Mary-'Gusta, standing in the doorway, gazed after her pet.
“I hope there's no dogs around here,” she said. “It would be dreadful if there was a dog.”
Isaiah tried to reassure her. “Oh, I cal'late there ain't no dog nigh enough to do any harm,” he said; “besides, most cats can run fast enough to get out of the way.”
The child shook her head. “I didn't mean that,” she said. “I meant it would be dreadful for the dog. David doesn't have a mite of patience with dogs. He doesn't wait to see if they're nice ones or not, he just goes for 'em and then—Oh! He most always goes for 'em. When he has kittens he ALWAYS does.”
Mr. Chase's reply to this illuminating disclosure was that he wanted to know.
“Yes,” said Mary-'Gusta, “David doesn't take to dogs, some way. Why don't cats like dogs, Mr. Chase?”
Isaiah said that he cal'lated 'twas the nature of the critters not to. Mary-'Gusta agreed with him.
“Natures are queer things, ain't they?” she said, solemnly. “I guess everybody has a nature, cats and all. Mrs. Hobbs says my nature is a contrary one. What's your kind, Mr. Chase?
“Do you suppose,” she said, a few moments later, when the cook and steward had shown symptoms of doing something beside lean against the sink and whistle, “do you suppose you could get along for a few minutes while I went up and dressed my dolls?”
Isaiah turned to stare at her.