The old fear clutched at my heart. It seems incredible that I, almost a full-grown man, a football champion and all-round athlete, could be afraid of a cat in broad daylight.
But I was! Cold sweat poured down my back, and my hands trembled so that the dead kitten fell with a soft thump on the rug.
This sound aroused me from my semi-stupor of fear. Hastily, I threw up the window-sash and tossed the inert little body out into the yard.
I closed the window, and, with a studied nonchalance, walked whistling to the door and opened it.
“Come in, kittie,” I said innocently. “Poor kittie!”
Toi Wah ran in and frantically circled the room, meowing piteously. She paid no attention to me, but ran here and there, under the bed, under the chiffonier, seeking in every corner of the large old-fashioned room.
She came at last to the rug before the fire, lowered her head and sniffed at the spot where, but a moment before, her darling had lain.
She looked up at me, then, with great mournful eyes. Eyes with no hate in them now, only unutterable sorrow. I have never seen in the eyes of any creature the sorrow I saw there.
That look brought a queer lump in my throat. I was sorry now for what I had done. If I could have recalled my act, I would have done so. But it was too late. The dead kitten lay out in the yard.
For a moment Toi Wah looked at me, and then the sorrow in her eyes gave way to the old look of suspicion and hate. And then, with a yowl like a wolf, she sprang out of the room.