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: