“’Be content that the flower is to be yours.  Do not become too eager to pluck it from its parent stem, I must have my dear girl with me for at least one winter.  In the spring she shall be yours.’

“‘Oh, no!  Mr. Ballantine,’ I said in alarm.  ’You are not going to rob me of her for so long a time?’ I spoke with warmth.

“‘Rob you of her!’ ejaculated the father, in seeming half indignation.  ’You are unreasonable and very selfish, my dear boy!  Here you have had her for five years, and after a little while are to have her for life, and yet are unwilling to give me even the boon of a few short months with my own child.  You are not generous!’

“I felt the rebuke, and confessed that I had been moved by too selfish feelings.

“‘If you think the time long,’ he added, ’all you have to do is to take a packet and come round—­we shall welcome you with joy.’

“’That I shall no doubt be compelled to do, for I will not be able to exist for five or six long months away from Eugenia.’

“’So I should suppose.  Well, come along; and after I get you there, I will see if I can’t inoculate you with a love of southern people, southern habits, and southern manners.  I am sanguine that you will like us.’

“‘Well, perhaps so,’ I said.  ‘But we will see.’

“The time for the departure of Mr. Ballantine and his daughter was set for the first of October.  The few remaining days passed on fleet wings, and then, after completing the necessary arrangements, Eugenia left Troy with her father for New York, thence to go by sea to her native city.  I accompanied them down the river, and spent two days with them in the city, previous to the sailing of the ship Empress, in which they were to embark.  Our parting was tender, yet full of hope for a speedy meeting.  I had already made up my mind to visit New Orleans about January, and remain there during the winter.  Our marriage was then to be solemnized.

“After the sailing of the Empress, I returned to Troy, to await the news of her safe arrival at New Orleans.  I felt gloomy and desolate, and for my uncompanionable humor received sundry playful jibes or open-rebukes from my friends.  In about a week I began to examine the shipping lists of the New York papers, in the hope of seeing some notice of the good ship that contained my heart’s best treasure.  But no record of her having been spoken at sea met my eyes as I scanned the newspapers day after day with an eager and increasing hope, until four, five, and six weeks had passed away.  So much troubled had I now become, that I went down to New York to see the owners of the ship.

“‘Has the Empress arrived out yet?’ I asked, on entering the counting-room.

“‘Not at the latest dates,’ was the reply, made in a voice expressive of concern.

“‘Is not her passage a very long one?’

“‘We should have had news of her arrival ten days ago.’