“Philippa says,” continued Maisie, still with her eyes fixed on the kitten, “that you’ve found a stray kitten. And we lost a kitten—a grey one—in Upwell, and Aunt Katharine said I might come and see if this is it.”
Face to face with the kitten at last, Maisie began to lose confidence in her memory. After all, it was a long time since she had seen it, and there were a great many grey cats in the world, and Dennis had always declared that it would be impossible to know it again. Her serious gaze rested on the kitten, Becky’s on her face, and Philippa waited impatiently in the background for the decision.
“Well,” she said at last; “is it it, or isn’t it?”
“The thing is,” began Maisie, “has it one white paw?”
Alas for Becky! She knew it had, only too well. Lifting it a little away from her, there was the fatal white paw plainly visible to Maisie’s searching glance.
“And then,” she continued, having observed this with a grave nod, “has it very nice little coaxing affectionate ways?”
Becky nodded with a full heart. She could not trust herself to speak.
“Does it purr much?” pursued Maisie. “More than other cats?”
Again Becky nodded. She had clenched her teeth long ago, but she began to be afraid that nothing would prevent her crying.
“May I have it in my arms?” asked Maisie.