It was snow-white, with a bluish-gray spot on the
tip of its tail; and it was blue-eyed and deaf and delicate.
Aunt Cynthia was always worrying lest it should take cold and
die. Ismay and I used to wish that it would--we were so tired of
hearing about it and its whims. But we did not say so to Aunt
Cynthia. She would probably never have spoken to us again and
there was no wisdom in offending Aunt Cynthia. When you have an
unencumbered aunt, with a fat bank account, it is just as well to
keep on good terms with her, if you can. Besides, we really
liked Aunt Cynthia very much--at times. Aunt Cynthia was one of
those rather exasperating people who nag at and find fault with
you until you think you are justified in hating them, and who
then turn round and do something so really nice and kind for you
that you feel as if you were compelled to love them dutifully
instead.
So we listened meekly when she discoursed on Fatima--the cat's
name was Fatima--and, if it was wicked of us to wish for the
latter's decease, we were well punished for it later on.
One day, in November, Aunt Cynthia came sailing out to
Spencervale. She really came in a phaeton, drawn by a fat gray
pony, but somehow Aunt Cynthia always gave you the impression of
a full rigged ship coming gallantly on before a favorable wind.
That was a Jonah day for us all through. Everything had gone
wrong. Ismay had spilled grease on her velvet coat, and the fit
of the new blouse I was making was hopelessly askew, and the
kitchen stove smoked and the bread was sour.
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