“Who’s that?” asked Mr. Leonidas Quattles, a long-haired, swarthy youth, who looked as if he might be half Indian.
“That’s Mr. Vance of Noo Orleenz,” replied the Colonel; “he’s my partik’lar friend, an’ a perfek high-tone gemmleman, I don’t car’ whar’ the other is.”
“How stands the Champion now?” said another of the party.
“Three miles astern, and thar she’ll stick,” exclaimed Quattles.
As Vance reascended to the upper deck, he encountered the children at play. Little Clara Berwick, in high glee, was running as fast as her infantile feet could carry her, pursued by Master Onslow, while Hattie, the mulatto woman in attendance, held out the child’s bonnet, and begged her to come and have it on. But Clara, with her light-brown ringlets flying on the breeze, was bent on trying her speed, and the boy, fearful that she would fall, was trying to arrest her. Before he could do this, his fears were realized. Clara tripped and fell, striking her forehead. Vance caught her up, and her parents, with Mr. Onslow and Hattie, gathered round her, while the boy looked on in speechless distress.
The little girl was so stunned by the blow, that for nearly a minute she could neither cry nor speak. Then opening her eyes on Mr. Vance, who, seating himself, held her in his lap, she began to grieve in a low, subdued whimper.
“The dear little creature! How she tries to restrain her tears!” said Vance. “Cry, darling, cry!” he added, while the moisture began to suffuse his own eyes.
Then, taking from his pocket a small morocco case, he said to Mrs. Berwick, “I have some diluted arnica here, madam, the best lotion in the world for a bruise. With your permission I will apply it.”
“Do so,” said the mother. “I know the remedy.”
And, pulling from a side pocket of his coat a fresh handkerchief of the finest linen, he wet it with the liquid, and applied it tenderly to the bruise, all the while engaging the child’s attention with prattle suited to her comprehension, and telling her what a brave good little girl she was.