No sign of dinner was any where to be seen.

Upon the range was a kettle of water boiling over into the fire, and from one of the ovens poured forth a dark smoke, that told too plainly the ruin of my lemon puddings.

And, to cap all, the turkey, yet guiltless of fire or dripping pan, was upon the floor, in possession of a strange cat, which had come in through the open window.

Bending over the still entranced cook, I read the title of her book.

It was "THE WANDERING JEW." "Kitty!" I don't much wonder, now, at the start she gave, for I presume there was not the zephyr's softness in my voice.
"Oh, ma'am!" She caught her breath as her eyes rested upon the cat and the turkey.