“Thank you kindly, miss,” said Becky, but she did not look so very pleased as Philippa had hoped, and she began to think she was not perhaps a grateful little girl. What should she say next, she wondered, and just then her eye fell on the kitten, which had jumped down to examine the parcels, and was patting them softly.
“Oh, you’ve got a cat!” she exclaimed. “Not a very pretty one, is it?”
An affectionate light came into Becky’s eyes as she looked at her kitten.
“I call it pretty,” she said; “but then I’m ever so fond of it, and it’s fond of me too.”
“I’ve got a cat at home,” said Philippa, “a pretty white one called Blanche, but I don’t think she’s fond of me, though I give her all sorts of things. How did you make yours fond of you?”
“I don’t know,” said Becky. “I don’t give her much, so ’tain’t that. Sometimes she don’t get much to eat for ever so long. I expect, though, she knows what a lot I think of her, and that’s where it is!”
Philippa looked thoughtfully from the kitten to its mistress.
“I don’t believe,” she said, “that if I were to be ever so fond of Blanche, she would care much for me. Everybody’s cats seem nicer than mine.”
“I can’t think how I ever got on without this one,” said Becky. “She’s a loving little thing, and that funny in her ways! Often and often she’ll make me laugh with her tricks, even when my back’s bad. She’s a real comfort, like Dan said she would be—the greatest comfort I’ve got.”
The greatest comfort! The words made Philippa think of Maisie and her grey kitten’s loss.