d, pleasantly imbued with the realisation of the home-making quality in Dorothy. Certain rare women with this gift take their atmosphere with them wherever they go.
“To-morrow,” he went on, “I’ll go into the village and buy more things to eat.”
“The ruling passion,” she smiled. “It’s–what’s that!”
Clear and high above the sound of the storm came an imperious “Me-ow!”
“It’s a cat,” said Harlan. “You don’t suppose the poor thing is shut up anywhere, do you?”
“If it had been, we’d have found it. We’ve opened every door in the house, I’m sure. It must be outside.”
“Me-ow! Me-ow! Me-ow!” The voice was not pleading; it was rather a command, a challenge.
“Kitty, kitty, kitty,” she called. “Where are you, kitty?”
Harlan opened the outside door, and in rushed a huge black cat, with the air of one returning home after a long absence.
“Poor kitty,” said Dorothy, kindly, stooping to stroke the sable visitor, who instinctively dodged the caress, and then scra