“And why didn’t you come by Niagara?” asked Miss Lamont.

“My dear, perhaps your uncle could tell you that I saw enough of Niagara when I was a young lady, during the war.  The cruelest thing you Yankees did was to force us, who couldn’t fight, to go over there for sympathy.  The only bearable thing about the fall of Richmond was that it relieved me from that Fall.  But where,” she added, turning to King, “are the rest of your party?”

“If you mean the Bensons,” said he, with a rather rueful countenance, “I believe they have gone to the White Mountains.”

“Oh, not lost, but gone before.  You believe?  If you knew the nights I have lain awake thinking about you two, or you three!  I fear you have not been wide-awake enough yourself.”

“I knew I could depend on you, Mrs. Farquhar, for that.”

The steamer was moving off, taking a wide sweep to follow the channel.  The passengers were all engaged in ascertaining the names of the islands and of the owners of the cottages and club-houses.  “It is a kind of information I have learned to dispense with,” said Mrs. Farquhar.  And the tourists, except three or four resolutely inquisitive, soon tired of it.  The islands multiplied; the boat wound in and out among them in narrow straits.  To sail thus amid rocky islets, hirsute with firs, promised to be an unfailing pleasure.  It might have been, if darkness had not speedily fallen.  But it is notable how soon passengers on a steamer become indifferent and listless in any sort of scenery.  Where the scenery is monotonous and repeats itself mile after mile and hour after hour, an intolerable weariness falls upon the company.  The enterprising group who have taken all the best seats in the bow, with the intention of gormandizing the views, exhibit little staying power; either the monotony or the wind drives them into the cabin.  And passengers in the cabin occupying chairs and sofas, surrounded by their baggage, always look bored and melancholy.

“I always think,” said Mrs. Farquhar, “that I am going to enjoy a ride on a steamer, but I never do.  It is impossible to get out of a draught, and the progress is so slow that variety enough is not presented to the eye to keep one from ennui.”  Nevertheless, Mrs. Farquhar and King remained on deck, in such shelter as they could find, during the three hours’ sail, braced up by the consciousness that they were doing their duty in regard to the enterprise that has transformed this lovely stream into a highway of display and enjoyment.  Miss Lamont and the artist went below, frankly confessing that they could see all that interested them from the cabin windows.  And they had their reward; for in this little cabin, where supper was served, a drama was going on between the cook and the two waiting-maids and the cabin boy, a drama of love and coquetry and jealousy and hope deferred, quite as important to those concerned as any of the watering-place comedies, and played with entire unconsciousness of the spectators.