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.