The Kitchen Cat, and other Tales | Page 2

as she entered the large sombre dining-room, where there were
great oil paintings on the walls and heavy hangings to the windows,
and serious-looking ponderous furniture, her father would look up from
his book, or from papers spread on the table, and nod kindly to her:
"Ah! It's you, Ruth. Quite well, eh? There's a good child. Have an
orange? That's right."
Then he would plunge into his reading again, and Ruth would climb

slowly on to a great mahogany chair placed ready for her, and watch
him as she cut up her orange.
She wondered very much why people wrote him such long, long letters,
all on blue paper and tied up with pink tape. She felt sure they were not
nice letters, for his face always looked worried over them; and when he
had finished he threw them on the floor, as though he were glad. This
made her so curious that she once ventured to ask him what they were.
They were called "briefs", he told her. But she was not much wiser; for,
hearing from Nurse Smith that "brief" was another word for short, she
felt sure there must be some mistake.
Exactly as the clock struck eight Nurse's knock came at the door, Ruth
got down from her chair and said good-night.
Sometimes her father was so deeply engaged in his reading that he
stared at her with a faraway look in his eyes, as if he scarcely knew
who she was. After a minute he said absently: "Bed-time, eh?
Good-night. Good-night, my dear." Sometimes when he was a little less
absorbed he put a sixpence or a shilling into her hand as he kissed her,
and added: "There's something to spend at the toy-shop."
Ruth received these presents without much surprise or joy. She was
used to buying things, and did not find it very interesting; for she could
not hope for any sign of pleasure from her dolls when she brought them
new clothes or furniture.
It is a little dull when all one's efforts for people are received with a
perfectly unmoved face. She had once brought Nurse Smith a small
china image, hoping that it would be an agreeable surprise; but that had
not been successful either. "Lor', my dear, don't you go spending your
money on me," she said. "Chany ornaments ain't much good for
anything, to my thinking, 'cept to ketch the dust."
Thus it came to pass that Ruth never talked much about what interested
her either to her father or to Nurse Smith, and as she had no brothers
and sisters she was obliged to amuse herself with fancied conversations.
Sometimes these were carried on with her dolls, but her chief friend

was a picture which she passed every night on the staircase. It was of a
man in a flat cap and a fur robe, and he had a pointed smooth chin and
narrow eyes, which seemed to follow her slyly on her way. She did not
like him and she did not actually fear him, but she had a feeling that he
listened to what she said, and that she must tell him any news she had.
There was never much except on "Aunt Clarkson's day", as she called
it.
Aunt Clarkson was her father's sister. She lived in the country, and had
many little boys and girls whom Ruth had seldom seen, though she
heard a great deal about them.
Once every month this aunt came up to London for the day, had long
conversations with Nurse, and looked carefully at all Ruth's clothes.
She was a sharp-eyed lady, and her visits made a stir in the house
which was like a cold wind blowing, so that Ruth was glad when they
were over, though her aunt always spoke kindly to her, and said: "Some
day you must come and see your little cousins in the country."
She had said this so often without its having happened, however, that
Ruth had come to look upon it as a mere form of speech--part of Aunt
Clarkson's visit, like saying "How d'ye do?" or "Good-bye."
It was shortly after one of these occasions that quite by chance Ruth
found a new friend, who was better than either the dolls or the man in
the picture, because, though it could not answer her, it was really alive.
She discovered it in this way.
One afternoon she and Nurse Smith had come in from their usual walk,
and were toiling slowly up from the hall to the nursery. The stairs got
steeper at the last flight, and Nurse went more slowly still, and panted a
good deal, for she was stouter than she need have been, though Ruth
would never have dreamed of saying so. Ruth was in front, and