Mr. Somerville drew a book from his pocket. “If that be so,” he said gently, “may I suggest that we seek aid from One who is all-powerful? We are few, and of different religions, but in this hour we can surely worship at a common altar.” “Right!” said the taciturn Englishman, varying his adjective for once. The missionary offered up a short but heartfelt prayer, and, finding that he carried his congregation with him, read the opening verse of Hymn No. 370, “For those at Sea.” The stewards, most of whom understood a few words of English, readily grasped the fact that the _padri_ was asking for help in a situation which they well knew to be desperate. They drew near reverently, and even joined in the simple lines: O hear us when we cry to Thee For those in peril on the sea. During the brief silence which followed the singing of the hymn it did, indeed, seem to their strained senses that the fierce violence of the gale had somewhat abated. It was not so, in reality. A steady fall in the barometer foretold even worse weather to come. Courtenay, assured now that the main engines were absolutely useless, thought it advisable to get steering way on the ship by rigging the foresail, double-reefed and trapped. The result was quickly perceptible. The _Kansas_ might not be pooped again, but she would travel more rapidly into the unknown. Yet this only afforded another instance of the way men reason when they seek to explain cause from effect. The hoisting of that strip of stout canvas was one of the time-factors in the story of an eventful night, for it was with gray-faced despair that the captain gave the requisite order when the second engineer reported that his senior was dead, the crown of two furnaces destroyed, and the engines clogged, if not irretrievably damaged, by fallen debris. None realized better than the young commander what a disastrous fate awaited his ship in the gloom of the flying scud ahead. There was a faint chance of encountering another steamship which would respond to his signals. Then he would risk all by laying the _Kansas_ broadside on in the effort to take a tow-rope aboard. Meanwhile, it was best to bring her under some sort of control, the steam steering-gear, driven by the uninjured donkey-engine, being yet available. In the saloon, Elsie had shielded her face in her hands, to hide the tears which the entreaty of the hymn had brought to her eyes. Some one whispered to her: “Won’t you sing something, Miss Maxwell?” It was the American. He judged that the sweet voice which unconsciously led the singing of the hymn must be skilled in other music. She looked up at him, her eyes shining. “Sing! Do you think it possible?” she asked. “Yes. You can do a brave thing, I guess, and that would be brave.”