Kit was a handsome child, with striking features and curly hair. His
mother always dressed him in the finest clothes, and tempted by these
combined attractions, gypsies had carried him away the previous summer.
But Kit was the son of a scout, and his young eyes were sharp. He marked
the trail followed by his captors, and at the first opportunity gave
them the slip and got safely home, exclaiming as he toddled into the
sobbing family circle, "I tumed back adain, mama; don't cry." Despite
his anxiety, Will smiled at the recollection of the season when his
little son had been a regular visitor at the theater. The little fellow
knew that the most important feature of a dramatic performance, from a
management's point of view, is a large audience. He watched the seats
fill in keen anxiety, and the moment the curtain rose and his father
appeared on the stage, he would make a trumpet of his little hands, and
shout from his box, "Good house, papa!" The audience learned to
expect and enjoy this bit of by-play between father and son. His duty
performed, Kit settled himself in his seat, and gave himself up to
undisturbed enjoyment of the play.

When Will reached Rochester he found his son still alive, though beyond
the reach of medical aid. He was burning up with fever, but still
conscious, and the little arms were joyfully lifted to clasp around his
father's neck. He lingered during the next day and into the night, but
the end came, and Will faced a great sorrow of his life. He had built
fond hopes for his son, and in a breath they had been swept away. His
boyhood musings over the prophecy of the fortune-teller had taken a turn
when his own boy was born. It might be Kit's destiny to become President
of the United States; it was not his own. Now, hope and fear had
vanished together, the fabric of the dream had dissolved, and left "not
a rack behind."

Little Kit was laid to rest in Mount Hope Cemetery, April 24, 1876. He
is not dead, but sleeping; not lost, but gone before. He has joined the
innumerable company of the white-souled throng in the regions of the
blest. He has gone to aid my mother in her mission unfulfilled--that of
turning heavenward the eyes of those that loved them so dearly here on
earth.

CHAPTER XXIII. -- THE GOVERNMENT'S INDIAN POLICY.

VERY glad was the sad-hearted father that the theatrical season was so
nearly over. The mummeries of stage life were more distasteful to him
than ever when he returned