tertain you if I make you acquainted with one of them. Are you like
most other men, Mr. Germaine? Do you hate cats?"

The question startled me. However, I could honestly answer that, in this
respect at least, I was not like other men.

"To my thinking," I added, "the cat is a cruelly misunderstood
creature--especially in England. Women, no doubt, generally do justice
to the affectionate nature of cats. But the men treat them as if they
were the natural enemies of the human race. The men drive a cat out of
their presence if it ventures upstairs, and set their dogs at it if it
shows itself in the street--and then they turn round and accuse the poor
creature (whose genial nature must attach itself to something) of being
only fond of the kitchen!"

The expression of these unpopular sentiments appeared to raise me
greatly in the estimation of Miss Dunross.

"We have one sympathy in common, at any rate," she said. "Now I can
amuse you! Prepare for a surprise."

She drew her veil over her face as she spoke, and, partially opening the
door, rang my handbell. Peter appeared, and received his instructions.

"Move the screen," said Miss Dunross. Peter obeyed; the ruddy firelight
streamed over the floor. Miss Dunross proceeded with her directions.
"Open the door of the cats' room, Peter; and bring me my harp. Don't
suppose that you are going to listen to a great player, Mr. Germaine,"
she went on, when Peter had departed on his singular errand, "or that
you are likely to see the sort of harp to which you are accustomed, as
a man of the modern time. I can only play some old Scotch airs; and my
harp is an ancient instrument (with new strings)--an heirloom in our
family, some centuries old. When you see my harp, you will think of
pictures of St. Cecilia--and you will be treating my performance kindly
if you will remember, at the sam e time, that I am no saint!"

She drew her chair into the firelight, and sounded a whistle which
she took from the pocket of her dress. In another moment the lithe
and shadowy figures of the cats appeared noiselessly in the red light,
answering their mistress's call. I could just count six of them, as the
creatures seated themselves demurely in a circle round the chair. Peter
followed with the harp, and closed the door after him as he went out.
The streak of daylight being now excluded from the room, Miss Dunross
threw back her veil, and took the harp on her knee; seating herself, I
observed, with h