For the rest, poor Archibald seemed to be affectionate, in a dim,
inarticulate way, though his sympathies were confined within somewhat
narrow limits. He loved a certain brindled cat that he had more than
anything else: next to her, his little baby sister; and oddly enough, he
conceived a sort of dog-like admiration for the Honorable Richard
Pennroyal--a compliment which that personage did nothing to deserve, and
which he probably did not desire. He had also a distinct feeling for
localities; he was never quite at his ease except in the nursery-room
where he slept; and, on the other hand, he never failed to exhibit
symptoms of distrust and aversion when he was carried into the East
chamber--that in which his great-grandfather had effected his mysterious
self-effacement. But the only thing that was certain to make him cry was
to be brought into the company of little Kate Battledown, the colonel's
only child, a year or two younger than Archibald, and universally admitted
to be the prettiest and most graceful baby in the neighborhood. But
Archibald, up to his seventh year, would do anything to get away from her
--short of walking.

In a word, he exhibited such symptoms of a deficient and perverted
understanding as would have gained him--had he been of humbler
birth--the descriptive title of "natural." Being a son of Sir Clarence
Butt Malmaison, he was considered to be peculiar only. The old wives of
the village maintained that he was the sort that could see elves, and
that, if one but knew how, he might be induced to reveal valuable secrets,
and to confer magic favors. But, looking the other way, he was to be
dreaded as a possible (though involuntary) agent of evil; especially
perilous was it, these venerable dames would affirm, to become the object
of his affection or caresses--a dogma which received appalling
confirmation in the fate of the brindled cat, who, after having been