I was yet hesitating, when the Prince, who
had possibly received some quieting assurance from the portier, himself
stepped forward, stammered that the Princess would, without doubt, be
charmed to receive me later, and skipped upstairs, leaving the
impression on my mind that he contemplated ordering his bill at once.
There was no excuse for further prolonging the interview. "Say good-by
to the strange gentleman, Sarah," suggested Sarah's companion stiffly.
I looked at the child in the wild hope of recognizing some prompt
resistance to the suggestion that would have identified her with the
lost Sarah of my youth--but in vain. "Good-by, sir," said the affected
little creature, dropping a mechanical curtsey. "Thank you very much
for remembering my mother." "Good-by, Sarah!" It was indeed good-by
forever.

For on my way to my room I came suddenly upon the Prince, in a recess
of the upper hall, addressing somebody through an open door with a
querulous protest, whose wild extravagance of statement was grotesquely
balanced by its utter feeble timidity of manner. "It is," said the
Prince, "indeed a grave affair. We have here hundreds of socialists,
emissaries from lawless countries and impossible places, who travel
thousands of miles to fall upon our hearts and embrace us. They
establish an espionage over us; they haunt our walks in incredible
numbers; they hang in droves upon our footsteps; Heaven alone saves us
from a public osculation at any moment! They openly allege that they
have dandled us on their knees at recent periods; washed and dressed
us, and would do so still. Our happiness, our security--"

"Don't be a fool, Prince. Do shut up!"

The Prince collapsed and shrank away, and I hurried past the open door.
A tall, magnificent-looking woman was standing before a glass,
arranging her heavy red hair. The face, which had been impatiently
turned towards the door, had changed again to profile, with a frown
still visible on the bent brow. Our eyes met as I passed. The next
moment the door slammed, and I had seen the last of Sarah Walker.

A SHIP OF '49

I

It had rained so persistently in San Francisco during the first week of
January, 1854, that a certain quagmire in the roadway of Long Wharf had
become impassable, and a plank was thrown over its dangerous depth.
Indeed, so treacherous was the spot that it was alleged, on good
authority, that a hastily embarking traveler had once hopelessly lost