Whether or not my grandfather was quite pleased by this unlooked-for addition to his family is a problem.  He was very kind always to Miss Abigail, and seldom opposed her; though I think she must have tried his patience sometimes, especially when she interfered with Kitty.

Kitty Collins, or Mrs. Catherine, as she preferred to be called, was descended in a direct line from an extensive family of kings who formerly ruled over Ireland.  In consequence of various calamities, among which the failure of the potato-crop may be mentioned, Miss Kitty Collins, in company with several hundred of her countrymen and countrywomen—­also descended from kings—­came over to America in an emigrant ship, in the year eighteen hundred and something.

I don’t know what freak of fortune caused the royal exile to turn up at Rivermouth; but turn up she did, a few months after arriving in this country, and was hired by my grandmother to do “general housework” for the sum of four shillings and six-pence a week.

Kitty had been living about seven years in my grandfather’s family when she unburdened her heart of a secret which had been weighing upon it all that time.  It may be said of people, as it is said of nations, “Happy are they that have no history.”  Kitty had a history, and a pathetic one, I think.

On board the emigrant ship that brought her to America, she became acquainted with a sailor, who, being touched by Kitty’s forlorn condition, was very good to her.  Long before the end of the voyage, which had been tedious and perilous, she was heartbroken at the thought of separating from her kindly protector; but they were not to part just yet, for the sailor returned Kitty’s affection, and the two were married on their arrival at port.  Kitty’s husband—­she would never mention his name, but kept it locked in her bosom like some precious relic—­had a considerable sum of money when the crew were paid off; and the young couple—­for Kitty was young then—­lived very happily in a lodging-house on South Street, near the docks.  This was in New York.

The days flew by like hours, and the stocking in which the little bride kept the funds shrunk and shrunk, until at last there were only three or four dollars left in the toe of it.  Then Kitty was troubled; for she knew her sailor would have to go to sea again unless 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.