Mrs. Champney was putting the very last things into her bag, and Mrs.
Maxwell and Mrs. Deane sat watching her. The room in which she had lived
for nearly four years was already strange and unfamiliar. The silver
toilet articles were gone from the bureau. The cupboard door stood open,
showing empty hooks and shelves. The little water colors of Italian
scenes had vanished from the walls, and the books from the table. All
those things were gone which had so charmed and interested Mrs. Maxwell
and Mrs. Deane.
They were old ladies, and to them Jessica Champney at fifty was not old
at all. With her gayety, her lively interest in life, and her dainty
clothes, she seemed to them altogether young--girlish, even, in her
enthusiastic moments, and always interesting. They loved and admired
her, and were heavy-hearted at her going.
“You’ve forgotten the pussy cat, Jessica,” Mrs. Maxwell gravely
remarked.
“Oh, so I have!” said Mrs. Champney.
Hanging beside the bureau was a black velvet kitten with a strip of
sandpaper fastened across its back, and underneath it the inscription: