Miss Constance kept nineteen cats in the big house where she lived alone, for she could not trust servants; she thought they would always be spying upon her. Sometimes a kitten would thrust its head between the edges of her cape as she talked. “Now, don’t you worry, Miss Constance,” Uncle Tom would be saying. “You’ll get your money all right come quarter day. Some lawyers are rogues, we know, but not Mr. Steerforth. And nobody can harm you for keeping your cats, for your house is your own. And don’t take any notice of what you heard Mrs. Harmer say; though, if you’ll excuse me for saying it, Miss Constance, I do think you’ve got quite enough of them. I wouldn’t save any more kittens, if I were you; and, if you can’t bear a maid about the place, why not get some decent, respectable woman to come in once or twice a week and clean up a bit? Somebody who likes cats. No. She wouldn’t poison them, nor steal your things. Bless you, there are very few thieves about compared to the number of honest people in the world. And don’t you worry, Miss Constance, or you’ll lose all your pussies. Worry killed the cat, you know,” and at that often-repeated joke Miss Constance would smile and the smile would transform the poor, half-mad recluse she was fast becoming to something resembling the bright, happy girl who had danced all night and ridden to hounds in the days when Uncle Tom had first fitted her for her country shoes.