Mr. Morton, already in a very bad humour, partly at the effects of the cooling medicine, partly at the suspension of his breakfast, stalked into the parlour. His tea-the second cup already poured out, was cold. He turned towards the muffin, and missed the lost piece at a glance.
“Who has been at my muffin?” said he, in a voice that seemed to Sidney like the voice he had always supposed an ogre to possess. “Have you, Master Sidney?”
“N—n—no, sir; indeed, sir!”
“Then Tom has. Where is he?”
“Gone up stairs for his handkerchief, sir.”
“Did he take my muffin? Speak the truth!”
“No, sir; it was the—it was the—the cat, sir!”
“O you wicked, wicked boy!” cried Mrs. Morton, who had followed her husband into the parlour; “the cat kittened last night, and is locked up in the coal-cellar!”
“Come here, Master Sidney! No! first go down, Margaret, and see if the cat is in the cellar: it might have got out, Mrs. M.,” said Mr. Morton, just even in his wrath.
Mrs. Morton went, and there was a dead silence, except indeed in Sidney’s heart, which beat louder than a clock ticks. Mr. Morton, meanwhile, went to a little cupboard;—while still there, Mrs. Morton returned: the cat was in the cellar—the key turned on her—in no mood to eat muffins, poor thing!—she would not even lap her milk! like her mistress, she had had a very bad time!