I was then somewhat surprised that I had not divined Miss Hempstead's
identity from the name and her black dress; but the burning of the
_Missouri_ made scarce any impression upon me at the time, surrounded
as I was last fall by such heavy family afflictions; and the name of
the young purser, whose tragic fate then filled the newspapers, had
since then almost entirely passed from my memory.

An ordinary passenger ship is wrecked or burned, "Extras" are issued, a
three days' excitement follows, and it is then a thing of the past; but
as the _Missouri_ bore, on this memorable voyage, not indeed Caesar and
his fortunes, but the supposed _fiancé_ of dear Ida, its loss is an
event still interesting to the gossiping public. It was useless to try
to convince any one that no engagement had ever existed between Mr.
Hempstead and Ida: no one would credit my most solemn protestations.
Many people not personally acquainted with us, but who knew the facts
"upon the best authority," as outsiders usually do, said that the
marriage was to have taken place before the election, but after Aunt
Mary's death it was postponed for three months. Before two weeks had
elapsed, however, Mr. Hempstead was, in the poetic language of the
journals, "sleeping beneath the coral wave," and poor Ida received as
many well-meant condolences over his death as over Aunt Mary's.

When the tragedy of last autumn was all over, the interest of the
public was greater than ever, and Ida, "who had within four short weeks
lost mother, lover, and father," formed the subject of many a pathetic
editorial and sermon. A London journal styled Ida the "maiden widow,"
spoke of uncle's fond attachment to Mr. Hempstead, and announced that
the loss of his prospective son-in-law was an affliction that
precipitated Mr. Greeley's death.