We are in Lake Pepin, Livy darling, 80 or 90 miles below St Paul—where we shall arrive before breakfast if nothing happens. Among the passengers is a wretchedly poor & unkempt family on their way to the wilds of the northwest—one of the new territories—out in the far wilderness. The man & his wagon take deck (steerage) passage, & his wife & five little children are allowed in the ladies’ cabin by courtesy because there are no accommodations for such on deck. The woman looks worn out & miserable. She has slept two nights on a short sofa & her children on the cabin floor—all without pillows or covering, & it was mighty cold last night. This morning I got $5 from Osgood, added $10 myself, & got a lady to hand it privately to the woman, who was very glad to get it, the lady said. Afterward I found that they ate on deck, & of course had had nothing warm or nourishing; so I told the chief clerk to put them at the cabin second table & charge to me. They were there this noon & evening at dinner & supper & ate like famished people. The woman stopped me afterward & asked if it was I that paid for their meals—& thanked me & broke down. They are all sound asleep on sofas, now (9 PM), but I notice that my interest in them has had an effect, for they all have pillows & coverings.

I have mightily enjoyed the children’s letters, & ◊ even Jean’s letter—(where she blotted a word for you). Well, I haven’t seen any lady who is your equal—“taken by & large,” as the sailors say—& none whom I could ever love half as well as I do you.

Good bye, sweetheart, & kiss each of the children for me. I never forget them, & they mustn’t forget me. I One of those little girls, about Bay’s size, woke up, late last night & cried; & I comforted her & soothed her to sleep again—perhaps because she reminded me of Bay. I love you.