“I shall have to go away, and give him a chance to eat when I am not by,” thought Mary. And this she did. From her chamber window she could just manage to watch the hole under the ell. After a long time she was rewarded by seeing the cat’s head emerge from the hole. For a minute he stared around with wild eyes, his body ready to spring. But finding himself safe, he hungrily seized the meat and retreated with it under the house. Presently he came out again, licking his chops eagerly, and began to lap the milk, retreating every now and then as if some fancied sound alarmed him. The poor creature’s sides were so thin that he resembled a cut-out pasteboard cat. His tail was like that of a long black rat. He seemed to be wearing a collar about his neck.
“He must have been somebody’s pet cat,” said Mary to herself. “I must try to tame him.”
But it took a great deal of time and patience to make friends with the poor black pussy, which had evidently been greatly frightened and almost starved. Day after day Mary set out the saucer of milk and a bit of meat. And each time she did so, she talked kindly to the cat hidden under the house, hoping that he would come out while she was still there. But it was many days before she got more than the mournful “Miaou!” in answer to her coaxing words.
At last, one day, after waiting a long time beside the saucer of milk and a particularly savory plate of chicken-bones, Mary was rewarded by seeing the cat timidly thrust out his head while she was talking. He drew back almost immediately. But finally the smell of the chicken tempted him beyond caution, and he got up courage to face this stranger who seemed to show no evil intentions. He snatched a chicken-bone and vanished. But this was the beginning of friendship.
The next day the cat came out almost immediately when Mary called him. Presently he would take things from her hand, timidly at first, then with increasing confidence, when he found that nothing dreadful happened. But still Mary had no chance to examine the collar, on which she saw that there were some words engraved.
At last came a day when the cat let Mary stroke his fur, now grown much sleeker and covering a plumper body. And from that time it became easier to make friends. Soon Mary held the creature on her lap for a triumphant minute. And the next day she had a chance to examine the engraved collar. On the silver plate was traced,—“Caliban. Home of N. Corliss. Crowfield.”
“He was Aunt Nan’s cat!” cried Mary in excitement. And she ran into the house with the news.
Mrs. Corliss was astonished. “We must make Caliban feel at home again,” she said. “He must have had a terrible fright. But we will help him to forget that before long.”
In a little while Mary succeeded in coaxing Caliban into the house. And once inside he did not behave like a stranger. For a few moments, indeed, he hesitated, cringing as if in fear of what might happen. But presently he raised his head, sniffed, and, looking neither to right nor left, marched straight toward the library. Mary tiptoed after him, in great excitement. Caliban went directly to the big armchair beside the desk, sniffed a moment at the cushion, then jumped up and curled himself down for a nap, giving a great sigh of contentment. From that moment he accepted partnership with Mary in the room and all its contents.
“Well, I never!” cried Mrs. Corliss, who had followed softly. “The cat is certainly at home. I wonder how he ever happened to go away? I suppose we shall never know.”