“I’m glad you are up, Lucy. I haven’t slept all night,” whispered Jessie, and the dark circles under her eyes bore unmistakable testimony to the truth of what she said. “I was afraid to get up for fear of waking Evelyn.”
“You needn’t have worried,” and Evelyn, who had been lying with her face to the wall, turned over wearily. “I’ve been afraid to sleep—oh, girls, I’ve had such awful dreams!” And she covered her face with her hands to keep out the memory.
“We’ll all feel better when we get on deck,” Lucile prophesied, hopefully. “Don’t let’s talk so loud; Mother is asleep.”
“No, I’m not,” said a tired, fretful voice from the lower berth. “As soon as you girls get through, I’ll get up.” 187
It seemed to the girls that morning as though they would never finish dressing. Their clothes, their hairpins, even their combs and brushes, evaded them with demoniacal persistence, hiding under things, falling under the berths, rolling into corners, and otherwise misbehaving themselves, until the girls’ nerves were all on edge and they were dangerously near the verge of tears.
It was Lucile’s undying sense of humor that finally saved the day.
“I feel just like the Prince in the Prince and the Pauper, when the rat made a bed of him,” she said. “Things can’t be any worse, so it stands to reason they’ve got to get better.”
“Let’s hope so, anyway,” said Evelyn, halfway between laughter and tears. “I feel just now as though I’d like to hit somebody.”
“I guess it’s time we left, then,” laughed Lucile, and, suiting the action to the word, she opened the door and stepped outside, the others following.
“If I look the way I feel, I must be a sight,” moaned Jessie. “I hope the boys aren’t on deck.”