nless he could
get employment on shore. This he endeavored to do, but not with much
success. One morning as usual he kissed her good day, and set out in
search of work.

"Kissed me goodby, and called me his little Irish lass," sobbed Kitty,
telling the story, "kissed me goodby, and, Heaven help me, I niver set
oi on him nor on the likes of him again!"

He never came back. Day after day dragged on, night after night, and
then the weary weeks. What had become of him? Had he been murdered? Had
he fallen into the docks? Had he--deserted her? No! She could not believe
that; he was too brave and tender and true. She couldn't believe that.
He was dead, dead, or he'd come back to her.

Meanwhile the landlord of the lodging-house turned Kitty into the
streets, now that "her man" was gone, and the payment of the rent
doubtful. She got a place as a servant. The family she lived with
shortly moved to Boston, and she accompanied them; then they went
abroad, but Kitty would not leave America. Somehow she drifted to
Rivermouth, and for seven long years never gave speech to her sorrow,
until the kindness of strangers, who had become friends to her, unsealed
the heroic lips.

Kitty's story, you may be sure, made my grandparents treat her more
kindly than ever. In time she grew to be regarded less as a servant than
as a friend in the home circle, sharing its joys and sorrows--a faithful
nurse, a willing slave, a happy spirit in spite of all. I fancy I hear
her singing over her work in the kitchen, pausing from time to time to
make some witty reply to Miss Abigail--for Kitty, like all her race, had
a vein of unconscious humor. Her bright honest face comes to me out from
the past, the light and life of the Nutter House when I was a boy at
Rivermouth.

Chapter Six--Lights and Shadows

The first shadow that fell upon me in my new home was caused by the
return of my parents to New Orleans. Their visit was cut short by
business which required my father's presence in Natchez, where he was
establishing a branch of the bankinghouse. When they had gone, a sense
of loneliness such as I had never dreamed of filled my young breast.
I crept away to the stable, and, throwing my arms about Gypsy's neck,
sobbed aloud. She too had come from the sunny South, and was now a
stranger in a strange land.

The little mare seemed to realize our situation, and gave me all the
sympathy I could ask, repeatedly rubbing her soft nose over my face and