Ahead the towers and spires of New York stand out in a picturesque outline against the sky. On either hand the water-line is fringed with the spars of ships and steamers. On the left stretches far away the low-lying shore of New Jersey; on the right, Brooklyn can be seen, rising upwards, a broken line of roofs and steeples. Further away, joining “the city of churches” to Manhattan, hangs in mid-air that marvel of science, the triple carriage, foot, and rail road known as the Brooklyn bridge. Around the “Yosemite,” as she ploughs along towards her quay, throng many busy steamers, outstripping, in the race for port, fleets of sailing vessels that are beating up the broad reaches of the river before the autumn wind.
VI.
“She is not quite pretty,” says a New York reporter, turning to me during his contemplation of Miss Terry, who is very picturesque as she sits by the taffrail at the stern; “but she is handsome, and she is distinguished. I think we would like to ask her a few questions; will you introduce us?”
I do the honors of this presentation. Miss Terry is too much under the influence of the wonderful scene that meets her gaze to receive the reporters with calmness.
“And this is New York!” she exclaims. “What a surprising place! And, oh, what a river! So different to the Thames! And to think that I am in New York! It does not seem possible. I cannot realize it.”
“If you had a message to send home to your friends, Miss Terry, what would it be?” asks Reporter No. 1, a more than usually bashful young man.
The question is a trifle unfortunate.
“Tell them I never loved home so well as now,” she answers, in her frank, impulsive way.
She turns her head away to hide her tears, and Reporter No. 2 remonstrates with his companion.