"It may be all right up there," the squire's sister began to say to the actor's wife—and hushed. But Ramsey had heard, as she watched her mother hurry below to the young Marburg brother lying as limp and faintly pink in death as her brother up here in life; heard, and thought of the perils in store for Hugh and his kin and her and hers unless this sweet, wise mother could charm them away as sunlight charms away pestilence. Mr. Gilmore called her:
"Come, we've lots to do."
But how could one come just then? A slight turn of the boat's head was putting Natchez Island close on her larboard bow and, seven miles away, bringing hazily into sight Natchez herself, both on her bluffs and "under-the-hill." Nay, more; abreast the Votaress was another fine boat. The Westwood, she was named. Her going was beautiful, yet the Votaress was gradually passing her. The Yazoo pair knew her well. When they made salute toward two men who stood near her forward skylights, one of them returned it.
"Why should he be so solemn?" asked the wife.
"Why shouldn't he?" laughed Ramsey.
"Because he's a mere passenger, on his wedding tour."
"Humph!" said Ramsey. "Weddings are solemn things. Is that other man the captain?" she asked the husband.
"No, I regret to say, he's only her first clerk."
"Why should you regret to say it?" inquired the girl; but the wife, too, had a question:
"Do you think there's anything wrong?"