There had been a number of wrecks during the recent gales, and Amanda could not keep her thoughts from Carljohan and his ship. The voice of the parson, and the singing rang in her ears like the rush of waters; she sat staring blankly at her hymn-book, open at No. 106, though there had been three since that.
Once or twice she woke, to hear her father's voice trailing behind the rest in a hymn, sounding all through the church, till people turned to look. Amanda flushed with embarrassment, but Bramsen went on all unconscious, plodding through each verse in his own time, regardless of the rest.
But always she fell back upon her own thoughts, of the ship and Carljohan; it was a wonder to her how Mother Christiansen, whose husband was also on board, could sit there so calmly, as if there was nothing to fear. And she with all those children to think of!
The sermon now—but Carljohan was out on the North Sea and terrible weather. Great seas breaking over the bows, till the fo'c'stle was almost hidden.
And up in the rigging was Carljohan shortening sail—oh, how the vessel pitched and rolled, till the yards almost touched the water.
If he should lose his hold—if he should be swept away—Amanda gasped at the thought, and clutched her father's hand.
"What is it, Amanda? Are you ill?" whispered Bramsen anxiously.
"No, no; only keep still. I'll be all right directly."
The organ pealed and the sound of the hymn filled the church.
Amanda could not sing a note; she was certain now that something had happened to Carljohan. Her tears flowed in streams, and she was hard put to it to hide them behind handkerchief and book.