It is an interesting thing to await, on the wharf of a large city, the incoming of a great steamer.  The feeling of expectation in the air is exhilarating, the bustle, hurry and excitement are contagious; involuntarily one straightens up, and grows alert, every sense on the qui vive, eyes observant, intelligence active, memory garnering impressions.  Note the variety of expression in the faces of the waiting crowd—­the eager longing, the restless expectation of some; the listless inactivity, indifference, or idle curiosity of others.  Stand aside, if you have no business here, no personal interest in the event about to happen, and watch your fellow-men for your own amusement and profit.  Many a glimpse of domestic history, many a peep into complex human nature will be vouchsafed you, and if the gift of fancy be yours, you can piece out many a story.  See; the throbbing monster has reached her resting place, her fires may subside, her heart may cease its regular pulsations, her machinery may lapse into well-earned rest, given over to polishing and oil and flannel rags.  The bridge is down, the waiting crowds rush together, the wharf crowd merging into the deck crowd, and both pouring landward again in an eager flood.  There are embraces, kisses, congratulations, tears, a continuous stream of questions and reply, and a never-ending reference to luggage.

There they stand, a little group apart, close beside the railing, with hands outstretched and eyes alight; and amid the bustle and confusion, the embraces and hand-clasping, the collection of hand-traps, and inquiries about checks, no one had time to notice that, at sight of each other, two faces paled, or that two hands as they met were cold and tremulous.

In a marvelously short time after landing, the party were packed into carriages, and whirled away to their hotel, leaving their heavy luggage in the jaws of the custom-house to be rescued later by the general and Berkeley.  As they left the wharf, Pocahontas noticed another steamer forging slowly in, and preparing to occupy the berth next that of the Cunarder.

A couple of hours after the arrival of the European travelers at the St. Andrew’s Hotel, a squarely-built young man of medium height, with a handsome, bronzed face, and heavy, brown mustache, sprung lightly up the steps of the hotel and passed into the clerk’s office.  Here he ordered a room and delivered his valise and umbrella to a porter, explaining that he should probably remain several days.  Then he turned to the book, pushed toward him by the clerk, to register his name.

“You are late, sir,” remarked that functionary, affably; not that he felt interest in the matter, but because to converse was his nature.

“Late, for what?” inquired the gentleman, without glancing up.

“For nothing, in particular,” replied the clerk.  “I only made the remark because the other Cunard passengers got in an hour ago.”