"Oh dear yes, my
dear, thank you, so it is; but the cat--my poor pussy. No, my dear,
that's the bantams--very choice. My poor little Henry had them given
to him when he was six years old--the old ones I mean--and I've never
parted with them. 'Take them all,' he said--so good; but, oh dear.
Tit! Tit! Tittie! He was playing with her just now. Has anyone
seen a tabby cat? Bless me, there it goes! So dreadful! It takes
one's breath away, and all my things. Oh! where is he?"
"All right," said Harold. "There are your boxes, and here's your
cat," showing a striped head under his coat. "Now say what you want
to-night, and I'll send for the rest."
She looked wildly about, uttering an incoherent inventory, which
Harold cut short by handing over articles to the porter according to
his own judgment, and sweeping her into the carriage, returning as I
was picking up the odds and ends that had been shed on the way. "You
have had a considerable charge," said I, between amusement and
dismay.
"Poor old thing, comfort her! She never saw a train before, and is
regularly overset."
He put me into the carriage, emptied his pockets of the cat and other
trifles, and vanished in the twilight, the old lady gaspingly calling
after him, and I soothing her by explaining that he always liked
walking home to stretch his legs, while she hoped I was sure, and
that it was not want of room.
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