain paper that had one rough edge, as though it had been creased and torn from a larger piece of paper.

His eyes caught the first words. “What the devil?” he muttered. And then he did something he knew he should not do, should never do, in any circumstance.

He read it.

And then he sat dumbfounded, for he didn’t know what to do.