“Accident,” confirmed Melvina. “The third tragedy is on its way.”
“I must say I don’t in the least know what you are talking about,” I remarked acidly. Melvina is very trying and carries an element of conviction in her tones that makes one feel as if she is well informed.
“Accident. The kitten, you know. The black kitten,” volunteered one of the girls hurriedly. “It died and Melvina says—” her eyes got larger and she lowered her voice—“Melvina says—it is a sign!”
“Oh, the kitten! What nonsense!”
“He was not sick,” said Melvina in a measured and undisturbed way. “He was not sick at all. He was, in fact, the healthiest of the whole batch. But—he died.”
And would you believe it I felt gooseflesh coming out on my arms? Melvina was never intended for as matter-of-fact a profession as that of a nurse; her talents are wasted.
“Nonsense,” I said again, and repeated it. “Nonsense.”
“It is a sign,” remarked Melvina in that quietly positive way. She reached quite casually into her capacious pocket and drew out before our very eyes the kitten. It was, to be sure, dead and quite stiff and stark. All of us shrank back at the sight of the poor little black body with its stiff claws outstretched and its mouth open and grinning, but Melvina regarded it familiarly. “It was a perfectly healthy kitten,” she went on, in the manner of the scientist who weighs facts impartially. “It died. All at once. Just died. No reasons for it. But it died. It is a sign.”
A little gasp went over the group and I found my tongue.
“Melvina Smith,” I said, “take that kitten out into the orchard and bury it. Then change your uniform and scrub your hands with antiseptic soap. How long have you been carrying that thing around? Not that it matters,” I went on hastily as Melvina opened her too-gifted mouth to reply. “Don’t ever let me catch you doing such a thing again. Moreover, if I hear of you saying such foolish and—yes, wicked things again I shall have Miss Dotty give you fifty demerits and that means no Sundays off for the rest of the summer.”