She took it gently on to her knee, but the kitten had quite forgotten its babyhood, and thinking her an utter stranger, soon wriggled back to its mistress.
“It doesn’t remember me,” said Maisie rather sadly, “and yet I nursed it so very often.”
“It is yours, then?” said Philippa.
“Yes,” said Maisie. “I really and truly do believe it is, and I’m very glad.”
She glanced at Becky as she spoke, and to her surprise saw that her eyes were full of tears.
“What’s the matter?” she asked; “does your back hurt you?”
Becky shook her head. “’Tain’t that,” she managed to whisper. “I meant not to cry, but I don’t seem able to keep it back.”
She stopped and struggled with her tears, tore away the kitten, which clung to her with its little claws, and almost threw it into Maisie’s lap.
“You’re welcome to it,” she sobbed out, “and you’ll treat it kind.”
At this rough usage the kitten gave a tiny mew of complaint, and Maisie herself was quite as much disturbed. She looked round at Philippa for help, stroked the kitten nervously, and stammered: “But it isn’t mine any longer—I gave it away; didn’t you know?”