Once more this author takes the reader to one of those old, old little Southern towns steeped in tradition, romance and a very special kind of human drama. Then she transfers the reader to New York, to Paris, and back home again. It is a love story, clean, fine and refreshing; rich in laughter and tears, rich in a radiant and inspiriting vitality.
The kitten knew he was just the sort of boy to show compassion to lost kittens, and trusted and loved him at sight.
His mother was doubtful as to the wisdom of adopting a third member into a family which could barely feed two without one going half hungry. Also, she disliked cats intensely. She was most horribly afraid of cats. She was just about to say that he'd have to give the kitten to somebody better able to care for it, but seeing the resigned and hopeless expression that crept into Peter's face, she said, instead, that she reckoned they could manage to feed the little wretch, provided he kept it out of her room. Peter joyfully agreed, washed the cat in his own basin, fed it with a part of his own supper, and took it to bed with him, where it purred itself to sleep. Thus came Martin Luther to the house of Champneys.
When Peter had chores to do the cat scampered about him with, sidewise leapings and gambolings, and made his labor easier by seasoning it with harmless amusement. When he wrest