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As Mr. Graham had expressed in his letter the intention of being
at the steamboat wharf in New York to meet his daughter and
Gertrude on their arrival, Dr. Jeremy thought it unnecessary for
him to accompany his charges further than Albany, where he
could see them safely on their way, and then proceed to Boston
with his wife over the Western Railroad; Mrs. Jeremy being now
impatient to return home, and having, moreover, no disposition to
revisit the great metropolis of New York during the warm
weather.

“Good-by, Gerty,” said the doctor, as he bade them farewell
on the deck of one of the Hudson-river boats. “I'm afraid
you've lost your heart in Saratoga; you don't look quite so
bright as you did when we first arrived there. It can't have
strayed far, however, I think, in such a place as that; so be sure
and find it before I see you in Boston.”

He had hardly gone, and it wanted a few minutes only of the
time for the boat to start, when a gay group of fashionables made
their appearance, talking and laughing too loud, as it seemed to
Gertrude, to be well-bred; and conspicuous among them was Miss
Clinton, whose companions were evidently making her the subject
of a great deal of wit and pleasantry, by which, although she
feigned to be teased and half-offended, her smiling, blushing face
gave evidence that she felt flattered and pleased. At length, the
significant gestures of some of the party, and a half-smothered

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hush-h! gave intimation of the approach of some one who must
not overhear their remarks; and presently William Sullivan, with
a travelling-bag in his hand, a heavy shawl thrown over one arm,
and his countenance grave, as if he had not quite recovered from
the chagrin of the previous evening, appeared in sight, passed
Gertrude, whose veil was drawn over her face, and joined Isabel,
placing his burden on a chair which stood near.

He had hardly commenced speaking to Miss Clinton, however,
before the violent ringing of the bell gave notice to all but the
passengers to quit the boat, and he was compelled to make a hasty
movement to depart. As he did so, he drew a step nearer Gertrude,
a step further from her whom he was addressing, and the
former plainly distinguished the closing words of his remark:
“Then, if you will do your best to return on Thursday, I will try
not to be impatient in the mean time.”

A moment more, and the boat was on its way; not, however,
until a tall figure, who reached the landing just as she started, had,
to the horror of the spectators, daringly leaped the gap that
already divided her from the shore; after which, he sought the
gentleman's saloon, threw himself upon a couch, drew a book from
his pocket, and commenced reading.

As soon as the boat was fairly under way, and quiet prevailed in
their neighborhood, Emily spoke softly to Gertrude, and said,

“Didn't I just now hear Isabel Clinton's voice?”

“She is here,” replied Gertrude, “on the opposite side of the
deck, but sitting with her back towards us.”

“Didn't she see us?”

“I believe she did,” answered Gertrude, “She stood looking
this way while her party were arranging their seats.”

“And then chose one which commanded a different view?”

“Yes.”

“Perhaps she is going to New York to meet Mrs. Graham.”

“Very possible,” replied Gertrude. “I didn't think of it before.”

There was then quite a pause. Emily appeared to be engaged
in thought. Presently she asked, in the softest of whispers, “Who
was the gentleman who came and spoke to her just before the boat
started?”

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“Williem,” was the tremulous response.

Emily pressed Gertrude's hand, and was silent. She, too, had
overheard his farewell remark, and felt its significance.

Several hours passed away, and they had proceeded some distance
down the river; for the motion of the boat was rapid—too
rapid, as it seemed to Gertrude, for safety. At first occupied by
her own thoughts, and unable to enjoy the beautiful scenery,
which a few weeks previously had caused her such keen delight,
she had sat, inattentive to all around, gazing down into the deep blue
water, and communing with her own heart. Gradually, however,
she was led to observe several circumstances, which excited so
much curiosity, and finally so much alarm, that, effectually
aroused from the train of reflections she had been indulging, she
had leisure only to take into view her own and Emily's present
situation, and its probable consequences.

Several times, since they left Albany, had the boat in which
they were passengers passed and repassed another of similar size,
construction and speed, likewise responsibly charged with busy,
living freight, and bound in the same direction. Occasionally,
during their headlong and reckless course, the contiguity of the
two boats was such as to excite the serious alarm of one sex, and
the unmeasured censure of the other. The rumor began to be
circulated that they were racing, and racing desperately. Some
few, regardless of danger, and entering upon the interest of the
chase with an insane and foolish excitement, watched with pleased
eagerness the mad career of rival ambition; but by far the
majority of the company, including all persons of reason and
sense, looked on in indignation and fear. The usual stoppingplaces
on the river were either recklessly passed by, or only
paused at, while, with indecent haste, passengers were shuffled
backwards and forwards, at the risk of life and limb, their baggage
(or somebody's else) unceremoniously flung after them, the
panting, snorting engine in the mean time bellowing with rage at
the check thus unwillingly imposed upon its freedom. Towards
noon the fever of agitation had reached its height, and could not
be wholly quieted even by the assurance from head-quarters that
there was no danger.

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Gertrude sat with her hand locked in Emily's, anxiously watching
every indication of terror, and endeavoring to judge from the
countenances and words of her most intelligent-looking fellow-travellers
the actual degree of their insecurity. Emily, shut out from
the sight of all that was going on, but rendered, through her acute
hearing, vividly conscious of the prevailing alarm, was perfectly
calm, though very pale; and, from time to time, questioned Gertrude
concerning the vicinity of the other boat, a collision with
which was the principal cause of fear.

At length their boat for a few moments distanced its competitor;
the assurance of perfect safety was impressively asserted, anxiety
began to be relieved, and, most of the passengers being restored
to their wonted composure, the various parties scattered about the
deck resumed their newspapers or their conversation. The gay
group to which Isabel Clinton belonged, several of whom had been
the victims of nervous agitation and trembling, seemed reässured,
and began once more to talk and laugh merrily. Emily, however,
still looked pallid, and, as Gertrude fancied, a little faint. “Let
us go below, Emily,” said she; “it appears now to be very quiet
and safe. There are sofas in the ladies' cabin, where you can lie
down; and we can both get a glass of water.”

Emily assented, and in a few minutes was comfortably reclining
in a corner of the saloon, where she and Gertrude remained undisturbed
until dinner-time. They did not go to the dinner-table; it
was not their intention from the first, and, after the agitation of
the morning, was far from being desirable. So they stayed quietly
where they were, while the greater part of the passengers crowded
from every part of the boat, to invigorate themselves, after their
fright, by the enjoyment of a comfortable meal; which they had
reason to expect, as the racing appeared to have ceased, and everything
was orderly and peaceable.

Gertrude opened her travelling-basket, and took out the package
which contained their luncheon. It was not one of those
luncheons which careful mothers provide for their travelling families,
choice in its material, and tempting in its arrangement; but
consisted merely of such dry morsels as had been hastily collected
and put up at their hotel, in Albany, by Dr. Jeremy's direction.

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Gertrude looked from the little withered slices of tongue and
stale bread to the veteran sponge-cakes which completed the assortment,
and was hesitating which she could most conscientiously
recommend to Emily, when a civil-looking waiter appeared, bearing
a huge tray of refreshments, which he placed upon a table
close by, at the same time turning to Gertrude, and asking if there
was anything else he could serve her with.

“This is not for us,” said Gertrude. “You have made a mistake.”

“No mistake,” replied the man. “Orders was for de blind
lady and hansum young miss. I only 'beys orders. Anyting
furder, miss?”

Gertrude dismissed the man with the assurance that they
wanted nothing more, and then, turning to Emily, asked, with an
attempt at cheerfulness, what they should do with this Aladdinlike
repast.

“Eat it, my dear, if you can,” said Emily. “It is no doubt
meant for us.”

“But to whom are we indebted for it?”

“To my blindness and your beauty, I suppose,” said Emily,
smiling. She then continued, with wonderful simplicity, “Perhaps
the chief steward, or master of ceremonies, took pity on our
inability to come to dinner, and so sent the dinner to us. At any
rate, my child, you must eat it before it is cold.”

“I!” said Gertrude, conscious of her utter want of appetite;
“I am not hungry; but I will select a nice bit for you.”

The sable waiter, when he came to remove the dishes, really
looked sad to see how little they had eaten. Gertrude drew out
her purse, and, after bestowing a fee upon the man, inquired
whom she should pay for the meal.

“Pay, miss!” said the man, grinning. “Bless my stars! de
gentleman pays for all!”

“Who? What gentleman?” asked Gertrude, in surprise.

But before the man could give her any reply, another whiteaproned
individual appeared, and beckoned to his fellow-waiter,
who, thereupon, snatched up his tray and trotted off, bending

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beneath its weight, and leaving Gertrude and Emily to wonder
who the benevolent gentleman might be.

They finally came to the conclusion that this unexpected attention
was due to the thoughtfulness of Dr. Jeremy, who must have
given orders to that effect before he left the boat; and great was
the unmerited praise and the undeserved gratitude which the
doctor received that day, for an act of considerate politeness of
which the old gentleman, with all his kindness of heart, would
never have dreamed.

Dinner concluded, Emily again laid down, advised Gertrude
to do the same, and, supposing that her advice was being followed,
slept for an hour; while her companion sat by, watching the
peaceful slumber of her friend, and carefully and noiselessly
brushing away every fly that threatened to disturb a repose much
needed by Miss Graham, who could, in her feeble state of health,
ill afford to spare the rest she had been deprived of for one or
two previous nights.

“What time is it?” asked she, on awaking.

“Nearly a quarter past three,” replied Gertrude, glancing at
her watch (a beautiful gift from a class of her former pupils).

Emily started up. “We can't be far from New York,” said
she; “where are we now?”

“I don't know exactly,” replied Gertrude; “I think we must
be near the Palisades; if you will stay here, I will go and see.”
She passed across the saloon, and was about ascending the staircase,
when she was startled and alarmed by a rushing sound,
mingled with the hurried tread of feet. She kept on, however,
though once or twice jostled by persons with frightened faces,
who crowded past and pressed forward to learn the cause of the
commotion. She had just gained the head of the stairway, and
was looking fearfully round her, when a man rushed past, gasping
for breath, his face of an ashen paleness, and shrieking the
horried word of alarm—fire—fire!

A second more, and a scene of dismay and confusion ensued
too terrible for description. Shrieks rose upon the air, groans
and cries of despair burst forth from hearts that were breaking
with fear for others, or maddened at the certainty of their own

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destruction. Each called upon each for help, when all were alike
helpless. Those who had never prayed before poured out their
souls in the fervent ejaculation, “O, my God!” Many a brain
reeled in that time of darkness and peril. Many a brave spirit
sickened and sunk under the fearfulness of ther hour.

Gertrude straightened her slight figure, and, with her dark eyes
almost starting from their sockets, gazed around her upon every
side. All was alike tumult; but the destroyer was as yet discernible
in one direction only. Towards the centre of the boat, where
the machinery, heated to the last degree, had fired the parched
and inflammable vessel, a huge volume of flame was already
visible, darting out its fiery fangs, and causing the stoutest hearts
to shrink and crouch in horror. She gave but one glance; then
bounded down the stairs, bent solely on rejoining Emily. But she
was arrested at the very onset. One step only had she taken
when she felt herself encircled by a pair of powerful arms, and
a movement made to again rush with her upon deck; while a
familiar voice gasped forth the words, “Gertrude, my child! my
own darling! Be quiet—be quiet!—I will save you!”

Well might he urge her to be quiet,—for she was struggling
madly. “No, no!” shouted she; “Emily! Emily! Let me die!
let me die! but I must find Emily!”

“Where is she?” asked Mr. Phillips; for it was he.

“There, there,” pointed Gertrude,—“in the cabin. Let me go!
let me go!”

He cast one look around him; then said, in a firm tone, “Be
calm, my child! I can save you both; follow me closely!”

With a leap he cleared the staircase, and rushed into the cabin.
In the farthest corner knelt Emily, her head thrown back, her
hands clasped, and her face like the face of an angel.

Gertrude and Mr. Phillips were by her side in an instant. He
stooped to lift her in his arms, Gertrude at the same time
exclaiming, “Come, Emily, come! He will save us!”

But Emily resisted. “Leave me, Gertrude—leave me, and
save yourselves! O!” said she, looking imploringly in the face
of the stranger,—“leave me, and save my child.” Ere the

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words had left her lips, however, she was borne half-way across
the saloon, Gertrude following closely.

“If we can cross to the bows of the boat, we are safe!” said
Mr. Phillips, in a husky voice.

To do so, however, proved impossible. The whole centre
of the boat was now one sheet of flame. “Good Heavens!”
exclaimed he, “we are too late! we must go back!”

A moment more, and they had with much difficulty regained
the long saloon. And now the boat, which, as soon as the fire
was discovered, had been turned towards the shore, struck upon
the rocks, and parted in the middle. Her bows were consequently
brought near to the land; near enough to almost insure
the safety of such persons as were at that part of the vessel.
But, alas for those near the stern! which was far out in the river,
while the breeze which blew fresh from the shore fostered and
spread the devouring flame in the very direction to place those
who yet clung to the broken fragment between two equally fatal
elements.

Mr. Phillips' first thought, on gaining the saloon, was to beat
down a window-sash, spring upon the guards, and drag Emily
and Gertrude after him. Some ropes hung upon the guards; he
seized one, and, with the ease and skill of an old sailor, made it
fast to the boat; then turned to Gertrude, who stood firm and
unwavering by his side.

“Gertrude,” said he, speaking distinctly and steadily, “I
shall swim to the shore with Emily. If the fire comes too near,
cling to the guards; as a last chance, hold on to the rope. Keep
your veil flying; I shall return.”

“No, no!” cried Emily. “Gertrude, go first!”

“Hush, Emily!” exclaimed Gertrude; “we shall both be
saved.”

“Cling to my shoulder in the water, Emily,” said Mr. Phillips,
utterly regardless of her protestations. He took her once
more in his arms; there was a splash, and they were gone. At
the same instant Gertrude was seized from behind. She turned,
and found herself grasped by Isabel Clinton, who, kneeling upon
the platform, and frantic with terror, was clinging so closely to

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her as utterly to disable them both; at the same time shrieking,
in pitiable tones, “O, Gertrude! Gertrude! save me!”

Gertrude tried to lift her up, but she was immovable; and,
without making the slightest effort to help herself, was madly
winding Gertrude's thick travelling-dress around her person, as
if for a protection from the flames; while ever, as they darted
forth new and nearer lightnings, the frightened girl would cling
more wildly to her companion in danger, at the same time praying,
with piercing shrieks, that she would help and save her.

But so long as Gertrude stood thus imprisoned and restrained
by the arms which were clasped entirely around her she was
powerless to do anything for her own or Isabel's salvation. She
looked forth in the direction Mr. Phillips had taken, and, to her
joy, she saw him returning. He had deposited Emily on board a
boat, which was fortunately at hand, and was now approaching
to claim another burden. At the same instant, a volume of
flame swept so near the spot where the two girls were stationed,
that Gertrude, who was standing upright, felt the scorching heat,
and both were almost suffocated with smoke.

And now a new and heroic resolution took possession of the
mind of Gertrude. One of them could be saved; for Mr. Phillips
was within a few rods of the wreck. It should be Isabel! She
had called on her for protection, and it should not be denied her!
Moreover, Willie loved Isabel. Willie would weep for her loss,
and that must not be. He would not weep for Gertrude—at
least not much; and, if one must die, it should be she.

With Gertrude, to resolve was to do. “Isabel,” said she, in
a tone of such severity as one might employ towards a refractory
child, with whom, as in this instance, milder remonstrances had
failed—“Isabel, do you hear me? Stand up on your feet; do
as I tell you, and you shall be saved. Do you hear me, Isabel?”

She heard, shuddered, but did not move.

Gertrude stooped down, and, forcibly wrenching apart the
hands which were convulsively clenched, said, with a sternness
which necessity alone extorted from her, “Isabel, if you do as I
tell you, you will be on shore in five minutes, safe and well; but,
if you stay there behaving like a foolish child, we shall both be

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burnt to death. For merey's sake, get up quickly and listen to
me!”

Isabel rose, fixed her eyes upon Gertrude's calm, steadfast face,
and said, in a moaning tone, “What must I do? I will try.”

“Do you see that person swimming this way?”

“Yes.”

“He will come to this spot. Hold fast to that piece of rope,
and I will let you gradually down to the water. But, stay!”—
and, snatching the deep blue veil from her own head, she tied it
round the neck and flung it over the fair hair of Isabel. Mr.
Phillips was within a rod or two. “Now, Isabel, now!”
exclaimed Gertrude, “or you will be too late!” Isabel took the
rope between her hands, but shrunk back, appalled at the sight
of the water. One more hot burst of fire, however, which issued
forth through the window, gave her renewed courage to brave a
mere seeming danger; and, aided by Gertrude, who helped her
over the guards, she allowed herself to be let down to the water's
edge. Mr. Phillips was fortunately just in time to receive her,
for she was so utterly exhausted with fear that she could not
have clung long to the rope. Gertrude had no opportunity to
follow them with her eye; her own situation, it may well be
believed, was now all-engrossing. The flames had reached her.
She could hardly breathe, so enveloped was she in clouds of dark
smoke, which had more than once been relieved by streaks of
fire, which had darted out within a foot of her. She could hesitate
no longer. She seized the piece of rope, now left vacant
by Isabel, who was rapidly approaching a place of safety, and,
grasping it with all her might, leaped over the side of the fastconsuming
vessel. How long her strength would have enabled
her thus to cling,—how long the guards, as yet unapproached
by the fire, would have continued a sure support for the cable,—
there was no opportunity to test; for just as her feet touched the
cold surface of the river, the huge wheel, which was but a little distance
from where she hung, gave one sudden, expiring revolution,
sounding like a death-dirge through the water, which came foaming
and dashing up against the side of the boat, and, as it swept
away again, bore with it the light form of Gertrude!