The Kitchen Cat, and other Tales | Page 6

be for a dolls' feast, and troubled
herself no further. Miss Ruth was always so fond of "making believe."
So things went on very quietly and comfortably, and though Ruth could

not discover that the kitchen cat got any fatter, it had certainly
improved in some ways since her attentions. Its face had lost its scared
look, and it no longer crept about as close to the ground as possible, but
walked with an assured tread and its tail held high. It could never be a
pretty cat to the general eye, but when it came trotting noiselessly to
meet Ruth, uttering its short mew of welcome, she thought it beautiful,
and would not have changed it for the sleekest, handsomest cat in the
kingdom.
But it was the kitchen cat still. All this did not bring it one step nearer
to the nursery. It must still live, Ruth often thought with sorrow,
amongst the rats and mice and beetles. Nothing could ever happen
which would induce Nurse Smith to allow it to come upstairs. And yet
something did happen which brought this very thing to pass in a strange
way which would never have entered her mind.
The spring came on with a bright sun and cold sharp winds, and one
day Ruth came in from her walk feeling shivery and tired. She could
not eat her dinner, and her head had a dull ache in it, and she thought
she would like to go to bed. She did not feel ill, she said, but she was
first very hot and then very cold. Nurse Smith sent for the doctor; and
he came and looked kindly at her, and felt her pulse and said she must
stay in bed and he would send some medicine. And she went to sleep,
and had funny dreams in which she plainly saw the kitchen cat dressed
in Aunt Clarkson's bonnet and cloak. It stood by her bed and talked in
Aunt Clarkson's voice, and she saw its grey fur paws under the folds of
the cloak. She wished it would go away, and wondered how she could
have been so fond of it. When Nurse came to give her something she
said feebly:
"Send the cat away."
"Bless you, my dear, there's no cat here," she answered. "There's
nobody been here but me and Mrs Clarkson."
At last there came a day when she woke up from a long sleep and found
that the pain in her head was gone, and that the things in the room
which had been taking all manner of queer shapes looked all right

again.
"And how do you feel, Miss Ruth, my dear?" asked Nurse, who sat
sewing by the bedside.
"I'm quite well, thank you," said Ruth. "Why am I in bed in the middle
of the day?"
"Well, you haven't been just quite well, you know," said Nurse.
"Haven't I?" said Ruth. She considered this for some time, and when
Nurse came to her with some beef-tea in her hand, she asked:
"Have I been in bed more than a day?"
"You've been in bed a week," said Nurse. "But you'll get along finely
now, and be up and about again in no time."
Ruth drank her beef-tea and thought it over. Suddenly she dropped her
spoon into the cup. The kitchen cat! How it must have missed her if she
had been in bed a week. Unable to bear the idea in silence, she sat up in
bed with a flushed face and asked eagerly:
"Have you seen the cat?"
Nurse instantly rose with a concerned expression, and patted her
soothingly on the shoulder.
"There now, my dear, we won't have any more fancies about cats and
such. You drink your beef-tea up and I'll tell you something pretty."
Ruth took up her spoon again. It was of no use to talk to Nurse about it,
but it was dreadful to think how disappointed the cat must have been
evening after evening. Meanwhile Nurse went on in a coaxing tone:
"If so be as you make haste and get well, you're to go alonger me and
stay with your Aunt Clarkson in the country. There now!"
Ruth received the news calmly. It did not seem a very pleasant prospect,

or even a very real one to her.
"There'll be little boys and girls to play with," pursued Nurse, trying to
heighten the picture; "and flowers--and birds and such--and medders,
and a garding, and all manner."
But nothing could rouse Ruth to more than a very languid interest in
these delights. Her thoughts were all with her little friend downstairs;
and she felt certain that it had often been hungry, and no doubt thought
very badly of her for her neglect. If she could only see it