Rogers saw her
slip into her unimportant place. She took her seat, he thought, as
softly as a mouse. For no one seemed to notice her. She was so
perfectly at home among them. In her little folded hands the Den and
all its occupants seemed cared for beyond the need of words or
definite action. And, although her place was the furthest possible
remove from his own, he felt her closer to him than the very children
who nestled upon his knees.
Riquette then finally, when all were settled, stole in to complete the
circle. She planted herself in the middle of the hearth before them
all, looked up into their faces, decided that all was well, and began
placidly to wash her face and back. A leg shot up, from the middle of
her back apparently, as a signal that they might talk. A moment later
she composed herself into that attitude of dignified security possible
only to the feline species. She made the fourth that inhabited this
world within a world. Rogers, glancing up suddenly from observing her,
caught---for the merest fraction of an instant--a flash of starfire in
the air. It darted across to him from the opposite end of the horse-
shoe. Behind it flickered the tiniest smile a human countenance could
possibly produce.
'Little mouse who, lost in wonder,
Flicks its whiskers at the thunder.
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