In the first cabin were more than two hundred souls--young and old,
maids and matrons, young and middle-aged men, and a few beyond the
allotted three score years and ten.
Mlle. Carenta, a member of a troupe of grand opera singers, whom many
had heard during the company's engagement in New York, arose from the
piano amid cries of "bravo," for her superb vocalism. She had sung
Gounod's _Ave Maria_.
"How sweetly she sang," said Alice, as she touched her husband's arm
to more fully draw his attention from the beautiful vocalist. "Don't
you think so, Quincy?"
"Divine," was the reply. "One can almost fancy the doors of Heaven
are open."
The cabin was warm--in reality, hot,--but Alice shuddered as she had
when chilled by the mist and cold. She caught quickly at her
husband's arm.
"I wish we were safe at Fernborough Hall with Aunt Ella."
"And so do I, my dear, but the walking is poor, and we must put up
with our present method of locomotion for a few days longer. Think of
the good times we have had and those in store for us."
Alice reassured by the words and the accompanying pressure of
Quincy's hand exclaimed: "How delightful it was in the country, and
how I enjoyed our visits. I shall always love Mason's Corner as it
was called when--"
"I met my fate," her husband added. "My line fell in a pleasant
place--"
"Don't call me a fish," said his wife, as she smiled half
reprovingly.
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