“There’s a boat coming, Milly,” she said, soberly enough; but Milly, thinking of one that would never return, had hardly the heart to look.
Boats on the river were always objects of interest then, however, and Molly presently turned.
“It’s a keel,” she said. “It must be a horse-boat, too, it comes so fast.”
“A Pittsburgh keel, it is likely,” Milly replied, apathetically; “or, maybe, Marietta.”
“Perhaps it is from New Orleans,” said Molly. “Oh, I wish we could hail them and ask if they had ever heard anything.”
They had no real intention of doing so bold a thing, yet for some moments they stood watching the approaching craft, which, to avoid the more rapid current, had been keeping well over to the Virginia shore.
“It’s going to cross!” Molly exclaimed, at last. “It’s heading this way! What a noise the paddles make!”—for the wind was southerly.
Sturdily the little keel stemmed the river current, making for the creek mouth.
“THEY ARE GOING TO CALL AT OUR LANDING!”