“You do take such wonderful care of her,” Minnie returned; “she tells me at night of so many things you’ve done for her.”
“She’s a lovely, good child,” Mrs. Hansen answered, quite unmoved by the flattery.
She led Minnie through a narrow red-carpeted passage into her kitchen, pride and joy of her life, filled with sun and sweet air, utterly clean, gleaming and neat. From the window she pointed out the quiet baby, sitting on the back steps, leaning her head against a post, languid, thoughtful, quite contented. Beside her sat an immense cat.
“Why!” cried Minnie. “That—can it possibly be Michael?”
“Yes, ma’am, it’s your cat. Mr. Petersen took it after your sister left.”
Minnie looked down with tears in her eyes at her long-lost darling, sleek and fat still, but old; his buccaneer swagger gone, his insolent eyes dim. She touched his head, with the furry skin so tightly drawn over the round little skull; but he never stirred. He didn’t know her, didn’t care for her.
Then she took Sandra by the hand and led her off, out of the fresh air and the quiet garden, back to the hotel, where she got her into bed in their hot little room and read to her, hovered over her, flooded her with sympathy.
“You just needed Mother, didn’t you, baby?” she said. “Mother knows what her little girl wants!”