vening should find us
riding in our harbor.

Then there was a little, low consulting at the door with the renowned
"ship's doctor," who positively refused to approach me because he had
just come from a case of ship-fever in the steerage, which he feared to
communicate to one in my precarious state, but who sent in his
imperative orders that I should have soup and sherry-cobbler forthwith,
and try and build up my strength for the time of debarkation--speaking
in a low, growling voice divested of its former clearness, but still
strangely resembling that of Basil Bainrothe!

"The poor man is so fagged out," said Mrs. Clayton, as she brought in my
broth and wine, "that his very voice is changed. He is a good soul, and
has shown you great interest. Some day you must send him a present, that
is, if you are able; but just now all you have to think of is getting
safe ashore. Lady Anastasia will go to her friends, probably, or to
those of the gentleman she is engaged to; but I do not mean to forsake
you until I see you better, and in good hands."

I know not how it was that my heart sank so strangely at this
announcement. The woman was kind--tender, even--and had probably saved
my life, and yet her presence to me was a punishment worse than pain, a
positive evil greater than any other.

"I shall go to the Astor House," I faltered. "The captain has promised
me his escort thither."

"Yes, yes, I know, he has told me all about it; but your friends may not
be in waiting, and it is simply our duty to see you in their hands. And
now drink your sangaree. See, I have broken a biscuit in the glass, and
it is well seasoned with lemon and nutmeg. There, now, that is right; a
few spoonfuls of soup, and you will feel strengthened for your
undertaking. I will sit quietly in the corner until you have your rest."

"No, I prefer to see Christian Garth before I try to sleep--the man who
steered our raft--and the young girl he saved, and the baby--let them
all come to me, and we will go on shore together."

I spoke these words with a sort of desperation, as though they contained
my last hope of justice or protection from a fate which, however
obscurely, seemed to threaten me, as we feel the thunder-storm brooding
in the tranquil atmosphere of summer.

"Christian Garth!" she repeated, looking at me over her tortoise-shell
spectacles, and, quietly drawing out a snuffbox of the same material,
she proceeded to fill her narrow nostrils therewi