out for several days. He made trouble, too, because when he was not burning there was a nasty little smell of gas in the kitchen at night, which gave Fourchette a headache. The gas-man came and fixed him so that he had to burn whether he wanted to or not. This made him grumble more than ever.
Then something happened that taught the Pilot Light a lesson.
One winter night there was great anxiety in the pot-closet. Ferdinand, the mouse, was grown—up now, and he and his wife Isabella had a family of baby mice. If you have ever seen very young baby mice you know how pretty and quick they are, and can understand that their parents think highly of them. And one of these young mice had got bronchitis. It had gone down into the cellar, which was forbidden, and had got its feet wet in one of those puddles that appear after a heavy rain, and now it was very ill. It was very ill indeed: it had a high fever, its soft fur was all rumpled, its poor little pointed nose was burning hot, its pink patty-paws were shivering cold, it had a pain in its chest and could hardly breathe. It was very patient and lay without complaining in the custard cup that Ferdinand
