And how, these days, had it fared with little Gertie, the second-class passenger, whose stateroom was small and close and hot, for the window had been closed and fastened since the water came in with a dash and wet the little hard bed. Poor Gertie, how the ship tumbled and rolled and tossed, and how she tossed and rolled and tumbled with it, and clutched at everything in her reach, with a feeling that they were tipping over and she was standing on her head. And how the cold, clammy sweat stood on her face and hands, and the dreadful, death-like faintness crept from her feet through every nerve, as, with fearful contortions, her stomach tried in vain to relieve itself, and she fell back, panting and helpless, upon the hard, scant pillow. It was horrible, and the poor child wished so much that she could die, or that the ship would stop for just one minute, and give her time to breathe, even though it were the fetid air, which almost stifled her and made her long so for the hedge-rows and fields of dear old England, now so far away. But Gertie did not die, and the vessel did not stop, and the window was not opened. She was merely second-class, and it was not worth one’s while to open and shut windows just for her; and though Mary Rogers did all she could for her sick child, and brought her many things to tempt her appetite, Gertie turned from them all, and sobbed piteously, “I am so sick,—shall we ever get there? Is everybody sick, and are all the rooms as close and hot and small? Where is the pretty lady, Mrs. Schuyler? I wish she’d come and see me. I think I should be better. Would you dare ask her?” Mrs. Rogers did not know whether she dared or not. She would see, she said, and when that afternoon she saw Edith on deck, she ventured upon some trivial remark as the cousin of Norah, and finally spoke of her little girl, who was suffering so much. “Oh yes; Gertie Westbrooke. I remember now. She was to go with us; and you are Mrs. Rogers, Norah’s cousin, and the little girl is very sick and uncomfortable; I am so sorry for her. I know just how it feels. Can I do anything for her?” Mary hesitated and then said: “She has felt interested in you since the day you were married. She was there.” “Yes, and threw me the pretty bouquet,” Edith said; and Mary continued: “She talks a great deal of you, and thinks now if you could come and see her it would do her good; but, ma’am, I told her how it wasn’t likely you would or could do that. Our room is very small and close, and the pillows are so hard and poor.” “I do not believe I can go now; I am hardly strong enough,” Edith said; “but I will come some day if she does not get well; and now carry her this soft shawl; it will answer for a pillow. I do not need it at all, and Norah shall take her some oranges and wine.”