“Oh! poor things ... poor things ... with their Promised Land—Dakota or Colorado! In the daytime they have the sun which makes their brains boil, scorches the ground, dries up the springs, and brings forth endless numbers of mosquitoes to sting their bodies and try their patience. The Promised Land! At night they have the terrible cold to make their eyes smart, to stiffen their joints, and ruin their lungs. The Promised Land! It is just death in some out-of-the-world place after fruitless appeals to the justice of their fellow countrymen. They will breathe their life out in a sob or in a terrible curse of hatred. God will have mercy on all of them, though, for it is piteous to think that all these poor creatures are delivered over with their feet bound by suffering, and their hands bound by hope, to the slave drivers who trade in white slaves. And when I think that the money is in the purser’s cash box which the slave driver has paid for the transport of all these poor creatures! Money that has been collected by rough hands or trembling fingers. Poor money economized, copper by copper, tear by tear. When I think of all this it makes me wish that we could be shipwrecked, that _we_ could be all killed, and all of those saved.” With these words I hurried away to my cabin to have a good cry, for I was seized with a great love for humanity and intense grief that I could do nothing, absolutely nothing!... The following morning I awoke late, as I had not fallen asleep until near dawn. My cabin was full of visitors and they were all holding small parcels half concealed. I rubbed my sleepy eyes and could not quite understand the meaning of their invasion. “My dear Sarah,” said Mme. Guérard, coming to me and kissing me, “don’t imagine that this day, your fête day, could be forgotten by those who love you.” “Oh!” I exclaimed, “is it the 23d?” “Yes, and here is the first of the remembrances from the absent ones.”