“Meow!” answered Miss Puss, and back she ran into the studio. Mrs. Blake followed, and just in time, for the corner of the rug was blazing merrily, and Lydia was still sound, sound asleep.
It took only a moment to lift Lydia out of danger and to stamp down the flame, and luckily Mr. Blake came home in time to help. Lydia was neither frightened nor hurt, and indeed rather enjoyed the excitement, while every one was so proud of Miss Puss that they couldn’t praise and pet her too much.
After dinner, Mother, and Father, with Lydia on his lap, sat watching Miss Puss enjoy, as a reward, a saucer of cream for her supper.
“We must give her some fish to-morrow,” said Mr. Blake. “That’s what pussies like to eat, eh, Lydia?”
“Every time I see that hole in the rug I shall remember what Miss Puss did the very first night Lydia came to us,” said Mother, leaning forward to give Lydia’s hair an affectionate smooth.
“We’ll write a poem about it,” said Mr. Blake.
“This hole is to remind the Blakes
That for their own and Lydia’s sakes,
Miss Puss must dine on richest cream
And little silver canned sardine.”
“That’s lovely!” interrupted Lydia, clapping her hands, “and here’s some more:
“Because she saved me from burning up,
She is better than any doggy pup.”
“Well,” said Mr. Blake, holding the satisfied Lydia off at arm’s length to look at her, “why didn’t you tell me before that you were a poetess? You’ve given me a shock.” And to her delight he fanned himself as if quite overcome.