bright Sunday morning just when there seemed most to live for.
I had been making Banbury cakes the day before, and Polly with raucous and vituperative remarks had filched some of the currants, sugared and redolent of lemon extract, that waited their turn to be imbedded in the delicate flakey crust which makes Banbury cakes beloved of the family. Whether this contributed to Polly's decease, or her lamented end was hastened by her incorrigible habit of soaking all her food before eating it, none can say. She had thieved before when our backs were turned (or weren't) without apparent ill, and she had long made mush of her crackers, but then, of course, there may be such a thing as cumulative retribution—especially where digestive indiscretions are concerned.
Her departure left poignant regret in all but pussy's breast, and an aching void in Janet's life, for in the latter days there had sprung up an attachment between them, Polly permitting all sorts of endearments and familiarities to Janet, indignantly resented from other members of the household. Any feelings of jealousy that might have been evoked by this unnatural conduct were tempered by
