“Oh, she is worse than all!  She sent down for Mrs. Preston to come up and speak to her, as she was dying as fast as she could, and the poor lady couldn’t as much as lift her own ’ead.”

“And you are not so very bad,” said Bluebell, encouragingly.  “Think of Mrs. Dove, of the 100th ‘Scatterers,’ and don’t give way.”

So, partly by laughing and partly by gentle determination, she brought her round, and favoured the escape of the stewardess.

It was not a very agreeable task soothing this selfish and cowardly woman; and she was by no means assured that there was no cause for anxiety.  Her thoughts reverted to Bertie.  Suppose they were all drowned.  In theory she hoped Cecil would be happy with him.  Still there was a soupcon of gratification in imagining him mourning in secret anguish and remorse over her untimely end.  She remembered his favourite poem in the “Wanderer” that Cecil used to read, and the lines,—­

  “I thought were she only living still,
   How I could forgive her and love her.”

Only in this instance forgiveness was more due from her.

Mr. Dutton here knocked at the door, to offer to help them up stairs to dinner; but Mrs. Oliphant had dropped asleep, exhausted by her emotions, so they went up alone.  Only a few gentlemen were in the saloon, and the widow lady, whom everybody had begun to like, she was so unselfish and contented.

Dinner was consumed in a picnic fashion.  Bluebell’s modicum of sherry had to be tossed off at once in a tumbler, for the glasses were dancing a hornpipe on the table, plates required a restraining hand, and their contents to be conveyed to the mouth with as much accuracy of aim as was attainable.

She thought compassionately of the careworn mother of H’Emma, who probably would have been quite neglected during the gale, and determined to take her something, and get Mr. Dutton to carry it and steady her own footsteps.  Nothing could exceed the discomfort in which they found them.  The nursery-maid was imbecile from terror and prostrate with sickness, and the harassed mother doing the best she could.

To begin with, H’Emma had received a whipping, which, however undeserved, was probably the most judicious course, by inspiring fortitude, and cutting off all hopes of undue indulgence.

The poor woman was very grateful for the visit.  “No one had been near them,” she said; “and the girl was so frightened, and H’Emma had screamed so, she was at her wits’ end.”

“I am surprised at you, Emma!” said Mr. Dutton.  “When, you are grown up you may be as frightened as you please; but if you don’t practise self-command as a child, you’ll be very properly whipped.”

At this allusion to her misfortunes another howl seemed impending, only that her attention was arrested by an orange tossed carelessly in the air.

“Whoever catches it may have it.  Don’t look at mamma; she has abdicated for the present, and we are here to put the kingdom to rights.  Don’t you think, Emma,” in a whisper, “it would be a very good thing if that squalling, bald-headed young fraternity of yours were slapped?”