“Ha! ha!” roared Captain Sam; “the idea of a steamboat captain with religion! Why, bless your dear, innocent, old soul, the fust time he wanted to wood up in a hurry, his religion would git, quicker’n lightnin’. The only steamboatman I ever knowed in the meetin’-house line went up for seven year for settin’ fire to his own boat to git the insurance.” Mrs. Simmons could not recall at the moment the remembrance of any pious captain, so she ceased laboring with Captain Sam. But when he went out, she placed on his table a tract, entitled “The Furnace Seven Times Heated,” which tract the captain considerately handed to his engineer, supposing it to be a circular on intensified caloric. Year after year the captain laid up for repairs, and put up with Mrs. Simmons. Year after year he was jolly, genial, chivalrous, generous, but—not what good Mrs. Simmons earnestly wanted him to be. He would buy tickets to all the church fairs, give free passages to all preachers recommended by Mrs. Simmons, and on Sunday morning he would respectfully escort the old lady as far as the church-door. On one occasion, when Mrs. Simmons’s church building was struck by lightning, a deacon dropped in with a subscription-paper, while the captain was in. The generous steamboatman immediately put himself down for fifty dollars; and although he improved the occasion to condemn severely the meanness of certain holy people, and though his language seemed to create an atmosphere which must certainly melt the money—for those were specie days—Mrs. Simmons declared to herself that “he couldn’t be fur from the kingdom when his heart was so little set on Mammon as that.” “He’s too good for Satan—the Lord _must_ hev him,” thought the good old lady. Once again the Queen Ann needed repairing, and again the captain found himself at his old boarding-place. Good Mrs. Simmons surveyed him tenderly through her glasses, and instantly saw there had something unusual happened. Could it be—oh! if it only _could_ be—that he had put off the old man, which is sin! She longed to ask him, yet, with a woman’s natural delicacy, she determined to find out without direct questioning. “Good season, cap’en?” she inquired. “A No. 1, ma’am—positively first-class,” replied the captain. “Hed good health—no ager?” she continued. “Never was better, my dear woman—healthy right to the top notch,” he answered. “It must be,” said good Mrs. Simmons, to herself—“it can’t be nothin’ else. Bless the Lord!” This pious sentiment she followed up by a hymn, whose irregularities of time and tune were fully atoned for by the spirit with which she sung. A knock at the door interrupted her. “Come in!” she cried. Captain Sam entered, and laid a good-sized, flat flask on the table, saying: “I’ve just been unpackin’, an’ I found this; p’r’aps you ken use it fur cookin’. It’s no use to me; I’ve sworn off drinkin’.” And before the astonished lady could say a word, he was gone.