As for Bessie, she made what the captain called “a capital little sailor,” and to her fell the part of nurse, which Maggie had intended to fill. And never was a more gentle, tender, thoughtful young nurse than our little “princess,” handy and knowing enough for seven-and-twenty instead of seven years old. Now she was rubbing Maggie’s cold hands, now bathing Belle’s dizzy, aching head with such soothing fingers; now coaxing Lily to take one of those oranges which were to work such wonders; now amusing baby, for Mammy was in a bad way too, and mamma’s attention was pretty well taken up with her poor Maggie; now showing a picture-book to some fretful child whose mother was too ill to attend to it. Always ready not only to do, but to see where and how she could do, some small service for a sufferer, she went about from one to another like some dainty little fairy, with a mission of healing and kindness. So long as she could keep her feet, which was not always possible, the rolling of the ship only troubled her by the distress it brought to others, especially Maggie; but all her pleasure in her beloved sea was lost in her sympathy for her sister. It was so strange and unusual to see Maggie lying helpless and subdued, with no thought or care for any thing about her, that it made Bessie herself very miserable; and she could scarcely believe her father’s assurances that Maggie was not going to die, and would probably soon feel better.
But she thought despair and misery could go no farther upon the following morning, when, having dressed Margaret Bessie Marion and Margaret Colonel Horace Rush in the new travelling suits Aunt Annie had made for them, and combed their “real live hair,” she brought them and placed one on each side of Maggie, as she lay among the pile of pillows and shawls papa had arranged for her upon the deck.
“Maggie dear,” she said coaxingly, “would it not comfort you a little to hold Bessie Margaret Marion? She looks so sweet.”
“No,” moaned Maggie, without opening her eyes: “I never want her again, Bessie, never. You can have her.”
“Oh, no!” said Bessie, cheerily: “you’ll want her when you feel better, and I hope that will be pretty soon.”
“No,” said Maggie again: “I’ll never be better. And, Bessie, I think I’d better tell you my will. I’m too sick to write it myself, but you can remember.”
“But you’re not going to die,” answered Bessie, dropping the doll upon her lap and looking at Maggie in fresh dismay.
“Yes, I feel it,” said Maggie, with a tragic whisper and shake of her head.
“Oh, no, dear! Papa said not, and the doctor said so too. They said people hardly ever died of seasickness.”
“Then I’m one of the ‘hardly evers,’ Bessie,” persisted Maggie, seeming, poor child, to find some relief in the idea; “and I’d better make my will, and tell you who I want my playthings and other possessings to go to.”