There was no bitter in the breakfast presently served by the smiling Kathleen: fragrant, delicious coffee, richly creamed and sugared; the sweetest of butter, elegant hot rolls, a tender beefsteak—all done to a turn.
Floy had not thought of hunger till food was offered her, but to her surprise found no lack of appetite for the tempting fare set before her.
She had hardly begun her meal when, at a whining sound, Kathleen opened the door leading into the hall and admitted a curly lap-dog as white as snow, a beautiful little creature.
“Why, Frisky, you’re late till yere breakfast the day!” said Kathleen, stroking it gently. “See, miss, isn’t he a purty crayther? his coat’s so fine and soft and glossy!”
“Like floss silk,” said Floy. “Is he the Madame’s pet?”
“Yes, miss, that he is, the darlint! an’ we all make much of him, an’ it’s spoilt he is intirely, the crayther. He’s come fur his breakfast, miss; he’s been used to ating in here with his misthress, an’ niver a bit will he ate in the kitchen, such a grand gintleman as he is; so will ye plaze to excuse us if I bring his mate in here and feed him afore ye?”
“Certainly,” returned Floy, with a smile. “I should like to see him eat.”
“Thank ye, miss,” said Kathleen, setting two more chairs up to the table, of one of which Frisky instantly took possession, then whisking into the kitchen and back again, bringing a plate of meat quite as carefully prepared as the one she had set before Floy.
“You see it’s kapin’ it hot for him I’ve been, miss,” she explained, seating herself in the other chair and beginning to cut the meat up into small bits. “It must be hot, and cut fine, or he won’t touch it; and, more nor that, he’ll not ate a mouthful if ye don’t sing to him all the time.”