"It's like one of those strings they unwind at parties with a present at the end of it.
And Spunk is the present," she added, when she had extricated the small gray cat.

"And you shall hold him," she finished, graciously entrusting the sleepy kitten to Mrs.Stetson's unwilling arms.
"But, I--it--I can't--Billy! I don't like that name," blurted out the indignant little lady with as much warmth as she ever allowed herself to show.

"It must be changed to--to 'Thomas.'" "Changed?
Spunk's name changed ?" demanded Billy, in a horrified voice.
"Why, Aunt Hannah, it can't be changed; it's HIS, you know." Then she laughed merrily.

"'Thomas,' indeed! Why, you old dear!--just suppose I should ask YOU to change your name! Now _I_ like 'Helen Clarabella' lots better than 'Hannah,' but I'm not going to ask you to change that--and I'm going to love you just as well, even if you are 'Hannah'-- see if I don't! And you'll love Spunk, too, I'm sure you will.

Now watch me find the end of this snarl!" And she danced over to the dumbfounded little lady in the big chair, gave her an affectionate kiss, and then attacked the tangled mass of black with skilful fingers.
"But, I--you--oh, my grief and conscience!" finished the little woman whose name was not Helen Clarabella.--"Oh, my grief and conscience," according to Bertram, was Aunt Hannah's deadliest swear-word.
In Aunt Hannah's black silk lap Spunk stretched luxuriously, and blinked sleepy eyes; then with a long purr of content he curled himself for another nap--still Spunk.
It was some time after luncheon that day that Bertram heard a knock at his studio door.