Summer came, and la Chinoise, born and bred upon the melancholy waters, revelled for the first time in the joyous garden life which all cats dearly love;—that life, partly of hermit-like meditation and repose, partly of venery and cruel sport. The odour of rose and jasmin; the tall trees, on whose branches unsuspicious birds nested and sang; the miniature rocks circling the fountain, amid which she lay concealed like a Liliputian tiger in its lair; all these wonders enraptured her sensitive soul. She became sleek and gay, her brilliant eyes lost their shadow of fear, her timidity vanished, her delicate limbs grew round and strong. Even her unconquerable ugliness lent a distinction of its own to her intelligence and grace. Moumoutte Blanche, once the proud and intolerant queen of this lovely place, now shared its delights generously with the stranger, with the little Mongolian who had come from the Yellow Sea to claim half of her master's home, and two thirds of his affection. I know of no nobler cat in Christendom than Moumoutte Blanche.
When summer waned, and the days grew short and chill, la Chinoise abandoned the garden walks for the greater luxury of the warm fireside. "It is with the approach of winter," says M. Loti, "that cats become in an especial manner our friends and guests. They sit in our chimney-corners, watch
