“A rich Southern planter and his family!” I said to myself, and took my seat opposite them.

“Nothing, Michel,” I replied to the waiter’s recital of his bill-of-fare.  “Nothing but a glass of iced water and bit of dry toast.  Only that, thank you, Michel.”

My appetite was good, particularly as, in consequence of the agitation of the water opposite Point Judith, my stomach had ceased to be occupied with relics of previous meals.  My object in denying myself, and accepting simply hermit fare, was to convey to observers my grief for my bereavement.  I have always deemed it proper for persons of distinguished birth to deplore the loss of friends in public.  Hunger, if extreme, can always be reduced by furtive supplies from the pastry-cook.

I could not avoid observing that the party opposite had each gone through the whole breakfast bill-of-fare in a desultory, but exhaustive manner.

As I ordered my more delicate meal, the younger of the two gentlemen cast upon me a look of latent truculence, such as I have often remarked among my compatriots of the South.  He seemed to detect an unexpressed sarcasm in the contrast between my gentle refection and his robust dejeuner.

I hastened to disarm such a suspicion by a half-articulate sigh.  No one, however crass, could have failed to be touched by this token of a grief so bitter as to refuse luxurious nutriment.

As I sighed, I glanced with tender meaning at the young lady.  Her feminine heart, I hoped, would interpret and pity me.

I fancied, that, at my look, her cheeks, though swarthy, blushed.  She was certainly interested, and somewhat confused, and paused a moment in her mastication.  Ham was the viand she was engaged upon, and she (playfully, I have no doubt) ate with her knife.  I have remarked the same occasional superiority to what might be called Fourchettism and its prejudices in others of established position in society.

I lavished a little languid and not too condescending civility upon the party by passing them, when Michel was absent, the salt, the butter, the bread, and other commonplace condiments.  Presently I withdrew, that my absence might make me desired.  Before I did so, however, I took pains, by the exhibition of the “New York Herald” in my hands, to show that my political sentiments were unexceptionable.

I lost no time in consulting the books of the hotel for the names and homes of the strangers.

I read as follows:—­

Sachary Mellasys and Lady,     }   Bayou La
Miss Saccharissa Mellasys,      }   Farouche,
Mellasys Plickaman,             }      La.

Saccharissa Mellasys!  I rolled the name like a sweet morsel under my tongue.  I forgot that she was not beautiful in form, feature, or complexion.  How slight, indeed, is the charm of beauty, when compared with other charms more permanent!  Ah, yes!

The complexion of Miss Mellasys announced a diet of alternate pickles and pralines during her adolescent years,—­the pickles taken to excite an appetite for the pralines, the pralines absorbed to occupy the interval until pickle-time approached.  Neither her form nor her features were statuesque.  But the name glorified the person.