On the top of a log which we sometimes used as a table, sat the black cat, with a very demure expression on its countenance; and in front of it, sitting on the ground, with his legs extended on either side of the log, was Peterkin.

At the moment we saw him he was gazing intently into the cat's face, with his nose about four inches from it,--his hands being thrust into his breeches pockets.
"Cat," said Peterkin, turning his head a little on one side, "I love you!" There was a pause, as if Peterkin awaited a reply to this affectionate declaration but the cat said nothing.
"Do you hear me ?" cried Peterkin, sharply.

"I love you--I do.

Don't you love me ?" To this touching appeal the cat said "Mew," faintly.
"Ah! that's right.

You're a jolly old rascal.