ear master, that there were a dozen
at least.

"Now, my cats, you really must behave yourselves a little better than
this," said the Father, with a tone of sternness, which, however, had
not the slightest effect, since he began at once to pet them, first one
and then another, as they crowded around him. "I know you are hungry,
but that is no excuse for making such a disturbance. Come, we shall have
supper," and with these words he went into his dining-room, the cats
trooping after him.

Father Uria always had his table set with as much variety and luxury as
his meagre salary, and the resources of the mission, allowed. He was
not a hearty eater, nor, as we have said, did he drink largely of wine,
unless he had the support of congenial company, but he insisted on
variety. His vegetable garden was his pride, and the object of extremist
solicitude. In it he had, in flourishing condition, every sort of
edible, including, as well, the fruits especially adapted to that
climate. As he was seldom favored with guests, he had made it a custom
to have his pet cats bear him company at his meals; and he had trained
them so well that they were, in general, as perfectly behaved, in their
limited capacity, as the best mannered human being; only occasionally,
when hunger gained the upper hand, did they break the bounds of
cat-decorum. They had their places opposite the Father, in two chairs,
two cats, side by side, in each chair; and there they would sit, looking
with meek but hungry eyes, first at the Father, then at the meat and
cream destined for their repast.

But it is time these cats were introduced to the reader, for such
intimate and (if we may be permitted to use the word) personal friends
of the priest should have a regular introduction. Let us begin then,
with the first, and, as it happens, the oldest and most sedate one. His
name is San Francisco, a solemn-looking beast, large and handsome; he
is a maltese, and is admired by all who have seen him. The cat sitting
quietly by his side in the same chair is Santa Barbara, a maltese like
her companion, but younger and not so handsome, only because not so
large. Next comes, in the second chair, the cat whose acquaintance we
have already made, Santa Clara, the Father's usual companion at all
times, for she has less roving blood in her veins, and prefers remaining
with her master to hunting and other feline diversions. She, too, is
maltese, but has white paws, the only deviation f