“In the first Pennsylvanians,—­Captain Farrell’s company.”

“Captain Farrell’s!  I knew him well,—­a fine fellow and a gallant officer!  Many were the tears shed when the vomito carried him off,” said Henry, with much feeling.  “And you were one of his company?”

“Troth, I was, thin.  He was every inch a sodger and a gintleman.”

“And the box you brought on board contains his remains?”

“Upon me sowl it contains the body of as good a man as iver breathed the breath o’ life,” replied Pat, very emphatically.

“Very true.  You speak well of your captain, and he deserved all he will ever get of praise.  Here, Pat, is a dollar for you; and if you want anything, come to me.”

“Thank your honor,” replied Pat, uncovering, with a bow and a scrape of the foot.  “You are as near like poor Captain Farrell as one pay is like another.  Long life to your honor,—­may you live forever, and then die like a haro!”

“A genuine Irishman!” said Henry, as Pat descended to the main deck; “one in whom gratitude and faithfulness are as strong as life itself!”

“He seems a good sort of man,” returned Uncle Nathan, who had but little appreciation of the Irish heart.

The conversation was interrupted by the ringing of the supper-bell.  An eager multitude rushed to the cabin; but every seat was already occupied.  On a crowded boat on the Mississippi there is often much selfishness displayed.  On the Chalmetta half an hour before tea-time the most knowing of the passengers had stationed themselves in a line around the table, ready to charge upon the plates, like a file of soldiers, the moment the bell rang.  Those who did not understand the necessity of this precaution, on entering the cabin were much surprised to find every place occupied, and were comforted with the assurance of a second table.

Uncle Nathan and Henry secured seats which had been reserved for ladies who did not appear to claim them.  Opposite them were seated Emily and her uncle.  She was dressed in deep mourning, and her countenance was saddened by the gloom of affliction.  Her eyes were reddened by weeping, in which she had indulged freely in the quiet of her state-room.  By intense effort she had subdued her violent agitation, and a sad calmness rested upon her face, that belied her feelings.

Henry Carroll, who had not before been aware of her presence, was, as may be supposed, astonished at this meeting.  In her sable dress and melancholy aspect he read the sad affliction which had befallen her in the death of her father.  Their eyes met, and exchanged warmer greetings than their words could have done.  A sad smile—­the smile of pleasure—­rested upon her beautiful features, as they interchanged salutations.  Her pale cheek was slightly crimsoned with a tell-tale blush.  Her fluttering heart refused to retain its secret.

Henry expressed his grief at the melancholy event which had shrouded her in the weeds of mourning,—­not in words alone, but his sorrow for the death of a kind friend was more eloquently told in his countenance.