Toasts were
drunk. Alice and Rosa sang and Florence accompanied and played
classic selections upon the piano.
"Bon voyage," cried Leopold, as they separated. "Make notes of
something really new, make a book of up-to-date travels, and our
house will publish it for you, for I'll recommend it no matter how
bad it is. We have to do that often for friends of the firm,--why not
for our own?"
A foggy night on the ocean. The barometer ranged low. An upward
glance disclosed a black mist--no sign of moon or stars. A bad night
on land, when trains of cars crash into others laden with humanity--
some dying mercifully without knowing the cause; others cruelly, by
slow cremation, with willing hands nearby powerless to help.
A bad night off shore, when freight-laden craft, deceived by beacon
lights, are beached upon the treacherous sand or dashed against
jagged rocks. The life-savers, with rocket, and gun and line, and
breeches-buoys, try in vain, and, as a last resort, grasp the oars of
the life-boat and bring to safety one or two of a crew of ten. Sad
hearts in homes when the news comes; but it is only one of the scenes
in the drama of life.
A bad night at sea--with a great ocean liner, its iron heart
pulsating, plunging through the black waves into dense mountains of
fog.
Despite the darkness and chill of the winter night, Quincy, Alice,
and Florence were on the deck of the _Altonia_.
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