“How long have you lived here, mother?” she asked abruptly, after a silence of some minutes.
“Seven years, Margaret; seven years come fall.”
“Seven years! seven years, mother! I should think you would have died of solitude long ago. You haven’t any neighbors, have you?”
“None very near. None that I go to see. I do not care to visit. Tabby, here, is company for me. Ain’t you, Tabby?”
The large cat, that was lying at the other end of the room, rose at this appeal, and after stretching herself in a way to show her extraordinary size, walked slowly across the room, and submitted herself, with an appearance of pleasure, to the old lady’s caresses.
“See, Margaret; she answers for herself,” as the cat, in recognition of the attention shown her, purred loudly.
“I don’t know but you are right in choosing such a friend,” said Margaret, after a thoughtful pause. “She will treat you well as long as you do not abuse her. That cannot be said of all human friends. Yet I should not be able to live six months as you do, mother. My temperament needs excitement.”
“I fear it has not always brought you good, Margaret,” said the old lady, who could ill comprehend the turbulent spirit which her daughter inherited from a father of mixed French and Irish blood.
One afternoon a week later, Margaret, after turning restlessly for some minutes, asked her mother if she had not a newspaper in the house.
“I get tired looking at the cat,” she exclaimed; “I want something else to think of.”