“Yes, I did. From life,” Molly said, smiling at the row of kittens tenderly.
“From life? Nonsense! How could you get cats to pose for you? And they are too, too funnily human!”
“Didn’t get the cats to pose. But my aunts did. I flatter myself I have hit off the characteristics of the dears.”
“Your aunts?” gasped Beth, horrified.
“Yes, my dear. All seven of them.”
“There are seven of the cats,” admitted Beth, weakly. “But you never deliberately caricatured your aunts like that?”
“They’re not caricatures. My aunts are regular tabbies, anyway; they don’t mind. They begin to look upon my talent for drawing cats as a ‘gift.’ You see, Bethesda,” said Molly, laughing again now, “I can draw cats, and I can’t draw folks. If I ever attempt your portrait, you’ll have to appear as a cat. Whatever artistic talent I have, I’ll never be a portrait painter. So I told the aunts I wanted to draw them in black and white, and they all sat for me.”
Beth was as much amazed as she was amused.
“The grave looking cat at the end, with spectacles and a book, is Aunt Celia; the next with the knitting and goloshes on her feet is Aunt Catherine. She always either wears overshoes or carries them. Auntie Cora is the cute little blue kitten with the fan.
“Aunt Carrie stands there in her wedding finery—she still has hopes. She is engaged to a sea captain who comes home for three weeks about once in three years. Doesn’t she look too sweet for anything? Aunt Charlotte is the sly, plump one—you know she’s just lapped up all the cream. Aunt Charlotte manages to get the best of everything.