ich is in its proper
chronological setting.

In the year 1889 I was spending a pleasant fortnight with the Waverlys
in Yorkshire, at the very time when a dear old friend of mine (Mrs
Tennant) was dying in London. I had seen her only a week or two before,
but had no knowledge of her illness, as we were not in constant
correspondence, although there was a deep and strong affection between
us.

I did not even hear of her death, in fact, till a few weeks after it
took place, having missed the announcement in the papers. When Mrs
Tennant's sister, Mrs Lane, wrote me the details, I had left Yorkshire,
and was staying with cousins in Worcestershire. Thinking over the dates
mentioned in describing the illness, I realised with a shock of pained
surprise that the final state of unconsciousness must have set in the
very evening when I was enjoying myself in Yorkshire, at a large
dinner-party given by my host and hostess.

It seemed terrible to think that my dear and much loved friend should
have been lying unconscious upon her death-bed, and that no word or sign
should have come to me.

Then suddenly I remembered a curious little incident connected with that
dinner-party.

I had been admiring a pretty little slate-coloured kitten belonging to
the house, which was calmly sitting upon the grand piano after dinner,
when the ladies were alone in the drawing-room. After the gentlemen
joined us, I was deep in conversation with my host (a remarkably
interesting and intelligent man), when I noticed a small _black_ kitten
run past my dress. Probably I should have remarked upon it had we been
less occupied in talking, for I am extremely fond of cats and animals in
general. I did glance up, as a matter of fact, and satisfied myself that
it was not the little slate-coloured kitty, which sat in still triumph
on the piano. Besides, this kitten was _black_, not slate. I thought no
more of it until the guests had left and Mrs Waverly and I were going
upstairs to bed. She and I were very affinitive, but neither she nor her
family had any special interest in psychology.

On this occasion, however, she said rather mysteriously: "_I think
something will happen to-night to you._" A good many jokes had been made
about the probably uncanny atmosphere of my room, and the various spooks
who were doubtless sharing it with me, so I laughed, thinking this was
only the usual family joke. But Mrs Waverly was quite in earnest. At
first she would give no