as I
tried to think of my little Esztike's beautiful face, the hideous
vision of old Mistress Debora rose before me; and to increase my ill
humour, all the cats in the neighbourhood seemed to have collected to
squall and trill under my window. I contented myself for some time
with patiently anathematizing them; but perceiving at last that they
were rehearsing operas from end to end, I jumped up, and, seizing a
rolling-pin--the first implement which came to my hand, I dashed it
amongst the choristers. It was certainly a theatrical stroke, and from
that night forward I never had cause to repeat it.

Next morning, however, the black soup[54] awaited me. My father
entered the room, with his fox-headed mantle over one shoulder and his
lambskin cap drawn over his brow.

[Footnote 54: "Black soup" or black dose, _desagrement_.]

"Well, my lad, you have done for yourself now," he exclaimed; "you
knocked out the brains of Mrs. Debora's pet cat last night."

"Phu! this is a bad job indeed! Is there actually no life in him?"

"All gone, _ab intestato_," said my father, holding up the great fat
animal, with its four legs hanging down, and its white teeth grinning
at me.

I shook my head in despair. If Mistress Debora ever finds this out,
there is an end to all hope, and I shall never be able to marry. Alas!
why did I allow the cats to put me out of temper? A thought suddenly
struck me, and, dressing hastily, I laid the deceased neatly, out in
my handkerchief, and, tying up the four corners, started for Mistress
Debora's.

At the gate, I found the nine dogs disputing with a Jew, in whose
cloak they had made sundry air-holes, while the unfortunate man roared
and struggled, to the infinite amusement of the servants.

This was so far propitious for me, as otherwise they might have
required my passport also, and it would have been no jesting matter to
have struck my uncle's dogs; but happily I got through the kitchen
without observation, and looking once more at the four corners, to see
that all was right, I knocked humbly at Mistress Debora's door.

"Who is there?" said a voice like the sound of broken crockery.

I opened the door. At the memorable window sat Mistress Debora, who
turned round and squinted at me from beneath her spectacles. Her
hair--or more probably some other person's--was twisted up behind with
a giraffe comb, and the face, which was the colour of brown leather,
had more wrinkles than could well find roo