warm trance that the mouse Ferdinand came out of the pot-closet or an athletic roach emerged from the old sink and waved his feelers at her. She paid no attention. It is good for a cat—or for anyone else—to have long dreamy evenings like that in youth.
She lay so until, about midnight, Mr. Mistletoe would come through the kitchen, wearing his long gray dressing gown, to say good-night to the furnace. When she heard him go down the cellar stairs she got up and stretched, the graceful curving stretch of a handsome young cat. Donny always followed Mr. Mistletoe, pushing the swinging door open with his heavy body. Fourchette envied him being able to do that. She could not go through that door unless someone opened it for her. She had a trick of going through with Donny, slipping under his legs as he pushed the door, which always made him furious.
She and Donny would sniff at each other a little suspiciously, in the dark, until Mr. Mistletoe returned from the cellar. Then, as he moved to and fro getting out some supper for all three, they would both rub against his legs. Fourchette particularly was so clever at getting between his
