The kitten remained just where we had discovered it until we were near enough to look it in the eye. It had evidently been a pet. Its fur was sleek and its face wore the open, candid expression peculiar to well-bred cats. It seemed glad to see us. Steadfastly it returned our gaze, and its pink mouth opened in a plaintive meow. “Kitty!” I murmured. I’m fond of cats, and this one quite went to my heart. “Pick her up for me, Christopher. I’ll hold her while you drive.” So Christopher went to pick her up, and for the next hour and a half he continued to repeat the motion. Who could have believed it would be so hard to make connections with a pet kitten? She was not afraid of us. On the contrary, the minute we let her alone, she came stealing back to the side of the road where she could see us and call to us. But she simply could not make up her mind to let us rescue her. First Christopher tried, with a confident method which left him staring rather foolishly at his unexpectedly empty hand. Then I tried. “That’s not the way. Evidently, she’s been out here long enough to get frightened. Poor little thing! We must coax her into confidence.” So Christopher sat down on a rock and lighted a cigarette while, slowly, slowly, discoursing, “Poor kitty! nice kitty!” in my most mellifluous accents. I crossed the road and approached the spot where the kitten crouched. It took me at least ten minutes, and, in the end, she slipped from beneath my very fingers. My discomfiture was worse than Christopher’s, for the retreating ball of fur turned and spat at me. “Hard luck!” said Christopher, sympathetically, if also a little critically, “when you so nearly had her. I’ll try again next; but we’d better sit still for a while till she gets over her scare.” As we sat waiting, it became evident that it really was going to rain. In fact, already a fine mist was in the air. “Those bushes will soon be nice and wet,” remarked Christopher. “Well,” I replied, much subdued, “she’s near the edge now. Go and get her, and get it over with.” Three minutes later, after a slow approach followed by a plunge on Christopher’s part, the kitten was in the heart of the forest. “Oh, I say!” cried Christopher. “This is hopeless. We might stay here all day and all night and all another day. Don’t you think we’d better conclude that we’ve done our best? After all, there are plenty of mice and grass-hoppers in the woods.” I recognized this as sound, sensible masculine advice, and I longed to accept it. The prospect of spending indefinite hours dodging about tangled bushes in the rain was not exhilarating. Moreover, the next inn was leagues ahead, and we were hungry. But the sentiment of my sex was too much for me. “I’m afraid I could never look Shem in the face again,” I murmured. Shem is our yellow cat at home.