waves (bleu a force d’etre noir, as Alexandre Dumas describes such tresses), untortured by crimping-pins or curling-tongs, were rolled back in plain folds above her low, broad brow.  Her eyes would have lent beauty to a plainer face.  Large almost to a fault, of that dark, clear blue which is too perfect and too transparent ever to look black even under the shadow of such long, thick eyelashes as shaded them in the present instance, they were perfectly magnificent; and their lustrous azure and ever-varying expression lent to the mobile countenance of their possessor its most potent and peculiar charm.

She was the first to speak.  “Do you not think you had better retire to your berth?” she asked.  “The rocking of the ship is increasing, and we had better, early as it is, settle ourselves for the night, before it becomes so violent as to prevent us from moving.”

At this moment two porters made their appearance laden with packages.  Two small new trunks—­one marked R.S., the other M.N.—­were deposited on the floor and identified by their possessors.  The sick girl then attempted, with trembling hands, to disembarrass herself of her apparel, but it was not without much assistance from her companion that she was enabled to remove her traveling costume and make her preparations for retiring.  At last, however, she was ready, and was about to make an attempt to reach the upper berth, which was the one allotted to her by number, when a quick, imperative gesture from her companion stopped her.

“No, no,” she said:  “you must take the lower berth.  I can reach the upper one without any trouble, and you are not strong enough for so much exertion.”

“You are very, very kind,” said the invalid, gratefully.  She sank back on the pillow and watched the other for some minutes in silence, as she quietly and quickly gathered up and put in order the scattered articles with which the state-room was strewn.

“Will you not give me that little black bag?” she said at last.  “Thanks! that is it.  I wished to be certain that I had put my letter of introduction in it.  Ah! here it is, quite safe.  It would never do for me to lose that letter, for the lady with whom I am going to live as governess has never seen me, and she might take me for an impostor were I to come without it.  An English lady who was her most intimate friend engaged me for her.  I wonder what New York is like?—­very rough, and wild, no doubt, and I am afraid I shall be much annoyed by the rattlesnakes.  You are going to New York too, are you not?”

“I am.”

“Have you friends there?”

“None.”

“I wish I had some acquaintances among our fellow-passengers, but I do not know a single one.  Do you?”

“No.”

“You have not told me your name yet.  Mine is Marion Nugent; and yours—­”

“Is not so pretty a one—­Rhoda Steele.”