“It was actually poor dear Lionel, one of Lady Dudley’s last kittens,” continued Miss Jane, “and what do you think had happened to him?”
“Was he caught in a trap!” asked Eileen.
“Oh, far worse,” in a tearful voice. “Mary and I are feeling terribly upset about it.”
“Yes; quite upset,” came the sad echo.
“Has he singed the end of his tail?” asked Jack with due solemnity, “or has Lady Dudley been giving him a bad time because he stole her milk as usual?”
“Worse, my dear Jack, worse still,” with a mournful shake of both heads. “He has fallen into a barrel of tar.” And the two little ladies stood still suddenly, to further impress the terrible nature of the calamity.
“Oh, Christmas!” exclaimed Jack, unable to resist laughing, while Eileen asked most anxiously, “But he got out again?”
“Yes, my dear, but think of the poor darling’s condition!”
“What a home-coming!” said Jack irrelevantly.
“He was coated all over with tar,” went on Miss Jane, now addressing Eileen only, and ignoring Jack with contempt, “and he had tried to clean himself, and of course, in licking his fur, had swallowed a lot of tar.”