“W-w-what little one? There isn’t any there.”
“Don’t you see my little mouse?” he asked, impatiently.
“A-a-a mouse!” exclaimed Titus, “je-whillikens! I don’t like mice.”
“He’s dead,” said the child, softly; “a strange pussy killed him—not our pussy.”
“H-h-how can you feed him if he’s dead?” pursued Titus, with boyish callousness.
“But he has a little ghost,” said the strange child, gently shaking his head, “and I carry it here—have you had enough, mousie?” and he tenderly lowered his head to the table.
“Yes,” he said, softly speaking to himself; then he took up the ghost, wrapped it in his handkerchief, and put it back in his little bosom.
The Judge felt a strange misgiving. Another animal enthusiast—and this one worse than Titus, for Titus had little imagination, and interested himself only with the live bodies of animals, not their dead shades.
The mouse episode over, the child again became sleepy. Titus, who had managed to dispose of some ice cream himself, jammed the boy’s fur cap down on his head, and guided his steps behind the Judge to the door of the restaurant.
There the child sank down on the doorstep.