I found the young ladies in the music room.  Miss Hempstead introduced herself by saying: 

“Perhaps you may have heard my name, although you do not know me.  My brother was a friend of Mrs. and Miss Greeley, and was purser of the Missouri.”

I was then somewhat surprised that I had not divined Miss Hempstead’s identity from the name and her black dress; but the burning of the Missouri made scarce any impression upon me at the time, surrounded as I was last fall by such heavy family afflictions; and the name of the young purser, whose tragic fate then filled the newspapers, had since then almost entirely passed from my memory.

An ordinary passenger ship is wrecked or burned, “Extras” are issued, a three days’ excitement follows, and it is then a thing of the past; but as the Missouri bore, on this memorable voyage, not indeed Caesar and his fortunes, but the supposed fiance of dear Ida, its loss is an event still interesting to the gossiping public.  It was useless to try to convince any one that no engagement had ever existed between Mr. Hempstead and Ida:  no one would credit my most solemn protestations.  Many people not personally acquainted with us, but who knew the facts “upon the best authority,” as outsiders usually do, said that the marriage was to have taken place before the election, but after Aunt Mary’s death it was postponed for three months.  Before two weeks had elapsed, however, Mr. Hempstead was, in the poetic language of the journals, “sleeping beneath the coral wave,” and poor Ida received as many well-meant condolences over his death as over Aunt Mary’s.

When the tragedy of last autumn was all over, the interest of the public was greater than ever, and Ida, “who had within four short weeks lost mother, lover, and father,” formed the subject of many a pathetic editorial and sermon.  A London journal styled Ida the “maiden widow,” spoke of uncle’s fond attachment to Mr. Hempstead, and announced that the loss of his prospective son-in-law was an affliction that precipitated Mr. Greeley’s death.

I first heard of Mr. Hempstead in the winter of 1869-70.  Aunt Mary, who was then commencing to fail, went with Ida to Nassau to spend the cold months.  Her state-room, engaged at the last moment, was a very uncomfortable one, and Mr. Hempstead, then purser of the Eagle, gave up for her use a large deck state-room with three windows—­a great comfort to Aunt Mary, who was always so partial to an airy bedroom.  The voyage proved, however, a very stormy one, and the waves dashed in through these three windows, quite drenching poor Ida, who suffered so much from sea-sickness as to be quite indifferent to danger or discomfort.

In writing to me after reaching Nassau, Ida mentioned Mr. Hempstead in a few words: 

“The purser was an agreeable and gentlemanly officer, and so kind to mamma.”

She did not, however, mention his name, and I never knew it till last summer.