Betsy missed the purring, contented ball of fur on her lap in the long
evenings as she played checkers, or read aloud, or sewed, or played
guessing games. She felt rather hurt, too, that Eleanor paid her so
little attention, and several times she tried hard to make her stay,
trailing in front of her a spool tied to a string or rolling a worsted
ball across the floor. But Eleanor seemed to have lost all her taste for
the things she had liked so much. Invariably, the moment the door was
opened, she darted out and vanished.
One afternoon Betsy ran out after her, determined to catch her and bring
her back. When the cat found she was being followed, she bounded along
in great leaps, constantly escaping from Betsy's outstretched hand. They
came thus to the horse-barn, into the open door of which Eleanor whisked
like a little gray shadow, Betsy close behind. The cat flashed up the
steep, ladder-like stairs that led to the hay-loft. Betsy scrambled
rapidly up, too. It was dark up there, compared to the gorgeous-colored
October day outside, and for a moment she could not see Eleanor. Then
she made her out, a dim little shape, picking her way over the hay, and
she heard her talking. Yes, it was real talk, quite, quite different
from the loud, imperious "MIAUW!" with which Eleanor asked for her milk.
This was the softest, prettiest kind of conversation, all little murmurs
and chirps and sing-songs.
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