Auntie May held Blanch up in her two hands and looked at her. She gave her her medicine and a little drop—a real drop, not what the cook here calls a drop—of brandy, but Blanch let it all roll out of her mouth and on to the pink gown. I knew that from what Mary said: 'Lor', Miss, your nice gown!'
'It's no good, Mary. Its eyes are glazing already. They look tormented. We mustn't plague her any more. Bring Petronilla!'
'How absurd!' said mother, as Mary lifted her out.
Auntie May showed her Blanch, whom she had laid back in her bed. Blanch's head had rolled quite uncomfortably back, and her eyes saw nothing. She was almost gone.
Mother didn't do at all what they expected, though; indeed, I don't know whether they expected her to bring Blanch back from the grave in some mysterious way that mothers ought to know of. Mother had no way. She knew it was no good. To satisfy them she did something. She licked and rolled Blanch over in her bed with her tongue—roughly, I suppose, from the way they spoke.
'She's killed it!' said Auntie May. 'Look, it's dead!'
She took Blanch up, and Blanch's head fell back over her hand and a film came over her eyes—so Auntie May said afterwards.
Poor Auntie May put Blanch down again, and cried as if her heart would break.
'I nursed it—I took such care—and he said I had saved it, and no, it's dead—oh!—oh!—'
'Don't cry, Miss May, don't cry so,' Mary begged. 'It's only a kitten at that. We'll bury it in the garden. It will be our first funeral; there's a nice little place back of them trees, I've often thought of it for that. Here, let me get you out of your dress. I'll put the corpse in the bathroom till the morning. What'll ever your father think if he hears you crying like this over a kitten, and wake Miss Rosamond, too!'