In a short time the great steamer drew up to the wharf, and Shawn, supporting Mrs. Alden's frail form with his strong arms, went up the steps and into the cabin. The chambermaid placed Mrs. Alden's chair in the ladies' cabin, and Shawn went off to select a convenient and comfortable stateroom. The cabin presented a scene of merriment. Under the gleaming lights were a hundred happy couples, dancing away the gladsome hours. The strains of music swelled and floated far out into the night, and the joyous voices mingled with the changing melodies. Shawn sat near Mrs. Alden, and together they gazed upon the gay throng and enjoyed the inspiriting music. Far below, in the engine-room, the lights glimmered over the polished machinery. The engineer glanced occasionally at his steam-gauge and water-cocks. The negro firemen were singing a plantation melody as they heaved shovels of coal into the glaring furnace under the boilers. Roustabouts and deck-hands were catching short rounds of sleep in their bunks back of the engine-room. Sitting on either side of the boiler, were "deck passengers," those too poor to engage passage in the cabin, and here and there, tired children lay asleep across their mothers' knees. In the pilot-house, Napolean Jenkins, the head pilot, stood with his hand on the spokes of the wheel, gazing with the eyes of a night-bird on the outlines of shore and hill. Mann Turpin, his steersman, stood at the right of the wheel. Jenkins knocked the ashes from his cigar, and the glow from the deep red circle of tobacco fire momentarily radiated the gloom of the pilot-house. The night was serene and clear, the full moon shining and shedding her dreamy light over the sleeping, snow-clad valley, and the silvery rays filtered through the clustering branches of the towering trees. As the great boat swung along past a farm-house, Jenkins heard the shrill, alarming cry of a peacock. Strains of music came floating upward from the cabin. The grim, black smoke-stacks were breathing heavily, and the timbers of the Texas trembled as the boat came up under the high pressure of steam. The lights of Wansaw were just around the bend. Jenkins blew a long blast for the little town. The sound echoed and re-echoed among the wooded hills. The farmer in his bed on the silent shore turned on his pillow as the deep, sonorous sound fell upon his ear--the sweet, weird music of the stream. Jenkins made the landing, and heading his boat for the middle of the river, made a long crossing for the Indiana shore. "It's a fine night," said Turpin. "Beautiful," said Jenkins.