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                            KITTY'S CONQUEST.

                         BY CHARLES KING, U.S.A.,

                    AUTHOR OF "THE COLONEL'S DAUGHTER."


    PHILADELPHIA:
    J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY.
    1890.

    Copyright. 1884, by J. B. LIPPINCOTT & CO.




PREFACE.


The incidents of this little story occurred some twelve years ago, and
it was then that the story was mainly written.

If it meet with half the kindness bestowed upon his later work it will
more than fulfil the hopes of

     THE AUTHOR.

February, 1884.




KITTY'S CONQUEST.




CHAPTER I.


It was just after Christmas, and discontentedly enough I had left my
cosy surroundings in New Orleans, to take a business-trip through the
counties on the border-line between Tennessee and northern Mississippi
and Alabama. One sunny afternoon I found myself on the "freight and
passenger" of what was termed "The Great Southern Mail Route." We had
been trundling slowly, sleepily along ever since the conductor's "all
aboard!" after dinner; had met the Mobile Express at Corinth when the
shadows were already lengthening upon the ruddy, barren-looking
landscape, and now, with Iuka just before us, and the warning whistle of
the engine shrieking in our ears with a discordant pertinacity attained
only on our Southern railroads, I took a last glance at the sun just
disappearing behind the distant forest in our wake, drew the last
breath of life, from my cigar, and then, taking advantage of the halt at
the station, strolled back from the dinginess of the smoking-car to more
comfortable quarters in the rear.

There were only three passenger-cars on the train, and, judging from the
scarcity of occupants, one would have been enough. Elbowing my way
through the gaping, lazy swarms of unsavory black humanity on the
platform, and the equally repulsive-looking knots of "poor white trash,"
the invariable features of every country stopping-place south of Mason
and Dixon, I reached the last car, and entering, chose one of a dozen
empty seats, and took a listless look at my fellow-passengers,--six in
all,--and of them, two only worth a second glance.

One, a young, perhaps very young, lady, so girlish, _petite_, and pretty
she looked even after the long day's ride in a sooty car. Her seat was
some little distance from the one into which I had dropped, but that was
because the other party to be depicted was installed within two of her,
and, with that indefinable sense of repulsion which induces all
travellers, strangers to one another, to get as far apart as possible on
entering a car, I had put four seats 'twixt him and me,--and afterwards
wished I hadn't.

It _was_ rude to turn and stare at a young girl,--travelling alone, too,
as she appeared to be. I did it involuntarily the first time, and found
myself repeating the performance again and again, simply because I
couldn't help it,--she looked prettier and prettier every time.

A fair, oval, tiny face; a somewhat supercilious nose, and
not-the-least-so mouth; a mouth, on the contrary, that even though its
pretty lips were closed, gave one the intangible yet positive assurance
of white and regular teeth; eyes whose color I could not see because
their drooping lids were fringed with heavy curving lashes, but which
subsequently turned out to be a soft, dark gray; and hair!--hair that
made one instinctively gasp with admiration, and exclaim (mentally), "If
it's _only_ real!"--hair that rose in heavy golden masses above and
around the diminutive ears, almost hiding them from view, and fell in
braids (not braids either, because it _wasn't_ braided) and rolls--only
that sounds breakfasty--and masses again,--it must do for both,--heavy
golden masses and rolls and waves and straggling offshoots and
disorderly delightfulness all down the little lady's neck, and, landing
in a lump on the back of the seat, seemed to come surging up to the top
again, ready for another tumble