“Now,” he asked, “what shall I do next?”
“Wind all the clocks. I can’t endure a dead clock. While you’re doing it, I’ll get out the remnants of our lunch and see what there is in the pantry that is still edible.”
In the lunch basket which the erratic ramifications of the road leading to Judson Centre had obliged them to carry, there was still, fortunately, a supply of sandwiches and fruit. A hasty search through the nearest pantry revealed jelly, marmalade, and pickles, a box of musty crackers and a canister of tea. When Harlan came back, Dorothy had the kitchen table set for two, with a lighted candle dispensing odorous good cheer from the centre of it, and the tea kettle singing merrily over the fire.
“Seems like home, doesn’t it?” he asked, pleasantly imbued with the realisation of the home-making quality in Dorothy. Certain rare women with this gift take their atmosphere with them wherever they go.
“To-morrow,” he went on, “I’ll go into the village and buy more things to eat.”
“The ruling passion,” she smiled. “It’s—what’s that!”
Clear and high above the sound of the storm came an imperious “Me-ow!”
“It’s a cat,” said Harlan. “You don’t suppose the poor thing is shut up anywhere, do you?”
“If it had been, we’d have found it. We’ve opened every door in the house, I’m sure. It must be outside.”
“Me-ow! Me-ow! Me-ow!” The voice was not pleading; it was rather a command, a challenge.