Ethel sighed herself. It was becoming monotonous. She rose and went into the kitchen, feeling her way cautiously through the dark sitting room, yet stumbling over a foot stool.
It looked to me as if we would be forced to take turns sitting outside of Minerva’s bedroom door, guarding her against the horrors of a country night, but after a time Ethel returned to me and told me that “Miss Pussy” had come in for dinner and that Minerva was perfectly happy and was going to take her to bed with her.
Soon after that she retired, and, being tired out with the labours and tribulations of the day, she slept like a log all night, and we were enabled to enjoy our repose undisturbed.
I rose early next morning and sang gaily, and I sang with a purpose. It might disturb Mrs. Vernon’s last nap, but it could not fail to make Minerva realize that she was not alone in the country, whereas if she had risen first and had seen nothing in the world but the great silent mountain she might have fled incontinently to the city.
When she came down to the kitchen, carrying the cat in her arms, I had already started the fire.
“Good morning, Minerva,” said I. “I haven’t built a kitchen fire since I was a small boy, and I wanted to see if I could do it. Excellent draught. Did you sleep well?”
“Yas’r.”
The laconic answer was in itself a symptom that she felt better.
“And the cat came back?” said I.
“Yas’r.”