“Both?” I asked.
“Only one—look!”
“You are hurting her!” cried Lettie.
“It’s no good,” said he.
Mollie and the mother hurried out of the kitchen into the parlour.
“What are you going to do?” asked Lettie.
“Put her out of her misery,” he replied, taking up the poor cat. We followed him into the barn.
“The quickest way,” said he, “is to swing her round and knock her head against the wall.”
“You make me sick,” exclaimed Lettie.
“I’ll drown her then,” he said with a smile. We watched him morbidly, as he took a length of twine and fastened a noose round the animal’s neck, and near it an iron goose; he kept a long piece of cord attached to the goose.
“You’re not coming, are you?” said he. Lettie looked at him; she had grown rather white.
“It’ll make you sick,” he said. She did not answer, but followed him across the yard to the garden. On the bank of the lower mill-pond he turned again to us and said:
“Now for it!—you are chief mourners.” As neither of us replied, he smiled, and dropped the poor writhing cat into the water, saying, “Good-bye, Mrs. Nickie Ben.”
We waited on the bank some time. He eyed us curiously.
“Cyril,” said Lettie quietly, “isn’t it cruel?—isn’t it awful?”
I had nothing to say.
“Do you mean me?” asked George.
