(XIII)
SINCE her life in open air, my favorite flourished visibly. The bare and unsightly spots in her rabbit-colored coat were covered with new glossy fur; she was less thin, more careful of her little person, and bore no longer the appearance of a witch’s cat. My mother and Aunt Clara often stopped to speak to her, interested in her odd ways, her expressive eyes, and her soft responsive “Trr! trr! trr!” that she never failed to utter when addressed.
“Certainly,” they said, “this Chinese pussy seems very happy with us; no cat’s face could show greater content.”
A happy look, in fact; even a look of gratitude to me, who had brought her to her new home. And the happiness of young animals is perfect, perhaps because they have not, like us, forebodings of the inevitable future.
She passed deliciously dreamy days in most luxuriant idleness, extended on the warm tiles or the soft moss, enjoying the silence—somewhat depressing to me—of this abode where neither the contention of wind and wave or the terrible shock of cannon troubled her repose. She had reached the distant peaceful haven, the last port in her short life’s voyage, and rested happily unconscious of the end.
“SHE PASSED DELICIOUSLY DREAMY DAYS”