at midnight, with the open basket at her feet, and a black cat clasped tightly in her arms. "Take back your hand, my masters!" she pleads; and one of the ghosts plucks it from the basket, whispering grimly, "Were it not for the thing you carry, you should walk this night by my side."
The protection afforded by the cat in such an instance was, after all, involuntary, and by no means lessened her disrepute. One does not lightly love a guardian so uncanny. It is probable also that the sailors' wives of Scarborough, who filched their neighbours' black kittens to insure their husbands' safe return from sea, regarded these stolen prizes with more respect than affection. Even in instances where the animal has manifested its own too rare regard, there is often a subtle horror associated with its faithfulness. We remember apprehensively the cat that loved the poisoner, Wainewright, that would not leave his side, and that was the sole witness of his sudden death.
From Lyons comes a dreadful story of crime and retribution. Towards the close of the last century, a woman was found murdered in her home, her throat brutally cut, her oaken chest rifled of its scanty treasures. She had lived alone, with no other companion than a great brindled cat, and this cat was now discovered by the neighbours huddled on a cornice of the cupboard, his glaring eyes fixed
