She lay down, and strove to read.

It was a difficult task.
Her eyes wandered from the printed page to mark the absurd antics of her garments swinging on their hooks.

At times the ship rolled so far that she felt sure it must topple over.

She was not afraid; but subdued, rather astonished, placidly prepared for vague eventualities.
Through it all she wondered why she clung to the belief that in another day or two the storm would be forgotten, and people playing quoits on deck, dancing, singing coon songs in the music-room, or grumbling at the heat.
Things were ridiculous.

What need was there for all this external fury?
Why should poor sailors be cast forth to instant death in such awful manner?
If she could only sleep and forget--if kind oblivion would blot out the storm for a few blissful hours! But how could one sleep with the consciousness of that watery giant thundering his summons upon the iron plates a few inches away?
Then came the blurred picture of Captain Ross high up on the bridge, peering into the moving blackness.