However, the two families met every day, and Mrs. White called their intercourse “such a boon, such a charming friendship,” all unaware that there was no real confidence or affection. They had not long been seated when the little Italian messenger boy brought them a budget of letters. Of course the first that Geraldine opened was in her nephew’s writing. It had been written at intervals throughout the voyage, and finished on landing at New York. Passing over the expressions of unabated affection, and explanation of the need of removing Ludmilla out of reach of her natural guardians, with the date on the second day of the voyage, the diary continued: “Whom, as the fates would have it, should I have encountered but the Cacique! Yes, old Fernan and Marilda have the stateliest of staterooms in this same liner, and he was as much taken aback as I was when we ran against one another over a destitute and disconsolate Irish family in the steerage. Marilda is as yet invisible, as is my poor little Lida. It is unlucky, for the good man is profuse in his offers of patronage, and I don’t mean to be patronized.” Then, after some clever descriptions of the fellow second-class passengers in his own lively vein, perhaps a little forced, so as not to betray more than he intended, that he felt them uncongenial, there came-- “Lida is up again; she is a sweet little patient person, and I cannot withstand Fernan’s wish to present her to his wife, who remains prostrate at present, and will till we get out of the present stiff breeze and its influences. “12th.--The presentation is over, and it has ended in Lida devoting herself to the succour of Marilda, and likewise of her maid, who is a good deal worse than herself. * * * * * “16th.--These amiable folks want to take Lida off with them, not to say myself, to their ‘Underwood’ in the Rockies; but I don’t intend her to be semi-lady’s-maid, semi-companion, as she is becoming, but to let her stand on her own legs, or mine, and put her to a good school at New York. I have finished an article on ‘Transatlantic Travellers’ for the ‘Censor’, also some reviews, and another paper that may pave my way to work in New York or elsewhere. My craving is for the work of hard hands, but I look at mine, and fear I run more to the brain than the hands. My father must have been of finer physique than the Sioux bullet left to me; but I have no fears.” “No, indeed,” sighed Geraldine; “he has not the fine athletic strength of his dear father, but still--still I think there is that in him which Edgar had not.” “Force of character,” said Clement, “even if he is wrong-headed. Here is Fernan’s letter--