I would have liked to have seen brother’s face at being thus addressed; for I knew that there was a pint, at least, of the best old Virginia blood in his cheeks and forehead.  The moment that he turned round, there was something in his air which showed the man of the world his mistake.

“I beg your pardon, Sir,” he said quickly.  “Your dress made me mistake you for one of the sailors; but I see from your complexion that you have not been long on the sea.”

Clarendon received the apology very graciously, and now became interested in conversing with the stranger.  Before parting with the acquaintance made thus unceremoniously, they had exchanged names,—­for cards they had none at hand,—­and the English gentleman partly promised to visit Clarendon Beverley at his own plantation of Altamac, which brother is to superintend on his return home.

There was a young Italian girl on board, as nurse to one of the ladies, who reminded me of a poor little fellow that recently died at Boston.  David told me about him, and said that his face was the saddest that he ever saw.  He earned a scanty support in a strange land by exhibiting two little white mice, which he carried in a small wooden cage hung around his neck.  He offered to show them without asking for money, and when they ran up and down his arms, and over his hands, he would look upon them with the most mournful affection, as if they were the only friends he had on earth.  Every one who saw him longed to know his history; but he could speak but little English, and shrank from the notice of strangers.  He was taken sick and carried to the Massachusetts Hospital, where his gentleness won him many friends.  But they could not stop the progress of his disease, or comfort his poor, lonely heart.  The night before he died, no one near him could sleep for his piteous moaning and sad cries,—­“I am afraid to die; I want my mother.”

O Bennie! if we had seen this poor little fellow, so unprotected and sorrowful, with no means of support but exhibiting those poor little white mice, we should, I am sure, have felt that we could not be too thankful for all the comforts of our dear home.  Yet, when I heard this story, the contrast with my own favored lot did not at first make me happier; for I began to realize how many miserable beings there are in the world, whose suffering we cannot relieve, and may never know.  I could not eat a mouthful that day, for thinking of the melancholy little Italian boy.  I wonder if that was his sister on board the steamer!  How could his mother let him go so far away from her?  Perhaps, though, she was starving at home, and had heard of America as a land of plenty.