"No, don't, Miss Sara," urged the doctor soothingly.
Sylvia said, "Has more water come into the ship?"
"The water has gained on us a trifle," he said reluctantly.
"But Mr. Wheeler said we'd gained three inches yesterday."
"Go back into your cabin," he said. "Some breakfast will be sent to you there directly. We—we are not fit to breakfast with ladies this morning," he added.
"Oh! not to the cabin. Please let us go on deck."
"The captain's orders were the cabin," he said. "Hush, hush! Don't cry any more, Miss Sara," patting my shoulder, "there's a good girl. It would worry the captain dreadfully to hear you. His chief anxiety is having you on board. You wouldn't make his anxiety greater, would you now? See, Miss Sylvia, I rely on you. Take her to the cabin, and eat your breakfast there. After breakfast," he added soothingly, "I daresay you will be allowed to go on deck."
We went back. We sat huddled together. We held each other's hands. Sylvia didn't cry. Her face was white. Her eyes were shining. "Don't, Sara," she kept on saying, "crying can do no good."
Breakfast came. Neither of us ate much. How callously we sent the greater part of it away! Afterwards we remembered it. At present we could think of nothing but the leaking ship.
And "Thud! thud! thud!" It was like the heart of the May Queen, beating, beating! How long would it take to burst?