The White Dove moved off from Wabash Landing two hours behind her appointed time. She was a dirty little boat, carrying a miscellaneous freight, but among the barrels on the after-deck some hard-favored and much-whittled chairs had been placed for Beetrus and her mother. The young girl herself stood by the rope which served for railing, and saw her own heartache color all those fair distances. Downy swells of remote banks and bold juts of rock were copied in the river, so ruffleless did it seem to lie even when the strong current was moving. A blue heron stood at the water edge meditating, with one foot planted on sand and the other tucked up. It slightly spread its mighty wings, shook them, and folded them again to place, without appearing to break the trance of its downward stare. While the White Dove churned along, shadows stretched upon the Wabash. Now it was very late afternoon, and now it threatened to be evening, with a hint that by and by it would be night, when you might expect the woods to make deep black borders along the river, and the canopy of stars to look smeared by the little steamer’s smokestack. When Beetrus was pale and tired, she turned and leaned against her mother--an ample, indulgent woman, who nevertheless had one bristling mole upon the right side of her face. She broke the tacit silence in which they had begun their journey by declaring, “Ma, I love you.” “You don’t often put a body out telling them that,” responded Mrs. Jenkins, uttering a gratified laugh. “I keep up a dreadful loving, though,” said Beetrus, casting sidewise at the river black eyes which swam in waters of their own. “You’re my baby,” cooed her mother, patting the slim hand fondling her neck. “There’s plenty of pretty young men in the world, but there’s only one old mother.” “I don’t care anything about the young men,” said Beetrus, with strong scorn. “I was thinking a good while in the woods to-day, coming from the post-office, and I’ve made up my mind never to get married.” “You’ll turn around often enough before the time comes.” “I never will,” emphasized Beetrus. “We’ll be two nice old ladies together, ma, and neither of us will get married.” “I won’t, for a sure thing,” laughed her mother. “But you’ll only be middle-aged when I’m ready to totter.” “Yes, that’s so,” said Beetrus sadly. “And then if one would die and leave the other”-- “Now, now, don’t you fret, lovey. I’ve had consider’ble trouble and experience, and if I don’t sigh round, you needn’t. Who’s that nice-looking man that keeps looking back this way?” Beetrus had been facing down river, with her mind completely closed to any moving figures on deck. She glanced back over her shoulder. “Why, it’s”--she exclaimed, swallowing her breath with a gasp--“it’s Mr. Poundstone.” “That correspondent of yours?” said Mrs. Jenkins, nodding her head, and inspecting him sincerely with such thoroughness as intervening barrels permitted.