“I deny it!” exclaimed Mrs. McQuilken, indignantly.  “Tell your mother to make a study of cats and she’ll know better.”

Edith looked rather frightened.  “Yes’m, I’ll tell her.”

“They have very deep feelings and folks ought to know it.  Now, listen, little girl.  I had two maltese kittens once.  They were sisters and loved each other better than any girl sisters you ever saw.  One of the kittens got caught in a trap and we had to kill her.  And the other one went round mewing and couldn’t be comforted.  She pined away, that kitty did, and in three days she died.  Now I know that for a fact.”

“Poor child!” said Edith, much touched. “She wasn’t cold-hearted, I’ll tell mamma about that.”

“Well, if she doesn’t like ’em perhaps it wouldn’t do any good; but while you’re about it you might tell her of two tortoise-shell cats I had.  They were sisters too.  Whiff had four kittens and Puff had one and lost it.  And the way Whiff comforted Puff!  She took her right home into her own basket and they brought up the four kittens together.  Wasn’t that lovely?”

“Oh, wasn’t it, though?” said Edith.  “Cats have hearts, I always knew they did.”

“That shows you’re a sensible little girl,” returned the old lady approvingly.  “But you haven’t told me yet what your name is?”

“Edith Dunlee.”

“I knew ’twas Dunlee—­that’s a Scotch name; but I didn’t know about the Edith.  Well, Edith, so you’ve been to see the gold mine?  Pokerish place, isn’t it?  I hear they’re going to bring down the engine from the big plant and try to start it up again.”

Edith had no idea what she meant by the “big plant,” so made no reply.  Mrs. McQuilken went back to the subject of cats.

“Did you know the Egyptians used to worship cats?  Well, sometimes they did.  And when their cats died they went into mourning for them.”

“How queer!”

“It does seem so, but it’s just as you look at it, Edith.  Cats are a sight of company.  I didn’t care so much about them or about birds either when my husband was alive and my little children, but now—­”

Again she paused, and this time she did not go on again.  Some one out of doors laughed; it was Jimmy Dunlee, and the mocking-bird took up the merry sound and echoed it to perfection.

“Doesn’t that seem human?” cried Mrs. McQuilken.  And really it did.  It was exactly the laugh of a human boy, though it came from the throat of a tiny bird.

“My little boys, Pitt and Roscoe, liked to hear him do that,” said Mrs. McQuilken.

Edith observed that she did not say “my boyoes.”  “Pitt, the one that died in Japan, doted on the mocking-bird.  The other boy, Roscoe, was all bound up in the canary.”

“Does the canary sing?”

“Yes, he’s a grand singer.  Just you wait till he pipes up.  You’ll be surprised.  But you remember what I was saying a little while ago about your mother?  That zebra kitty—­”