Miss Laura used to wear a little silver whistle that she blew when she wanted any of her pets.

It was a shrill whistle, and we could hear it a long way from home.

I have seen her standing at the back door whistling for Malta, and the pretty creature's head would appear somewhere always high up, for she was a great climber, and she would come running along the top of the fence, saying, "Meow, meow," in a funny, short way.
Miss Laura would pet her, or give her something to eat, or walk around the garden carrying her on her shoulder.

Malta was a most affectionate cat, and if Miss Laura would not let her lick her face, she licked her hair with her little, rough tongue.

Often Malta lay by the fire, licking my coat or little Billy's, to show her affection for us.
Mary, the cook, was very fond of cats, and used to keep Malta in the kitchen as much as she could, but nothing would make her stay down there if there was any music going on upstairs.