'Humph,' muttered Glumdalkin, 'I'm not sure of that at all. But, tell your story, child. We shan't have any peace, I suppose, till you have.'
Friskarina gulphed down a rather sharp speech that was just at the end of her tongue, and went on with the recital of her adventures:—'I have certainly seen the poor cat; and the cottage, too, in which she lives—O Glumdalkin! such a place it is, you never saw anything like it; there was not a bit of fire on the hearth, and in one corner there lay a woman on a heap of straw, with an old rug over her. She was not at all like the princess, or the maids of honor, for she had such a thin white face, and such skinny hands, it was dreadful to look at her—she was quite as thin as the poor cat: and the old woman, I mean the cat's mistress, was stooping over her, and giving her something out of a broken cup. Poor old woman! she groaned so, when she looked at her, that it really went to my heart to hear her.'
'And pray,' interrupted Glumdalkin, 'what's all this to us? I do think you take quite a delight in making one low spirited; as if the day wasn't quite dismal enough already. Of course, one's very sorry for the people, and all that sort of thing, but what good can you do, I should like to know, poking your nose into such places? You can't do anything for them; and why should you put yourself into such a ridiculous fuss? If you were the princess, now, you might help the people—but you, a cat, what can you do? It's no concern of yours.'
'It is too true,' sighed Friskarina, 'I can do no good to the old woman and her sick daughter; but, with your leave, Cousin Glumdalkin, I can do something for the poor cat, and that will be better than nothing: if one can't do what one would, one ought to do what one can. And now, my dear good Cousin Glumdalkin, I want you to lend me a helping paw, if you please.'
'Well, what now?' grumbled Glumdalkin.
'Why, you know they always give us our dinner behind the laurel trees, on the grass, and you know, too, that they give us more than we want; indeed, more than is good for us—for don't you remember, when you were ill last autumn, the doctor said you ought to live more sparingly? and they never take away the bits when we have done; so that it is all our own property, and I was thinking that if you would be so very kind as to leave a bone or two that you really don't want, and I will do the same, the poor——'
Astonishment and indignation had, so far, kept Glumdalkin silent; but now, finding voice once more, she burst forth into a perfect torrent of wrath, declaring that not one bone would she leave—no! that she wouldn't. She wouldn't be answerable for bringing a parcel of thieving cats about the house—a pretty thing indeed!—what did Friskarina think the princess would say?
Friskarina meekly replied, that there would certainly be no thieving in the case; for that their dinner was all their own, and if they did not eat it all, it would only be left on the grass, to moulder away; and she really could not think the princess would have any objection to their relieving the poor cat's want, out of their own abundance. But these, and other similar arguments were all wasted upon the selfish Glumdalkin: she jumped down from her stool in a passion, turned her back upon Friskarina, rolled herself round into a great black ball, and seemed in a few moments to be fast asleep. Not that she was asleep, though; and her bad humor was not much mended by hearing the princess, who was lying on her sofa, call Friskarina to her, in her most endearing accents:—'Her dear, good, darling little Friskarina.'
'It's most uncommonly odd that she never calls for me,' thought Glumdalkin.
Meanwhile, Friskarina had jumped up to her mistress, who stroked her fondly, and kissed her, and Friskarina felt her face wet with tears.