“Oh, no, dear. ‘The Lord tempers the wind to the shorn lamb,’ and if I hadn’t been here He would have provided some one else for you. But now, dear, I do really think you ought to try and exert yourself to go up on deck. Here we are a week at sea, and you have had no enjoyment of the voyage at all. Don’t you think, now that the baby has gone to sleep, and is safe to be quiet for two or three hours, you could let me wrap you up warm and help you up on deck?”
“I should like to do so, but I am not able; indeed I am not. I am as weak as a rat.”
“Rats are remarkably strong for their size, my dear, for they’re all muscle. And as for you being weak, it is only a nervous fancy, caused by your seasickness. But you’re over that now. And if you will only let me help you up on deck, why, every step you take and every breath you breathe will give you new life and strength,” persisted the stewardess.
“Well, I will go.”
Jennie stood up, holding by the edge of the upper berth for support, while the stewardess prepared her to go up on deck.
And when last of all Jennie was well wrapped up in her fur-lined cloak, Mrs. Hopkins led and supported her to the stairs, and took her carefully up to the deck, and found her a sheltered seat on the lee side.
“Sit here,” she said, “and every breath of this fresh air you breathe will give you new life.”
And having tucked a rug well around the feet of her charge, the stewardess left Jennie to herself.
Jennie looked around her. There were very few people within the range of her vision, only the man at the wheel and two or three deck hands.
It was the luncheon hour, and nearly all the passengers who were not in their staterooms had gone to the dining saloon.