“Judge Onslow, late of Mississippi, and his son saved themselves by swimming. Among the bodies they identified was that of Mrs. Berwick of New York, wounded in the head. From the nature of the wound, her death must have been instantaneous. Her husband was badly scalded, and, on recognizing the body of his wife, and learning that his child was among the drowned, he became deeply agitated. He lingered till the next day at noon. The child had been in the keeping of a mulatto nurse. Mr. Burgess of St. Louis, who was saved, saw them both go overboard. It appears, however, that the nurse, with her charge in her arms, was seen holding on to a life-preserving stool; but they were both drowned, though every effort was made by Colonel Hyde, aided by Mr. Quattles of South Carolina, to save them. “We regret to learn that Colonel Hyde is a large loser in slaves. One of these, a valuable negro, named Peek, is probably drowned, as he was handcuffed to prevent his escape. The other slaves may have perished, or may have made tracks for the underground railroad to Canada. The report that Mr. Vance of New Orleans was lost proves to be untrue. The night was dark, though not cloudy. The river is very deep, and the current rapid at the place of the explosion (a few miles above Helena), and it is feared that many persons have been drowned whose bodies it will be impossible to recover.” Pompilard read this account, and felt a million of dollars slipping away from his grasp. But not a muscle of his face betrayed emotion. Impenetrable fatalist, he still had faith in the culmination of his star. “We must wait for further particulars,” thought Pompilard; “there is hope still”; and, stopping at a stall to buy the new novel of “Monte Cristo” by Dumas, he made his way to the cars, and returned to Harlem. Weeks glided by. Mrs. Charlton passed away on the day she had predicted, and Toussaint, after seeing her remains deposited at Greenwood, gave away in charity the thousand dollars which she had extorted for him from her husband. Melissa Pompilard began to fear that the marriage-day would never come round. Cecil Purling, her betrothed, had made a descent on a young publisher, just starting in business, and had induced him to put forth a volume of “playful” essays, entitled “Skimmings and Skippings.” The result was financial ruin to the publisher, and his rapid retreat back to the clerkship from which he had emerged. But Purling was indomitable. He began forthwith to plan another publication, and to look round for another victim; comforting Melissa with the assurance that, though the critics were now in a league to keep him in obscurity, he should make his mark some day, when all his past works would turn out the most profitable investments he could possibly have found.