Terabon, drifting by, close at hand, gazed at the scene. From that craft Negroes had gone forth to commit crime; white men had gone out to do murder, and one of them had rolled down those steps, shot dead. On the other side of Slough Neck, just outside of Tiptonville, there was a tree on which seven men had been lynched. He pulled across to the foot of Island No. 10 sandbar, to walk up over that historic ground, and to visit the remnants of Winchester Chute where General Grant had moored barges carrying huge mortars with which to drop shells into the Confederate works on Island No. 10. He hailed a shanty-boat just below where he landed, and as the window opened and he saw someone within, he asked: "Will you kindly watch my skiff? I'm going up over the island." "Yes, glad to!" "Thank you." He bowed, and went upon his exploration. It was hard to believe that this sandbar, grown to switch willows which increased to poles six or seven inches in diameter, had once been a big island covered with stalwart trees, with earthworks, cannon, and desperate soldiers. Its serene quiet, undulating sands and casual weed-trees, showing the stain of floods that had filled the bark with sediment, proved the indifference of the river to fleeting human affairs--the trifling work of human hands had been washed away in a spring tide or two, and Island No. 10 was half way to the Gulf by this time. Terabon returned to his skiff three or four hours later, and taking up his typewriter, began to write down what he had seen, elaborating the pencil notes which he had made. As he wrote he became conscious of an observer, and of the approach of someone who was diffident and curious--a familiar enough sensation of late. He looked up, started, and reached for his hat. It was a woman, a young woman, with bright eyes, grace, dignity--and much curiosity. "I didn't mean to disturb you," she apologized. "I was just wondering what on earth you could be doing!" "Oh, I'm writing--making notes----" "Yes. But--here!" "I'm a newspaper writer," he made his familiar statement. "My name is Lester Terabon. I'm from New York. I came down here from St. Louis to see the Mississippi." "You write for newspapers?" she repeated. She came and sat down on the bow deck of his skiff, frankly curious and interested. "My name's Nelia Crele," she smiled. "I'm a shanty-boater. That's my boat." "I'm sure I'm glad to meet you," he bowed, "Mrs. Crele." "You find lots to write about?" "I can't write fast enough," he replied, enthusiastically, "I've been coming six weeks--from St. Louis. I've made more than 60,000 words in notes already, and the more I make the more I despair of getting it all down. Why, right here--New Madrid, Island 10, and--and----" "And me?" she asked. "Did you stop at Gage?"