father?"

"Yes; but she didn't say what she was coming in; only that she was with
very good friends, and should be home in a week or ten days."

"She came on a raft."

"On a raft!" exclaimed the man. "Miss Emily?"

"It was her own choice. I tried to have her take a steamer; but she
would not. But there was a house on the raft, and she had a good bed."

"Of course her father has felt very bad, and since the funeral he has
fretted a great deal about her."

"Since what funeral?" I asked.

"Her mother's. Poor Mrs. Goodridge was brought down from Cairo, packed
in ice, and the funeral was a week ago yesterday."

One of the many steamers which passed us on our way down the river had
brought the remains of Emily's mother, and they had already been
committed to their last resting-place.

The ringing of the door-bell called the servant from us. We heard the
heavy step of a man, as he went up stairs; but we did not witness the
first interview between Emily and her father. They had much to say, and
we did not see them for half an hour. When they entered the parlor
together, both of them were tolerably calm; but the traces of tears were
still visible in their eyes.

"Young man," said Mr. Goodridge, taking me by the hand, after Emily had
introduced Flora and me by name, "I am indebted to you for the life of
my child."

He wept, and could not utter what he evidently intended to say. My cheek
burned, for in my sympathy for the poor girl and her father I had quite
forgotten my hard swim after the disaster. I stammered some reply, and
did not even then know what I was saying.

"Under God, you saved her; and I shall bless you as long as I live for
the noble deed. It was hard to lose her who is gone; it would have been
doubly hard to lose both of them."

"O, I don't think anything of what I did," I replied. "My poor little
sister here has done a good deal more than I have for her."

Mr. Goodridge took the hand of Flora, and thanked her as he had thanked
me. I told him the story of our voyage down the river after Emily joined
us, as briefly as I could, giving my poor sister the credit for all her
careful and devoted nursing of the invalid.

"I must go now, sir," I added, when the narrative was finished.

"Indeed, you must not," said the grateful father, decidedly.

"I left Sim Gwynn on the raft. He is rather simple, and I am afraid
something will happen to him."

"Can't he leave the raft?"

"Not yet; my sister's clot