One of the children in the village owned a pretty cat, which was the beloved of her heart, and responded to the petting which it received with all the love a cat can feel and show.
The house in which this child lived was one of those destroyed by fire, and, though the inhabitants had escaped the intended massacre, no one had thought of the household pet. Little Golden-leaf had sobbed herself to sleep, fretting for its loss the night before; and her mother consoled her by saying that pussie had gone mousing into the jungle, and would come home when she had caught enough.
About the middle of the day, a prolonged feline wail was heard, and the little one called out, "My puss, my puss, I hear her crying for me!"
In another moment the poor cat was seen limping painfully along, leaving a track of blood along its path. Each of her four paws was cut off, and the wretched creature was trying to crawl back to its friends upon its stumps of legs, with the fillet from a dacoit's head tied to its neck, to which a sharp stone was attached. It made its tortured way through a tiny gap in the stockade, and tried to rub itself against its little mistress's legs in the old affectionate manner, in joy at having found her again.
Little Golden-leaf burst into pitiful grief.
"Your father will put it out of its pain," said her mother.
"No, no, no!" sobbed the child, "he shall not put his soul in danger for me or my puss. The good Englishman will cure my puss, and its little paws shall grow again. Won't they?" cried she, turning to Ralph.
"No, my pretty; it would be kinder to kill poor pussie at once," said he.
"No, no!" reiterated the tender-hearted little girl,—"No, no! I cannot bear it. Make pussie well, good kind man."