"She came on a raft."
"On a raft!" exclaimed the man. "Miss Emily?"
"It was her own choice. I tried to have her take a steamer; but she would not. But there was a house on the raft, and she had a good bed."
"Of course her father has felt very bad, and since the funeral he has fretted a great deal about her."
"Since what funeral?" I asked.
"Her mother's. Poor Mrs. Goodridge was brought down from Cairo, packed in ice, and the funeral was a week ago yesterday."
One of the many steamers which passed us on our way down the river had brought the remains of Emily's mother, and they had already been committed to their last resting-place.
The ringing of the door-bell called the servant from us. We heard the heavy step of a man, as he went up stairs; but we did not witness the first interview between Emily and her father. They had much to say, and we did not see them for half an hour. When they entered the parlor together, both of them were tolerably calm; but the traces of tears were still visible in their eyes.
"Young man," said Mr. Goodridge, taking me by the hand, after Emily had introduced Flora and me by name, "I am indebted to you for the life of my child."
He wept, and could not utter what he evidently intended to say. My cheek burned, for in my sympathy for the poor girl and her father I had quite forgotten my hard swim after the disaster. I stammered some reply, and did not even then know what I was saying.