l; nor would her father, fallen
as he is, permit her to keep company with him on a Red River steamboat.

In this case, there is no condescension on the part of the
ex-Mississippian planter. He of Louisiana is his equal in social rank,
and now his superior in point of wealth, by hundreds, thousands. For
Luis Dupre is one of the largest landowners along the line of Red River
plantations, while his slaves number several hundred field-hands, and
house domestics: the able-bodied of both, without enumerating the aged,
the imbecile, and piccaninnies, more costly than profitable.

If, in the presence of such a prosperous man, Colonel Armstrong reflects
painfully upon his own reduced state, it is different with his daughter
Jessie.

Into her ear Luis Dupre has whispered sweet words--a speech telling her,
that not only are his lands, houses, and slaves at her disposal, but
along with them his heart and hand.

It is but repeating what he said on the night of the Natchez ball; his
impulsive Creole nature having then influenced him to speak as he felt.

Now, on the gliding steamboat, he reiterates the proposal, more
earnestly pressing for an answer.

And he gets it in the affirmative. Before the "Belle of Natchez" has
reached fifty miles from the Red River's mouth, Luis Dupre and Jessie
Armstrong have mutually confessed affection, clasped hands, let lips
meet, and tongues swear, never more to live asunder. That journey
commenced upon the Mississippi is to continue throughout life.

In their case, there is no fear of aught arising to hinder the
consummation of their hopes; no stern parent to stand in the way of
their life's happiness. By the death of both father and mother, Luis
Dupre has long since been emancipated from parental authority, and is as
much his own master as he is of his many slaves.

On the other side, Jessie Armstrong is left free to her choice; because
she has chosen well. Her father has given ready consent; or at all
events said enough to ensure his doing so.

The huge "high-pressure" steam craft which ply upon the western rivers
of America bear but a very slight resemblance to the black, long, low--
hulled leviathans that plough the briny waste of ocean. The steamboat
of the Mississippi more resembles a house, two stories in height, and,
not unfrequently, something of a third--abode of mates and pilots.
Rounded off at stern, the structure, of oblong oval shape, is
universally painted chalk-white;