hour
longer. Then she said we would stop into Purssell's and get something to
eat, for she was beginning to feel hungry. This had been the case with
me ever so long; not that I hankered much in hot weather for hearty
food, but I felt a sort of faintness; and when she said something about
Purssell's having delicious peaches, I knew that they were exactly the
thing which would appease all the internal longing of my nature.

But just as my mouth was beginning to water, E. E. took out her watch
and gave a little scream.

"Why," says she, "who would a-thought it? We have but just fifteen
minutes to reach the boat in?"

My heart sank. The taste of those peaches had almost got into my mouth,
but now a taste of dust came in their place. I could just have sat down
and cried.

"Never mind," says E. E.; "we can get dinner on board."

"Dinner on board!" Thin soup; hot meat down in the bottom of a
steamboat, with a smell of oil, sour water, and musty linen all around
you--that is what "a dinner on board" means, and nothing else. The very
thought made me feel rily about the temper--all that I wanted was some
peaches.

You will not wonder, sisters, that I hankered after this delicious
fruit, which is about the only good thing that grows which we do not
have in the old Vermont State. Only think of them--round, plump, juicy;
with the redness of a warm sunset burning on one side, and pale-gold
glowing on the other; cool, delicious, melting away in the mouth with a
flavor that just makes you want to kiss some smiling baby while it is
on your lips! Think of them! then imagine my feelings when I was hurried
into a hack, and rattled off to the steamboat with the promise of a hot
dinner in its internal regions. We saw peaches on every hand as we drove
along--in stores, on street tables, in baskets carried by Irish women,
who looked up at the carriage-window pleadingly as we drove along.

"Wait one minute," says I, as a woman came up with her long basket
brimming over with the luscious fruit; "I must have some peaches."

"Not a second," says E. E.; "don't you see Dempster beckoning from the
deck? The last bell is ringing. Come, come!"

The Irish woman lifted up her basket, and stood there enticing me. E. E.
rushed up the plank, calling out: "Make haste, make haste!"

Cecilia sung out: "Come along, Phoemie!"

Two men had hold of the plank bridge. I had to cross then, or be left
behind. I cast one yearning look towards the basket,