“So do I. But ‘if wishes were horses, beggars would ride,’ you know.”
Morning came at length, however, and as the sun arose the wind went down, but not entirely, for it still blew and often started up in gusts.
None of our party appeared at the breakfast table, or even afterward on deck, except the old skipper and Rosemary.
The day passed wearily.
At intervals Capt. Grandiere visited the earl in his stateroom, and Rosemary her friends in their own. Both visitors found the sick ones cross and sulky, and so indisposed to be friendly and social that they were speedily left to themselves.
People are no more responsible for their behavior when they are seasick than if they were lunatics.
At night all hands turned in early. And the wind rose and blew a hurricane all night.
And as the day had passed, so the week passed.
Sunday came. As the weather continued to be tempestuous, the passengers remained seasick.
No one came up on deck except the old skipper and his grandniece. The old man was dressed in his Sunday clothes, and carried a Bible, a prayer book and a hymn book in his hand. He drew his little companion away to a comparatively sheltered part of the deck, and they sat down to read the service for the day—the old man reading the minister’s part from the book and the young girl making the responses from memory. Then he read the lessons for the day; and finally they sang a hymn.