Bluebell, determined to resist the whirling in her head, took out some work on which she tried to fix her attention.  The elderly widow was looking over a missionary book with woodcuts, and they occasionally exchanged sentences.

The discomposing rocking of the vessel continued, and the moan of the winds mingled with the incessant complaints of Mrs. Butler on a distant sofa, who was as communicative respecting her anguish as her age.

Tea and the return of some of the gentlemen a little relieved the monotony.  Bluebell was languidly experimenting on a piece of dry toast, when the loud crying of a child attracted her attention, and, the steward leaving the door open, a little girl of four plunged in.  She recognised her as one of the children with the tipsy father.  The mother had dined in the ladies’ cabin, and retired to her berth to lie down, and this lost lamb was searching for her.

“Come here, my dear,” said Mrs. Jackson, the widow lady.  “Don’t cry, what’s the matter?”

But “I want mamma,” was the only reply, without any cessation of shrieks.

“Oh, hush! look at these pretty pictures; here’s Moses in the bull-rushes.”

A momentary glance, and then the cries redoubled.

“Phoebus, what lungs!” ejaculated Mr. Dutton.  “Come here, child,” authoritatively, holding up a lump of sugar.

A slight lull, and a hesitating zig-zag movement in his direction.  He made a grab as she came within reach, placed her on his knee, and pushed a bit of sugar into the month opened for a roar.

“I am quite ashamed of you, making such a noise.  Don’t choke, there’s more sugar in the basin.  Wipe your eyes, and see if you can possibly look pretty.”

Bewildered, but distracted by the sugar, the tears ceased.

“What is your name?  Mary, I suppose.”

“No, no,” indignantly, “H’Emma.”

“H’Emma!  You little cad, what is the H for?  Say Emma.  You can’t?  Then no more sugar.”

“Emma,” repeated the astonished child.

“That’s right; here is another lump.  Miss Leigh, may I ask you to reach me a very pretty book of coloured animals I saw behind you?  Now, Emma, there is a tabby cat, just like you have at home.”

“No, mamma drove it away;” and, the grief returning, “Oh! where’s mamma?”

“She isn’t coming while you make that noise, and I fear she must be a wicked woman to drive a poor cat away,—­she will never have any luck.  Now, what’s that?”

“A ’orse,” triumphantly.

“Where were you riz!  Say horse.  That’s right; don’t forget.  A pig, a sow, a goose,” and so on, half through the book.  “Now I’ll shut it, and you can go to bed.”

“No, no; see the rest,” said the now excited child.

“Which would you rather have, mamma or pictures?”

“Pictures.  Show them quick.”

“Very well; then mamma may go to blazes.  We don’t want her bothering here till we have done.  What did you say was the name of that animal?”