I
remember one morning, when my sister was ill upstairs, that I had
breakfasted and sat down to read my morning's mail, when the Pretty Lady
came, uttering sounds that denoted dissatisfaction with matters
somewhere. I was busy, and at first paid no attention to her; but she
grew more persistent, so that I finally laid down my letters and asked:
"What is it, Puss? Haven't you had breakfast enough?" I went out to the
kitchen, and she followed, all the time protesting articulately. She
would not touch the meat I offered, but evidently wanted something
entirely different. Just then my sister came down and said:--
"I wish you would go up and see H. She is suffering terribly, and I
don't know what to do for her."
At that the Pretty Lady led the way into the hall and up the stairs,
pausing at every third step to make sure I was following, and leading me
straight to my sister. Then she settled herself calmly on the foot-board
and closed her eyes, as though the whole affair was no concern of hers.
Afterward, my sister said that when the pain became almost unendurable,
so that she tossed about and groaned, the Pretty Lady came close to her
face and talked to her, just as she did to her kittens when they were in
distress, showing plainly that she sympathized with and would help her.
When she found it impossible to do this, she hurried down to me. And
then having got me actually up to my sister's bedside, she threw off her
own burden of anxiety and settled into her usual calm content.
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