sister Maria, who had a fancy for anything Greekish; but Zoë never made a Y."
Always by the fireside, always basking in light and warmth, always in graceful harmony with her surroundings (it has been well said that no house is really furnished without books and cats and fair-haired little girls), always a pleasure to every well-regulated mind. Pussy fills her place in life with that rare perfection which is possible only to a creature delicately modelled, and begirt by inflexible limitations. We are soothed by her repose; she is unfretted by our restlessness. A fine invisible barrier lies between us. She is the Sphinx of our hearthstone, and there is no message we can read in the tranquil scrutiny of her cold eyes.
Once, long ago, a little grey cat sat on my desk while I wrote, swept her tail across my copy, or patted with friendly paw my pen as it travelled over the paper. Even now I put out my hand softly to caress the impalpable air, for her spirit still lingers in the old accustomed spot. I see her sitting erect and motionless in the superb attitude of her Egyptian forefathers, her serious eyes heavy with thought, her lids drooping a little over the golden depths below. After a time they close, and her pretty head nods drowsily; but, like a perverse child, she resists the impelling power, straightens
