her prayers, so I thought I would bring her for a little visit of 'How
d' ye do' to you."

There was, perhaps, some inflection in the woman's voice that might
have made known, or at least awakened, the suspicion of some latent
hope or intention, had the captain's ear been fine enough to detect
it. There might have been something in the little convent girl's face,
had his eye been more sensitive--trifle paler, maybe, the lips a
little tighter drawn, the blue ribbon a shade faded. He may have
noticed that, but-- And the visit of "How d' ye do" came to an end.

They walked down the stairway, the woman in front, the little convent
girl--her hand released to shake hands with the captain--following,
across the bared deck, out to the gangway, over to the middle of
it. No one was looking, no one saw more than a flutter of white
petticoats, a show of white stockings, as the little convent girl went
under the water.

The roustabout dived, as the roustabouts always do, after the
drowning, even at the risk of their good-for-nothing lives. The mate
himself jumped overboard; but she had gone down in a whirlpool.
Perhaps, as the pilot had told her whirlpools always did, it may have
carried her through to the underground river, to that vast, hidden,
dark Mississippi that flows beneath the one we see; for her body was
never found.




GRANDMOTHER'S GRANDMOTHER