“Sleep!” cried Wynnette. “Who’s asleep? Not I! Who could sleep through such a demoniac opera as this? Rosemary! the Germans swear ‘Ten thousand devils!’—in their own language—and I think the whole ten thousand German devils must be holding an open-air concert, after the manner of their musical countrymen, and that right around our ship! Only, they are all roaring drunk, and every one singing and playing and piping and blowing out of tune! I never heard such a hullabaloo in my life!” “Oh, Wynnette, do you think there is any danger?” “No, I don’t. If there was, the passengers would all be out of their berths and dressed, to be ready for the lifeboats. And there would be a great running and racing, and pulling and hauling, and cursing and swearing on deck; and the officers would all be—blaming the men’s eyes, and livers, and lights, to—encourage them, you know. And making a hullabaloo to be heard above the hurricane. And much more horrible than the hurricane, too. No; there can be no danger yet.” “But would all that profanity go on in a beautiful ocean steamer?” inquired Rosemary. “A good deal of it would on occasion. You may bet your best boots on that.” “Oh, I wish it was morning!” sighed Rosemary. “So do I. But ‘if wishes were horses, beggars would ride,’ you know.” Morning came at length, however, and as the sun arose the wind went down, but not entirely, for it still blew and often started up in gusts. None of our party appeared at the breakfast table, or even afterward on deck, except the old skipper and Rosemary. The day passed wearily. At intervals Capt. Grandiere visited the earl in his stateroom, and Rosemary her friends in their own. Both visitors found the sick ones cross and sulky, and so indisposed to be friendly and social that they were speedily left to themselves. People are no more responsible for their behavior when they are seasick than if they were lunatics. At night all hands turned in early. And the wind rose and blew a hurricane all night. And as the day had passed, so the week passed. Sunday came. As the weather continued to be tempestuous, the passengers remained seasick. No one came up on deck except the old skipper and his grandniece. The old man was dressed in his Sunday clothes, and carried a Bible, a prayer book and a hymn book in his hand. He drew his little companion away to a comparatively sheltered part of the deck, and they sat down to read the service for the day—the old man reading the minister’s part from the book and the young girl making the responses from memory. Then he read the lessons for the day; and finally they sang a hymn. At dinner time they went to the saloon, but found it almost deserted. The ensuing week proved quite as tempestuous as the one just passed. They were, in fact, suffering from a series of equinoctial storms.