"They have very deep feelings and folks ought to know it. Now, listen,
little girl. I had two maltese kittens once. They were sisters and
loved each other better than any girl sisters _you_ ever saw. One of the
kittens got caught in a trap and we had to kill her. And the other one
went round mewing and couldn't be comforted. She pined away, that kitty
did, and in three days she died. Now I know that for a fact."
"Poor child!" said Edith, much touched. "_She_ wasn't cold-hearted, I'll
tell mamma about that."
"Well, if she doesn't like 'em perhaps it wouldn't do any good; but
while you're about it you might tell her of two tortoise-shell cats I
had. They were sisters too. Whiff had four kittens and Puff had one and
lost it. And the way Whiff comforted Puff! She took her right home into
her own basket and they brought up the four kittens together. Wasn't
that lovely?"
"Oh, wasn't it, though?" said Edith. "Cats have hearts, I always knew
they did."
"That shows you're a sensible little girl," returned the old lady
approvingly. "But you haven't told me yet what your name is?"
"Edith Dunlee."
"I knew 'twas Dunlee--that's a Scotch name; but I didn't know about the
Edith. Well, Edith, so you've been to see the gold mine? Pokerish place,
isn't it? I hear they're going to bring down the engine from the big
plant and try to start it up again."
Edith had no idea what she meant by the "big plant," so made no reply.
Mrs. McQuilken went back to the subject of cats.
"Did you know the Egyptians used to worship cats? Well, sometimes they
did. And when their cats died they went into mourning for them."
"How queer!"
"It does seem so, but it's just as you look at it, Edith. Cats are a
sight of company. I didn't care so much about them or about birds
either when my husband was alive and my little children, but now--"
Again she paused, and this time she did not go on again. Some one out of
doors laughed; it was Jimmy Dunlee, and the mocking-bird took up the
merry sound and echoed it to perfection.
"Doesn't that seem human?" cried Mrs. McQuilken. And really it did. It
was exactly the laugh of a human boy, though it came from the throat of
a tiny bird.
"My little boys, Pitt and Roscoe, liked to hear him do that," said Mrs.
McQuilken.
Edith observed that she did not say "my boyoes." "Pitt, the one that
died in Japan, doted on the mocking-bird. The other boy, Roscoe, was all
bound up in the canary."
"Does the canary sing?"
"Yes, he's a grand singer. Just you wait till he pipes up. You'll be
surprised. But you remember what I was saying a little while ago about
your mother? That zebra kitty--"
Before she could finish the sentence Edith heard the warning tinkle of
the tea-bell, and sprang up suddenly, exclaiming: "Good-by,
Mrs.--good-by, _madam_, I must go now. You've been very kind, thank you.
Good-by."
And out of the door and away she skipped, leaving her hostess, who had
not heard the bell, to wonder at her haste. "She went like a shot off a
shovel," said the good lady, taking up her knitting-work. "She seemed to
be such a well-mannered little girl, too! What got into her all at once?
She acted as if she was 'possessed of the fox.'"
This is a common expression in Japan, and naturally Mrs. McQuilken had
caught it up, as she had caught up other odd things in her travels. She
was something of a mocking-bird in her way, was the captain's widow.
"I've taken quite a fancy to Edith," she added, "a minute more and I
should have offered to give her the zebra kitty. But there, I shouldn't
want to make a fuss in the family. That woman, her mother, to think of
her talking so hard about cats! She doesn't _look_ like that kind of a
woman. I'm surprised."
Edith ran back to her mother breathless.
"Oh, mamma, I was having such a good time! And she didn't appear to be
'annoyed,' she talked just as fast all the time! But the bell rang while
she was saying something and I had to run."
"Had to run? I hope you were not abrupt, my child?"
"Oh, no, mamma, not at all. I said 'good-by' twice, and thanked her and
told her she had been very kind. That wasn't abrupt, was it? But oh,
that kitty's tail! I forget how many inches and a quarter longer than
any other kitty's tail in this state! And they are not cold-hearted,--I
mean cats,--I promised to tell you."
Here followed an account of the two cat-sisters, who loved each other
better than girl-sisters.
"And think of one of them dying of grief, the sweet thing! Human people
don't die of grief, do they, mamma?"
"Not often, Edith. Such instances have been known, but they are very
rare."
"Well," struck in wee Lucy, who had been listening to the touching
story, "well, I guess some folks would! Bab would die for grief of me,
and I would die for grief of Bab; we _said_ we would!"
She made this absurd little speech with tears in her eyes; but Kyzie
and Edith dared not laugh, for mamma's forefinger was raised. Mamma
never allowed them to ridicule the friendship of the two little girls,
who had made believe for more than a year that they were "aunt" and
"niece." The play might be rather foolish, but the love was very sweet
and true.
Lucy had been thinking all day of Barbara and longing for her arrival. A
full hour before it was time for the stage she went a little way up the
mountain with Jimmy, and they took turns gazing down the winding, dusty
road through a spy-glass. "I shan't wait here any longer. What's the
use?" declared Jimmy.
"She's coming! she's coming! I saw her first!" was Lucy's glad cry. And
she ran down the mountain in haste, though the stage, a grayish green
one, was just turning a curve at least a mile away.
"Well, you _have_ been parted a good while," said Uncle James, as the
two dear friends met and embraced on the coach steps; "a day and a
half!"
"I'd have 'most died if I'd waited any longer," said Aunt Lucy, putting
her arm around her niece and leading her up the gravel path with the
pink "old hen and chickens" on either side.
The little girls were entirely unlike, and the contrast was pleasant to
see. Lucy was very fair, with light curling hair:--
"Blue were her eyes as the fairy flax,
Her cheeks like the dawn of day,
And her bosom white as the hawthorn buds
That ope in the month of May."
Bab was quite as pretty, but in another way. She had brilliant dark eyes
and straight dark hair with a satin gloss. She was half a head shorter
than her "auntie," though their ages were about the same. People liked
to see them together, for they were always sociable and happy, and loved
each other "dearilee."
"Oh, Bab," said wee Lucy, "I had such a _loneness_ without you!"
"I had a loneness too, Auntie Lucy. Seemed as if the time never would
go."
And then the dark head and the fair head met again for more kisses,
while both the mammas looked on and said, in low tones and with smiles,
as they always did:--
"How sweet! Now we shall hear them singing about the place like two
little birds."
This was Tuesday. The days went on happily until Thursday afternoon,
when "the Dunlee party," which always included the Hales and Sanfords,
set forth up the mountain for a sight of the famous "air-castle." Of
course Nate was with them, but this time not as a guide; the guide was
Uncle James.
The road, though rather steep, was not a hard one. Mr. Dunlee had his
alpenstock, and Uncle James walked beside him, holding little Eddo by
the hand. Bab and Lucy, or "the little two," as Aunt Vi called them,
were side by side as usual, and Lucy had asked Bab to repeat the story
of "Little Bo-Peep" in French, for Nate wanted to hear it. Bab could
speak French remarkably well.
"Petit beau bouton
A perde ses moutons,
Il ne sais pas que les a pris.
O laissez les tranquille!
Ils se retournerons,
Chacun sa queue apres lui."
Mrs. Dunlee and Kyzie were just behind the children, and while Bab was
repeating the verse Kyzie said in a low tone:--
"Oh, mamma, let me walk with you all the way, please. There's something
I want to talk about."
She looked so earnest that Mrs. Dunlee wondered not a little what it was
her eldest daughter had to say.
V