21 
his lap, and, contrary to all rules, he fed her, 
as the poet Maeterlinck used to do with his 
pet cat, talking to her in his happy voice in 
his own place at the table. 
The evening had grown cool enough to 
have a fire of apple-tree wood, blazing before 
the broad hearth, so before they began their 
even-song, Willard had laid the moss-cov- 
ered logs together and lighted them, remov- 
ing first the dainty fender, which his own 
hands had made, with artistic deftness; hav- 
ing woven in the name of their camp among 
the interstices of the woven wire. Now, 
where the welcome fire-glow shone through 
it on the hearth-rug, Zephyr had taken her 
position, quite at home and happy; purring 
her “grey thrums,” louder than ever, in her 
:ontentment. 
