“I don’t think I’ll last through the day, Billie,” said Nancy in a weak voice. “I’m sure I don’t want to last, even if I do,” she added with Irish inconsequence.
“Why, you poor sick thing,” exclaimed Billie, climbing down and leaning sympathetically over the other girl. “Can’t I do anything for you?”
“Yes,” groaned Nancy. “Leave me alone.”
“Won’t you have a little hot tea or a soft-boiled egg,—just heated through, you know?”
“Eggs!” Nancy shrieked, and buried her face in her pillow with a shudder of horror.
“It will be all right, Nancy-Bell, if you can just make up your mind to drink something hot and come on deck. Lots of food and fresh air will always cure seasickness,” added Billie with a healthy ignorance of upset stomachs.
“Eat something and go on deck?” mumbled Nancy from the depths of her pillow. “I couldn’t keep it down till I got there, no matter if it was—air.”
Nevertheless, Billie ordered hot tea from the stewardess as she slipped on her dressing gown and started on her pilgrimage to the bathroom. The ship was rolling mightily, and not many people were bathing that morning, but Billie was an old traveler, and she staggered cheerfully along the ship’s passage, and in fifteen minutes had emerged glowing from her cold plunge. On the way back she stopped at the stateroom occupied by her cousin, Miss Helen Campbell, and her two other friends, Elinor Butler and Mary Price.
“Come in,” called her cousin’s voice in a sad, colorless tone.
“Why, dearest Cousin Helen,” exclaimed Billie, bursting into the stateroom, “you aren’t seasick, too?”