Thursday, Nov 18, 1880 Painted all day still on the picture of Gertrude having begun another on a lighter key. When I came over to dinner Maurice told me that the old cat, which we have had for eighteen years, my mother says, had died very suddenly in a sort of fit. I was relieved that the poor old thing had gone for she looked so thin and wretched and we were obliged to make her stay out side at night where she had a box with her kitten which was growing finely and was very bright and pretty. We were talking of her at the dinner table. Maurice stepped to the back door and exclaimed, the kitten is dead too, and sure enough, there the poor little thing lay stretched out dead. It soon transpired that Essie had laid some strichnine in the cellar on pieces of meat for mice, and no doubt the cats got it. I was very sorry to lose the nice little kitten, the last of a long line of mice cats we have had many years. It was perfectly well when I came in to dinner and came up to me as it always did. This comparatively trivial incident made me feel very badly, the last of something accustomed and familiar in the household.