As soon as Celeste heard of our arrival in New Orleans she hastened to us.  She was a good creature; humble, respectful, and always ready to serve.  She was an excellent cook and washer, and, what we still more prized, a lady’s maid and hairdresser of the first order.  My sister and I were glad to see her, and overwhelmed her with questions about Carlo, their children, their plans, and our traveling companions.

“Ah!  Momzelle Suzanne, the little Madame Carpentier seems to me a fine lady, ever so genteel; but the Irish woman!  Ah! grand Dieu! she puts me in mind of a soldier.  I’m afraid of her.  She smokes—­she swears—­she carries a pistol, like a man.”

At last the 15th of May came, and papa took us on board the flatboat and helped us to find our way to our apartment.  If my father had allowed Carlo, he would have ruined himself in furnishing our room; but papa stopped him and directed it himself.  The flatboat had been divided into four chambers.  These were covered by a slightly arching deck, on which the boat was managed by the moving of immense sweeps that sent her forward.  The room in the stern, surrounded by a sort of balcony, which Monsieur Carpentier himself had made, belonged to him and his wife; then came ours, then that of Celeste and her family, and the one at the bow was the Irishwoman’s.  Carlo and Gordon had crammed the provisions, tools, carts, and plows into the corners of their respective apartments.  In the room which our father was to share with us he had had Mario make two wooden frames mounted on feet.  These were our beds, but they were supplied with good bedding and very white sheets.  A large cypress table, on which we saw a pile of books and our workboxes; a washstand, also of cypress, but well furnished and surmounted by a mirror; our trunks in a corner; three rocking-chairs—­this was all our furniture.  There was neither carpet nor curtain.

All were on board except the Carpentier couple.  Suzanne was all anxiety to see the Irishwoman.  Poor Suzanne! how distressed she was not to be able to speak English!  So, while I was taking off my capotte—­as the sun-bonnet of that day was called—­and smoothing my hair at the glass, she had already tossed her capotte upon papa’s bed and sprung up the ladder that led to the deck. (Each room had one.) I followed a little later and had the satisfaction of seeing Madame Margaretto Gordon, commonly called “Maggie” by her husband and “Maw” by her son Patrick.  She was seated on a coil of rope, her son on the boards at her feet.  An enormous dog crouched beside them, with his head against Maggie’s knee.  The mother and son were surprisingly clean.  Maggie had on a simple brown calico dress and an apron of blue ticking.  A big red kerchief was crossed on her breast and its twin brother covered her well combed and greased black hair.  On her feet were blue stockings and heavy leather shoes.  The blue ticking shirt and pantaloons and waistcoat of Master Pat were