at a ghostly presence trying to the nerves. The brilliancy of the cat's eyes, the narrowing of the lids, the stern contraction of the brow, the deadly repose of the whole figure, enhance the shadowy spell by which she dominates that hour. Sir Walter Scott, sanest and least cowardly of men, knew whereof he spoke when he admitted that Hinse was a mystery.
Whence, too, comes that impelling voice which summons the cat to vagrancy; which calls her away from the warm fireside she loves, and from the hearts that love her, to meet an unread fate? Why is it that this animal, seemingly more attached than any other to her own hearthstone, should so often bid it an abrupt and inexplicable farewell? I knew of a cat who for eight long years was the enthroned idol of a luxurious home. One morning in early spring his mistress heard his voice raised in plaintive notes from a stunted peach tree that grew in the city garden. "I was but too sure what it meant," she said; "Sir Charles was bidding me good-by." She flung open the window, and looked out. There he sat, and his great yellow eyes were lifted mournfully to her face. Then he leaped down, and was never seen again.
Another cat spent five successive winters under a hospitable roof near New York; but always departed—none knew whither—about the middle
