When the saucer was empty the lady brought Blackie some bits of chicken, left over from dinner.
“Now then, let me see you eat that,” said Mrs. Thompson. She talked to Blackie almost as if the black cat were a real person and could understand. I know many men and women who do that. I do it myself to my pets. I know they don’t understand all I say, but I like to think that they do.
Mrs. Thompson lived all alone in her house, and when a lady lives alone, and has a cat, a dog, a bird, or a parrot, she gets in the habit of talking to her pets.
“Yes, you are a nice cat,” went on Mrs. Thompson, as she once more stroked Blackie’s smooth fur. “You came from a good home, I can tell that, and why the folks moved away, and left you behind, I can’t see. I’ll keep you for a while, and perhaps they may remember about you and come to get you. If they don’t come I’ll take you to the country with me, for I will soon be going there.”
After her meal Blackie washed herself carefully, as her mother had taught her to do. Then she curled up in a black ball at the feet of the kind lady.
It was now dark, and the lady lighted the gas.
“I’m glad I didn’t have to stay up on the roof, or in the vacant house all night,” thought Blackie, purring away and beginning to feel a bit sleepy. “My running away is turning out all right after all. I am in a nice house, though I may not stay. I have not run far enough away yet. I must go a bit farther before I go back to Arthur and Mabel.”
The old lady sat reading, now and then speaking to Blackie, who answered with a purr.
“I once had a white cat,” said the lady, “but you are just as nice, though you are black. I shall keep you a long time, I hope.”
Presently the door bell rang. Up jumped the nice old lady.