each bale being pressed into
its proper place by the aid of screw-jacks, so that the whole freight
forms one solid and compact mass; not an inch of space is wasted, and
the vessel is thus made capable of carrying her full complement of
cargo.

CHAPTER IV.

SEPTEMBER 30th to OCTOBER 6th.--The "Chancellor" is a rapid sailer, and
more than a match for many a vessel of the same dimensions. She scuds
along merrily in the freshening breeze, leaving in her wake, far as the
eye can reach, a long white line of foam as well defined as a delicate
strip of lace stretched upon an azure ground.

The Atlantic is not visited by many gales, and I have every reason to
believe that the rolling and pitching of the vessel no longer incommode
any of the passengers, who are all more or less accustomed to the sea.
A vacant seat at our table is now very rare; we are beginning to know
something about each other, and our daily life, in consequence, is
becoming somewhat less monotonous.

M. Letourneur, our French fellow-passenger, often has a chat with me.
He is a fine tall man, about fifty years of age, with white hair and a
grizzly beard. To say the truth, he looks older than he really is: his
drooping head, his dejected manner, and his eye, ever and again suffused
with tears, indicate that he is haunted by some deep and abiding sorrow.
He never laughs; he rarely even smiles, and then only on his son:
his countenance ordinarily bearing a look of bitterness tempered by
affection, while his general expression is one of caressing tenderness.
It excites an involuntary commiseration to learn that M. Letourneur is
consuming himself by exaggerated reproaches on account of the infirmity
of an afflicted son.

Andre Letourneur is about twenty years of age, with a gentle,
interesting countenance, but, to the irrepressible grief of his father,
is a hopeless cripple. His left leg is miserably deformed, and he is
quite unable to walk without the assistance of a stick. It is obvious
that the father's life is bound up with that of his son; his devotion
is unceasing; every thought, every glance is for Andre; he seems to
anticipate his most trifling wish, watches his slightest movement, and
his arm is ever ready to support or otherwise assist the child whose
sufferings he more than shares.

M. Letourneur seems to have taken a peculiar fancy to myself,
and constantly talks about Andre. This morning, in the course of
conversation, I said,--

"You hav