dowed with what Mr. Peacock called "the faculty of stayathomeitiveness," find their best ally in the cat. How many quiet and thoughtful hours have been shared by this little friend who never disturbs our musings, nor resents our preoccupation? It is not in superb catteries that she develops her most winning traits, but by the quiet fireside, however humble, where she rules alone. Her gentler aspects, the sweetness of her domesticity, are then abundantly revealed. Nor is it beauty which best enables her to win and hold hearts, but rather some fine charm of personality, too intangible to be analyzed. I knew a London cat of middle-class parentage, who wore an unassuming coat of brindled grey, and whom a fancier would have regarded with scorn. He was christened William Penn, in deference to his Quaker costume, and to the City of Brotherly Love, which it was never his fortune to see. He possessed a few accomplishments, but was far too reserved to flaunt them before strangers; and his manners were marked by simple good taste rather than by any flattering warmth of demonstration. His surroundings were artistic, and he had been accustomed from kittenhood to hear much brilliant conversation; yet there was no taint of Bohemianism in the unfailing vivacity which appeared to be his sovereign attraction. That cat was so dearly loved, so deeply mourned, that the shadow
