Part 3

But the mother had a vague presentiment that made her reluctant to go. She observed the excitement, and apparent confusion, on the crowded boat, and if she had not thought that yielding to a presentiment was foolish, she would have turned back. As it was, after hesitating until the last moment, she stepped on board, trembling at she knew not what, and her feelings of disquiet were greatly increased, when the ladies in the saloon informed her of the disaster that had already occurred.

But little Maggie, in her childlike and happy ignorance of any thing to fear, was delighted with all she saw. She flitted hither and thither, with her little dancing step, and her bird-like song, now gazing at the diamond sparkles in the river, now peering fearfully down into the raging depths of the great iron monster who, with seething sighs and hoarse groans, was bearing them along.

Many were the smiles and blessings that followed the dainty little lady as she glided about, and if any sought to detain her she answered their questions with a kind of child-like dignity, mingled with bashfulness enchanting to behold, and then darted back to her mother, whose melancholy eyes were always on the watch.

What is that they hear? A cry of "fire! fire! The boat is on fire!"

With a thrill of horror every person in the saloon arose and rushed to the doors, and Maggie, with a shrill scream of terror, fell into her mother's arms. The ladies were rudely pushed back by the men in charge of the boat, with an assurance that there was "no danger," and they must "keep quiet," and the doors were shut upon them. They heard the frantic cries outside, and a dense smoke came in upon them. Bewildered, despairing, fainting on every side, a scene of indescribable distress and confusion ensued. The flames were approaching. Already they felt their scorching breath, and the distracted mother, with a burst of passionate tears, folded her child, her sweet Margaret, her "pearl"--so truly named--in her arms, and prepared for death.

Choked with her sobs, but struggling to speak calmly, she said, "My darling child--my own little Maggie,--life is sweet to both of us: _but we must die!_ The awful flames are coming nearer every moment. I cannot bear to think, that my darling should die by the torture of fire. Let us bid each other good-bye, Maggie, and jump into the water. We shall not suffer long; but, oh! how bitter to think I shall never more look upon my husband's face--never embrace my two noble boys!"

With a wild, despairing cry issuing from her white, parted lips, Maggie clung to her mother, and sobbed out, "Oh, mother! I cannot jump--I cannot jump! I am afraid!" and her sweet little face grew more ghastly with terror. "Some one will surely come, dear mother; they will not let us die without trying to save us. Oh! they will _try_ to come! They will not let a poor little girl burn up in these dreadful flames! and if they save me, _I will save you, mother! I will never go without you!_"

But, alas! all was in the wildest, the most frantic confusion. The panic-stricken passengers, pressing upon each other, were jumping and falling overboard in every direction. The fire separated the two extremes of the boat, and no help or succor was near. And now came the pang of parting. For a brief, agonizing moment, the mother held her child in her arms, then drew her to one of the windows.

All at once, a wonderful change came over the little tender child. For one moment, a radiant flush lighted up the sweet face, and then died away, leaving a deathly paleness as before, but with it a rapt, angelic expression, as if, in that moment, a loving, merciful Father had given the pure spirit a glimpse of heaven.

Drawing her garments closely about her, she said, "Kiss me, dear mother, I am going;" and, climbing through the window, she leapt into the water--in her eyes the same uplifted, celestial expression, as she sank beneath the wave. God, in His mercy, had taken away the sting of death. Little Maggie was going HOME.

The poor mother turned away in agony; then, with a prayer that their sufferings might be short, she followed her child, and the waves closed over her.

But now the ways of God, which are not our ways, became manifest. Maggie's buoyant form rose out of the water directly under one of the stanchions, which supported that part of the deck projecting beyond the hull. Gasping, panting, and almost senseless, she instinctively clutched at this, and passing her arm around it, hung there, half in, half out of the water. As she regained her consciousness, she looked vainly around for her mother, and the poor little child became convulsed with terror, at finding herself alone in this painful and fearful position.

At this moment, Maggie felt something coming to the surface directly beneath her, and to her joy, recognized her mother's bonnet. Grasping it with all her little strength, what was her horror to feel it give way, and remain in her hand, while her mother sank slowly down again out of sight! Coming up the second time, the child, with desperate energy, clutched at her hair, and this time raised her mother's head above the water.

"Mother, mother!" she cried, "here I am--your own little Maggie. Speak to me, oh! speak to me, mother, or I shall die!"

The large hazel eyes of the mother unclosed, and, struggling with the water that was choking her, she murmured,--"Thank God! thank God! we may yet be saved."

"Oh, yes, mother," answered the little one, "God did not mean that we should die. I will hold you up, until my arm burns off. Don't be afraid--I will never let you go. Only see, dear mother, how strong I am. I have wound your long hair all round my hand. Do not shut your eyes, dear mother--look at me. While you look at me, I can bear any thing."

And now, the cruel, hungry flames were bursting through the hull, and the poor, little strained arm that supported them both, was scorching, and the hand was _burning_! but the brave heart of the child flinched not; earthly pain had no power over her; an _overshadowing presence_ sustained the little spirit. _She even smiled_--that brave child!--that her mother should not know the fierce pain she was enduring. But at last, her strength began to fail; an intense ashen paleness overspread her lovely face, and the large, soul-lit eyes were now bent upon the shore with a look so piteous--so appealing! Oh! how long it seemed! Would help never--_never_ come?

A few moments more, and it would be too late. But now they are seen by a gentleman on shore. He rushes to a boat lying at the dock, and offers the owner a reward if he will row him to the drowning lady and child.

"I can't go," said the man. "It is too dangerous. I am waiting to see the boiler burst. I expect it to burst every moment."

"Will you suffer those poor unfortunates to perish before our eyes, you heartless fellow?" remonstrated the other. "Give me the oars--I will go alone."

"I will not," growled the man. "It is no use. You can't save them, and you will lose your own life. I tell you, the boiler will burst, and you will be killed."

But with one effort of his powerful arm, this good Samaritan hurled the boatman away, and jumping into the boat, and springing to the oars, he soon rowed to where little Maggie hung, her arm, by this time, wrenched, strained, and burned, beyond the endurance of many a strong man.

Supporting the mother with one arm, with the other, he tenderly lifted the poor little sufferer into the boat. Her mother was so much exhausted, that it was with the utmost difficulty he raised her out of the water; and, although he rowed quickly back, she was perfectly senseless when she was laid on the beach.

And now, Maggie watched with alarm and anxiety the means used to bring her mother back to life.

After a while they were successful, and then, with such dry clothes as could be hastily procured, the grateful pair departed, on the Hudson River Railroad for New York, accompanied by the gentleman who had so generously risked his life to save theirs.

In the rail-car, Maggie's mother fainted. Her strength was utterly gone, from long exposure to the water. With earnest sympathy, the kind-hearted gentleman once more came to their relief. He took off his coat and wrapped it around her, and the increased warmth it afforded soon restored her to consciousness. A dim recollection crossed her mind, as she looked up to thank their "friend in need." Another look, and she recognized, to her great surprise and pleasure, one whom she had known well many years ago; and he was doubly thankful that he had been an instrument, in the hands of God, of saving from a violent death a lady for whom, through long years of separation, he had retained the highest esteem and friendship.

And now, dear little reader, I must tell you, the wonderful telegraph had sent the news of the burning of the steamboat to New York, while yet the panic-stricken passengers were making their awful choice of death by fire or water, and little Maggie's father was one of the first at the terrible scene. He knew that his wife and daughter were to return in this boat, and with anguish he searched upon the beach, and looked into the faces of the dead, dreading to find his loved ones among them.

But they were not there. Then he went down to the water side, and, nearly all that dreadful night, he dived to the bottom again and again, bringing up many a poor victim, and every time his cheek grew paler and his heart throbbed more wildly. At last, exhausted and despairing, he gave up the dreadful task. They were gone for ever--he should never again see even the dead faces of his dear wife and his sweet little "pearl of great price."

Suddenly a faint hope, like a far-off star, dawned upon his heart. It was just possible that Maggie and her mother were safe in Poughkeepsie; they might have changed their minds at the last moment. An engine was there ready to start; it was offered to him. He gratefully accepted, and, without a single car, the engineer and himself jumped upon the panting iron monster and almost flew back to Poughkeepsie.

Alas! _they had gone_. These terrible words blanched his cheek again, and, all hope deserting him--utterly broken down, the strong man covered his face with his hands and burst into a passionate flood of tears. His wife--his dear companion, and his little Margaret--his tender, delicate bud of promise, to be burned--burned, till nothing human was left of them, or else now lying among the rocks beneath the waters. It was too horrible. It must not be. He would go back; he would try once more. Surely, this time, he would recover the drowned bodies of those he loved so well; and then, at least, he would have the melancholy comfort of knowing that they were tenderly and reverently laid in the earth.

In the gray dawn of the morning he came back to Yonkers, where the remains of the still burning steamer lay, and hastened once more to the beach. Preparing once more to dive into the river again, a simple object--a child's bonnet met his eye, floating on the water. _It was Maggie's bonnet._ His heart stood still; his blood froze in his veins; his eyes strained wildly after the little token of his dreadful loss, as it floated idly by, its wet and stained blue ribbons fluttering in the summer breeze. He neither spoke nor stirred; he seemed turned into stone; his hands clasped tightly together, and his gaze fastened upon that tiny, but terrible sign of the hapless fate of his wife and child. The pitying bystanders tried to arouse and draw him away. They assured him that it was useless to attempt finding any more bodies--every possible effort had been made; and, at length, the heart-broken man went sadly away to return to his desolated home.

When he arrived in the street where he lived, and drew near the familiar house, a shudder came over him. Little Maggie had always watched for him at the door, to spring into his arms and receive "the first kiss." With a keen pang at his heart and a smothered groan, he murmured, "They are gone--they are _dead_. Oh, I cannot go there! I shall be mad if I do."

But suddenly One stood by his side invisible to mortal eyes, and there came into his heart, like a soft, sweet strain of heavenly music, these words, "Blessed are they that mourn, for they shall be comforted."

Great tears came to his relief, and softened the fierce pain at his heart; and now, with deep-drawn sighs, he entered first a neighbor's house to seek that sympathy which his sorely stricken soul had before refused, and which would give him strength to enter the home where _they_ were _not_.

His friends met him with extended hands and glad voices, exclaiming, "Oh, how glad we are that you have come! We rejoice with you that your dear ones are safe."

"Safe--SAFE?" he cried, "do you mock me in my misery?"

"Why," they answered, "do you not know that they have returned, and are safe in your house?"

With a cry that rent the air, Maggie's father rushed out of the door and into his own house, and in a moment his wife and his dear little child were clasped tight in his arms--his shrieks of hysterical laughter, mingled with the great sobs that convulsed his frame, showing, too plainly, alas! that joy had finished what grief began; for now he had indeed lost his senses. The sudden revulsion had been too much; but, after a while, the gentle soothings of his wife and the loving caresses of Maggie restored him to himself; and soon he was ready to listen to the wonderful account of their escape--many times interrupting the narrative to fold his little Maggie, with tears, to his breast, and to thank God again and again for the blessing of such a child.

And now, dear little reader, Maggie has grown up to be a young lady. She has the same dark, thoughtful eyes and transparent purity of complexion. She flits about her father's house like a sunbeam, bringing joy and delight into his heart, and her voice issues from her beautiful mouth so sweet and clear that it seems like the singing of a lark. With the thrilling memory of the past ever before him, her father oftentimes gazes into her sweet young face with an earnest tenderness impossible to describe.

I wish every girl and boy that will read this could have known Maggie when she was a child; they would have wondered how such a delicate little creature could have shown so much courage and endurance. It seems incredible, and yet every word I have written is true.

I also wish that I could tell them her whole name; but I promised, when permission was given me to write this account of heroism, I would not tell her name, or even where she lived. But I _will_ tell this much: She lives, at this very moment, on a beautiful island, very near the city of New York; and she is so modest and retiring that her very next-door neighbor does not suspect he is living close to THE CHILD HEROINE!

AUNT MARY.

A SKETCH BY A GIRL OF FIFTEEN.

It is my opinion, that in spite of my being quite a simple young girl, I might, without exciting much surprise, personate the character of a respectable old lady; for all kinds of antiquities seem to agree extremely well with me.

Thus, an old book has a peculiar charm for me; an old dress always sets better than a new one; and, certainly, every one will allow, that there is no comfort in the world equal to a pair of old slippers.

But most particularly am I fond of old ladies and gentlemen, with their quaint stories of the days when they were young; those magical days, when the sun shone quite differently from now--"so much longer and brighter;" the soft summer breezes were sweeter and cooler, and the winter snows were not the six-inch-deep affairs, we have at present, but were up to the second-story windows; then the birds sang far more sweetly than they ever do now-a-days: the peaches were twice as large, the apples three times, and the gentlemen bowed four times lower, and twenty times more respectfully.

The dearest of all my elderly relatives, is my mother's aunt--my Great-aunt Mary. I wish you could see her sitting in a corner of the fireplace, in a funny little black rocking-chair of hers, that is, no one knows how old, with a mosaic patch-work cover on the back, always busy with her knitting or sewing, and just the dearest, sweetest little old soul in the world; though she is my _great_ aunt, I am so much larger and stronger, that I could, if I pleased, catch her up in my arms, and run all over the house with her, without her being able to help herself. I mean to try it, sometime.

Aunt Mary's face is wrinkled, but her blue eyes are still clear and bright--her soft gray hair is parted over a placid brow, her smile is very sweet, and her voice so pleasant and kindly, that you feel as though you could never do enough for her, and you love her instinctively, the very first time you see her. I believe that is the reason everybody calls her "Aunt Mary;" it seems as if they could not help it, but I think it a great liberty.

Aunt Mary is not one of those _old_ old ladies, who think little folks should sit upright on a hard wooden bench, with nothing to rest their poor little tired spines against, and nothing to do but stare at the fire, and twirl their thumbs.

She took a great-nephew of hers to church, not long ago, a little bit of a fellow, and, I think, a perfect darling. Stanny had never been to church before, and he was so surprised with the great painted windows, and the quantity of people, that he sat up, in wondering silence, as grave as a judge; and Aunt Mary was just thinking, to herself, "How well Stanny behaves! really, I am quite proud of him,"--when, suddenly, the organ struck up very loud, and Stanny, well remembering the organs in the street, which he always ran to the window to see, shouted out loud: "Why, Aunt Mary! there is an organ! but where is the monkey?" Of course, everybody round laughed; how could they help it? and dear old Aunt Mary, instead of wanting to shake his head off--as some old ladies would--laughed, too, but whispered to him to speak more softly next time, and gave him a gum-drop out of her pocket.

She loves all the children, and is the soul of indulgence to all her little nephews and nieces, and don't scold a bit when they run away with her snuff-box, as Fanny and I have often done; although she is naturally very quick-tempered, her patience and forbearance are beautiful to observe.

Aunt Mary never uses spectacles; she reads the finest print, and stitches far more neatly than I can, without them; and those faded but small and pretty hands, have knit more stockings for the poor, and made more patch-work bed-quilts, than I have time to count.

Then she is very lively, and has often made me shout with laughter; her comical expressions, with many a quiet sly cut at our faults and nonsensical notions, and her funny stories, are far better than the writings of many an author, who tries to write as though his fun was not the hardest work in the world for him, instead of coming right from his heart, like my dear Aunt Mary's. Time has not soured her, as it does some old people; you never see her going about, with her brows tied up in--oh! such a hard knot--with a querulous moan of: "W-h-e-r-e-'s my spectacles? why d-o-n-'t you come and light my fire? who's got my snuff-box? oh, dear!" Not at all! but it is: "Do let me read you this in the paper"--a noble act of heroism, or a funny anecdote, that has excited her admiration, or laughter; and, presently, we will all be admiring, or laughing with her, to her immense satisfaction.

You can't get Aunt Mary to put on a hoop petticoat, or wear gaiter boots. She remains steadfastly by her narrow skirts and prunella shoes.

Once, as a very great favor, she permitted me to try on a dress of hers, which she wore to her first ball, when she was about sixteen years old. You may imagine what a singular figure I made in it, when I tell you that there were but two breadths in the skirt, and tiny gores at the side; while the sleeves stood out, as though they were lined with buckram, and the waistband came just under my arms. The material was the thickest of white silk, with lovely bunches of roses all over it. You perceive that fashions have changed considerably since she was a girl; and, I often think, how queer it must seem, for her to look back on all the fashions that have come up since her first ball dress.

And now, I will tell you something very interesting, indeed, about Aunt Mary. She has seen the great General Washington, alive; and I would be willing to be just as old, if I could say the same.

Yes, my dear old aunt is of another and past century. It always seems to me, as though she should be dressed with the powder, high-heeled shoes, and ruffles of real lace that she wore long ago.

But in any dress we shall always love her dearly; for she is to us a kind monitor, a sincere friend, and a simple, earnest Christian. God bless dear Aunt Mary.

LITTLE PETER.

Of all the funny little fellows that I ever knew, little Peter, at six years of age, was the quaintest and funniest.

Now, as this, like all the rest of my stories, is a "_real true_" story, I dare say you would like to know who Peter was, and where he lived--and, as I did not promise to keep it a secret, I will tell you. In the very first place, it will give you the most delightful feeling of interest in the world, and convince you that he was, or ought to have been, the happiest child possible, when you read that he lived on a beautiful island, very near New York, and in a beautiful place that was called "Clear Comfort."

You may be sure that "Clear Comfort" was not one of those grand, gloomy places, with forty cross old gardeners trotting about continually, and scratching at the walks with their rakes, and counting every flower in the beds, so that, if you happened to pick a lady's ear-drop, or a lady's slipper, or a white lily, or a red rose, as Peter often did, they would find it out immediately, and be ready to cut your head off. Not at all.

With occasional assistance for the rough work, Peter's _mother_ was the gardener in this charming spot, and it really seemed as if the flowers loved her as much as she loved them, and grew up, under her beautiful hands and dainty care, in such profusion and splendor, as the cross old gardeners in the neighboring places would have given all their eyes and elbows to have beaten; but, unfortunately, they did not happen to have the winsome, coaxing ways, and sweet smile of Peter's mother; and I suppose the flowers knew it, and that was the reason why every thing in her garden was nine times handsomer than anywhere else.

The house Peter lived in was a long, low, one storied cottage, with dormer windows peeping up here and there, and every one of them in summer had an ornamental frame clinging around it, of scarlet-runners or some other beautiful vine. One night, one of Peter's sisters chanced to look through one of these windows as an artist was passing, and he declared that the maiden with her fair hair, and the blended roses of her cheek, in the frame of delicate leaves and flowers, so graceful and appropriate, were far more lovely and picturesque than any gold-bedecked portrait he had seen in the Academy of Design.