AS if a fatal spell had been cast upon our cats, Pussy White, also, seemed near her end.
By fantasy of the dying, she had selected her last lodging in my dressing-room,—upon a certain lounge whose rose color doubtless pleased her.
There we carried to her a little food, a little milk, which were alike untasted; she looked at us whenever we entered, with kind eyes, glad to see us, and still purred feebly when caressed.
Then, one pleasant morning, she also disappeared, and we thought she would return no more.
(XXII)