Further Chronicles of Avonlea: Large Print

Max always blesses the animal when it is referred to; and I don't deny that things haveworked together for good after all. But when I think of the anguish of mind which Ismayand I underwent on account of that abominable cat, it is not a blessing that arisesuppermost in my thoughts.I never was fond of cats, although I admit they are well enough in their place, and I canworry along comfortably with a nice, matronly old tabby who can take care of herself andbe of some use in the world. As for Ismay, she hates cats and always did.But Aunt Cynthia, who adored them, never could bring herself to understand that anyone could possibly dislike them. She firmly believed that Ismay and I really liked cats deepdown in our hearts, but that, owing to some perverse twist in our moral natures, we wouldnot own up to it, but willfully persisted in declaring we didn't.Of all cats I loathed that white Persian cat of Aunt Cynthia's. And, indeed, as we alwayssuspected and finally proved, Aunt herself looked upon the creature with more pride thanaffection. She would have taken ten times the comfort in a good, common puss that she didin that spoiled beauty. But a Persian cat with a recorded pedigree and a market value of onehundred dollars tickled Aunt Cynthia's pride of possession to such an extent that shedeluded herself into believing that the animal was really the apple of her eye.