ained all our feelings to each other.

I described to my friend how unhappy I had been without her, and how
amidst all the pleasures of London I had languished for her company,
till I could bear my loneliness no longer; and I entreated her, for my
sake, to relinquish all her present habits, and to try a new life and a
new home.

She heard me with much sympathy, and owned that she too had been
unhappy; and that, notwithstanding the placid exterior which she had
thought it right to keep up, she had missed me quite as much as I missed
her. But she did not at once, as I hoped, agree eagerly to my proposal
of accompanying me to London. She hesitated. The journey seemed an
arduous undertaking. What strange dogs she might meet! what showers of
rain! what obstacles of all kinds, that had never suggested themselves
to me!

I strenuously combated all her objections, trying to convince her that
the journey which seemed so formidable would turn out a mere
pleasure-excursion. I did not mind getting wet myself; but as she did, I
was glad to assure her that there was plenty of shelter in case of rain.
Indeed, one might suppose that the whole road had been laid out for the
express convenience of cat travellers; there were such hedges, trees,
stiles, sheltered nooks, and sunny banks in every direction. Then as for
strange dogs, was I not there to protect her? was I not a match for any
dog? and did she not know that I would gladly shed the last drop of my
blood in her cause, besides enjoying a fight on my own account? She
sighed, but her sigh was a nearer approach to a purr than before, though
her objections were far from being finished.

She owned that she dreaded change. She had her own habits and her own
duties; she had been used all her life to that same house, with its
cellars and its pantries under her especial charge, and she was afraid
that in a new place she might be idle and uncomfortable.

This seemed to me a most unreasonable punctilio. I allowed that she
might fairly prefer the country, but I could not for a moment admit that
a town life need be idle. Did she suppose there were no mice in London?
I could answer for the contrary. The servants were perpetually
complaining not only of mice, but of rats; and only the day before I
started, I had heard them declare that they could not do without a cat
any longer. A most active life was open to her. The only danger was,
that she might find too much to do, and that her love of