But I soon saw that unless the wind changed, the steamer would probably pass within hailing distance.

Soon I could see Mary Phillips on deck, speaking-trumpet in hand; and seizing my trumpet, I hailed when as I thought we were near enough.  I eagerly inquired after Bertha, and the high voice of Mary Phillips came across the water, telling me that Miss Nugent was not feeling at all well.  This uncertain state of affairs was making her feel very nervous.  “Can she come on deck?” I cried.  “Can she use a speaking-trumpet?  If I could talk to her, I might encourage her.”

“She needs it,” answered Mary, “but she cannot speak through the trumpet; she tried it, and it made her head ache.  She is here on deck, and I am going to help her stand up as soon as we get nearer.  Perhaps she may be able to speak to you.”

The two vessels were now near enough for a high-pitched conversation without the assistance of trumpets, and Mary Phillips assisted Bertha to the side of the steamer, where I could distinctly see her.  I shouted as hearty a greeting as ever was sent across the water, bidding her to keep up a good heart, for help of some kind must surely come to us.  She tried to answer me, but her voice was not strong enough.  Then she shook her head, by which I understood that she did not agree with me in my hopeful predictions.  I called back to her that in all this drifting about the two vessels must certainly come together, and then, with the assistance of the steamer’s boat, we could certainly devise some way of getting out of this annoying plight.  She smiled, apparently at the mildness of this expression, and again shook her head.  She now seemed tired, for her position by the rail was not an easy one to maintain, and her maid assisted her to her couch on the deck.  Then stood, up Mary Phillips, speaking loud and promptly:—­

“She has a message for you,” she said, “which she wanted to give to you herself, but she cannot do it.  She thinks—­but I tell her it is of no use thinking that way—­that we are bound to be lost.  You may be saved because your ship seems in a better condition than ours, and she does not believe that the two vessels will ever come together; so she wants me to tell you that if you get home and she never does, that she wishes her share in the Forty-second Street house to go to her married sister, and to be used for the education of the children.  She doesn’t want it divided up in the ordinary way, because each one will get so little, and it will do no good.  Do you think that will be a good will?”

“Don’t speak of wills!” I shouted; “there is no need of a will.  She will get home in safety and attend to her own affairs.”

“I think so, too,” cried Mary Phillips; “but I had to tell you what she said.  And now she wants to know if you have any message to send to your parents, for we might blow off somewhere and be picked up, while this might not happen to you.  But I don’t believe in that sort of thing any more than in the other.”