For three days the ladies and children scarcely ventured upon deck; but, with books and work and games, time passed swiftly, never hanging heavy on their hands. Mr. Lilburn, too, caused some amusement by the exercise of his ventriloquial powers.
It was the second day of the storm, early in the afternoon, and all were gathered in the saloon, the ladies busy with their needlework, the gentlemen reading, Elsie and Ned playing a quiet game. Walter had a daily paper in his hand, but presently threw it down and sat with his elbow on the table, his head on his hand, apparently in deep thought. He sighed wearily, and then words seemed to come from his lips.
"Dear me, but I am tired of this dull place!—nothing to see, nothing to hear, but the raging of the storm!"
"Why, Walter!" exclaimed his mother, looking at him in astonishment; but even as she spoke she saw that he was as much astonished as herself.
"I didn't make that remark, mother," he laughed. "I am thankful to be here, and enjoying myself right well. Ah, Cousin Ronald, I think you know who made that ill-sounding speech."
"Ah," said the old gentleman with a sad shake of the head, "there seems to be never a rude or disagreeable speech that is not laid to my account."
Then a voice seemed to come from a distant corner: "Can't you let that poor old man alone? It was I that said the words you accuse him of uttering."
"Ah," said Walter; "then show yourself, and let us see what you are like."
"I am not hiding, and don't object to being looked at, though I am not half so well worth looking at as some of the other people in this room."
"Well, that acknowledgment shows that you are not vain and conceited," said Walter.