A stout, handsome, and showy woman was in the ladies’ cabin. I asked to be shown my berth. She looked hard at me, muttered something about its being unusual for passengers to come on board at that hour, and seemed disposed to be less than civil. What a face she had—so comely, so insolent, and so selfish!

“Now that I am on board, I shall certainly stay here,” was my answer. “I will trouble you to show me my berth.”

She complied, but sullenly. I took off my bonnet, arranged my things, and lay down. Some difficulties had been passed through; a sort of victory was won. My homeless, anchorless, unsupported mind had again leisure for a brief repose. Till the Vivid arrived in harbour no further action would be required of me; but then——Oh! I could not look forward. Harassed, exhausted, I lay in a half-trance.

The stewardess talked all night—not to me but to the young steward, her son and her very picture. He passed in and out of the cabin continually. They disputed, they quarrelled, they made it up again twenty times in the course of the night. She professed to be writing a letter home—she said to her father. She read passages of it aloud, heeding me no more than a stock; perhaps she believed me asleep. Several of these passages appeared to comprise family secrets, and bore special reference to one “Charlotte,” a younger sister, who, from the bearing of the epistle, seemed to be on the brink of perpetrating a romantic and imprudent match. Loud was the protest of this elder lady against the distasteful union. The dutiful son laughed his mother’s correspondence to scorn. She defended it, and raved at him. They were a strange pair. She might be thirty-nine or forty, and was buxom and blooming as a girl of twenty. Hard, loud, vain, and vulgar, her mind and body alike seemed brazen and imperishable. I should think, from her childhood, she must have lived in public stations, and in her youth might very likely have been a barmaid.

Towards morning her discourse ran on a new theme—“the Watsons,” a certain expected family party of passengers, known to her, it appeared, and by her much esteemed on account of the handsome profit realized in their fees. She said, “it was as good as a little fortune to her whenever this family crossed.”

At dawn all were astir, and by sunrise the passengers came on board. Boisterous was the welcome given by the stewardess to the “Watsons,” and great was the bustle made in their honour. They were four in number, two males and two females. Besides them, there was but one other passenger—a young lady, whom a gentlemanly though languid-looking man escorted. The two groups offered a marked contrast. The Watsons were doubtless rich people, for they had the confidence of conscious wealth in their bearing. The women—youthful both of them, and one perfectly handsome, as far as physical beauty went—were dressed richly, gaily, and absurdly out of character for the circumstances. Their bonnets with bright flowers, their velvet cloaks and silk dresses, seemed better suited for park or promenade than for a damp packet- deck. The men were of low stature, plain, fat, and vulgar. The oldest, plainest, greasiest, broadest I soon found was the husband—the bridegroom, I suppose, for she was very young—of the beautiful girl. Deep was my amazement at this discovery, and deeper still when I perceived that, instead of being desperately wretched in such a union, she was gay even to giddiness. “Her laughter,” I reflected, “must be the mere frenzy of despair.” And even while this thought was crossing my mind, as I stood leaning quiet and solitary against the ship’s side, she came tripping up to me, an utter stranger, with a camp- stool in her hand, and smiling a smile of which the levity puzzled and startled me, though it showed a perfect set of perfect teeth, she offered me the accommodation of this piece of furniture. I declined it, of course, with all the courtesy I could put into my manner. She danced off heedless and lightsome. She must have been good-natured; but what had made her marry that individual, who was at least as much like an oil-barrel as a man?

The other lady passenger, with the gentleman companion, was quite a girl, pretty and fair. Her simple print dress, untrimmed straw-bonnet, and large shawl, gracefully worn, formed a costume plain to Quakerism, yet, for her, becoming enough. Before the gentleman quitted her, I observed him throwing a glance of scrutiny over all the passengers, as if to ascertain in what company his charge would be left. With a