The Book of Cats. 1 9 



now about eighty years ago, people usually dined 

 early in the afternoon, and you may imagine 

 somewhere in Yorkshire, a large company assem- 

 bled for a grand dinner by daylight. With all due 

 decorum and old-fashioned stately politeness, the 

 ladies in rustling silks, stately hoops, and nodding 

 plumes, are led to their seats by their respective 

 cavaliers, in bright coloured coats with large gilt 

 buttons. 



With dignified bows and profound curtsies, they 

 take their places, the bride, of course, at her host's 

 right hand. The bustle subsides, the servants re- 

 move the covers, the carving-knives are brandished 

 by experienced hands, and the host having made 

 the first incision in a goodly sirloin or haunch, 

 turns to enquire how his fair guest wishes to be 

 helped. 



To his surprise, he beholds her pretty face flushed 

 and uneasy, while she lifts the snowy damask and 

 looks beneath the table. 



" What is the matter, my dear madam } Have 

 you lost something } " 



"No, sir, nothing, thank you; — it is the Cat,'' 

 replied the timid bride, with a slight shudder, as 

 she pronoimced the word. 



" The Cat ? " echoed the gentleman, with a puzzled 



