And the trunk, intimidated, doubtless, by this resolute statement, gave in.  The hasp snapped sharply in its hole, and Miss Ophelia turned the key, and pocketed it in triumph.

“Now we’re ready.  Where’s your papa?  I think it time this baggage was set out.  Do look out, Eva, and see if you see your papa.”

“O, yes, he’s down the other end of the gentlemen’s cabin, eating an orange.”

“He can’t know how near we are coming,” said aunty; “hadn’t you better run and speak to him?”

“Papa never is in a hurry about anything,” said Eva, “and we haven’t come to the landing.  Do step on the guards, aunty.  Look! there’s our house, up that street!”

The boat now began, with heavy groans, like some vast, tired monster, to prepare to push up among the multiplied steamers at the levee.  Eva joyously pointed out the various spires, domes, and way-marks, by which she recognized her native city.

“Yes, yes, dear; very fine,” said Miss Ophelia.  “But mercy on us! the boat has stopped! where is your father?”

And now ensued the usual turmoil of landing—­waiters running twenty ways at once—­men tugging trunks, carpet-bags, boxes—­women anxiously calling to their children, and everybody crowding in a dense mass to the plank towards the landing.

Miss Ophelia seated herself resolutely on the lately vanquished trunk, and marshalling all her goods and chattels in fine military order, seemed resolved to defend them to the last.

“Shall I take your trunk, ma’am?” “Shall I take your baggage?” “Let me ’tend to your baggage, Missis?” “Shan’t I carry out these yer, Missis?” rained down upon her unheeded.  She sat with grim determination, upright as a darning-needle stuck in a board, holding on her bundle of umbrella and parasols, and replying with a determination that was enough to strike dismay even into a hackman, wondering to Eva, in each interval, “what upon earth her papa could be thinking of; he couldn’t have fallen over, now,—­but something must have happened;”—­and just as she had begun to work herself into a real distress, he came up, with his usually careless motion, and giving Eva a quarter of the orange he was eating, said,

“Well, Cousin Vermont, I suppose you are all ready.”

“I’ve been ready, waiting, nearly an hour,” said Miss Ophelia; “I began to be really concerned about you.

“That’s a clever fellow, now,” said he.  “Well, the carriage is waiting, and the crowd are now off, so that one can walk out in a decent and Christian manner, and not be pushed and shoved.  Here,” he added to a driver who stood behind him, “take these things.”

“I’ll go and see to his putting them in,” said Miss Ophelia.

“O, pshaw, cousin, what’s the use?” said St. Clare.

“Well, at any rate, I’ll carry this, and this, and this,” said Miss Ophelia, singling out three boxes and a small carpet-bag.

“My dear Miss Vermont, positively you mustn’t come the Green Mountains over us that way.  You must adopt at least a piece of a southern principle, and not walk out under all that load.  They’ll take you for a waiting-maid; give them to this fellow; he’ll put them down as if they were eggs, now.”