I have been wanting to get round to the individual or personal part of my subject, as I call it, and the foregoing incident puts me in the right way.  The patience and good disposition aboard of us, was wonderful.  I was not surprised by it in the women; for all men born of women know what great qualities they will show when men will fail; but, I own I was a little surprised by it in some of the men.  Among one-and-thirty people assembled at the best of times, there will usually, I should say, be two or three uncertain tempers.  I knew that I had more than one rough temper with me among my own people, for I had chosen those for the Long-boat that I might have them under my eye.  But, they softened under their misery, and were as considerate of the ladies, and as compassionate of the child, as the best among us, or among men—­they could not have been more so.  I heard scarcely any complaining.  The party lying down would moan a good deal in their sleep, and I would often notice a man—­not always the same man, it is to be understood, but nearly all of them at one time or other—­sitting moaning at his oar, or in his place, as he looked mistily over the sea.  When it happened to be long before I could catch his eye, he would go on moaning all the time in the dismallest manner; but, when our looks met, he would brighten and leave off.  I almost always got the impression that he did not know what sound he had been making, but that he thought he had been humming a tune.

Our sufferings from cold and wet were far greater than our sufferings from hunger.  We managed to keep the child warm; but, I doubt if any one else among us ever was warm for five minutes together; and the shivering, and the chattering of teeth, were sad to hear.  The child cried a little at first for her lost playfellow, the Golden Mary; but hardly ever whimpered afterwards; and when the state of the weather made it possible, she used now and then to be held up in the arms of some of us, to look over the sea for John Steadiman’s boat.  I see the golden hair and the innocent face now, between me and the driving clouds, like an angel going to fly away.

It had happened on the second day, towards night, that Mrs. Atherfield, in getting Little Lucy to sleep, sang her a song.  She had a soft, melodious voice, and, when she had finished it, our people up and begged for another.  She sang them another, and after it had fallen dark ended with the Evening Hymn.  From that time, whenever anything could be heard above the sea and wind, and while she had any voice left, nothing would serve the people but that she should sing at sunset.  She always did, and always ended with the Evening Hymn.  We mostly took up the last line, and shed tears when it was done, but not miserably.  We had a prayer night and morning, also, when the weather allowed of it.