We sent for the stewardess, who told us that she had arrived in Glasgow on the day previous, and had been very ill all the way coming from Boston.
"Boston!" exclaimed Salemina.

"Do you say she is from Boston, poor thing ?" ("I didn't know that a person living in Boston could ever, under any circumstances, be a 'poor thing,'" whispered Francesca to me.) "She was not fit to be crossing last night, and the doctor on the American ship told her so, and advised her to stay in bed for three days before coming to Ireland; but it seems as if she were determined to get to her journey's end." "We must have our trunk," I interposed.

"Can't we move her carefully over to the wool sacks, and won't you stay with her until her friends come ?" "She has no friends in this country, ma'am.

She's just travelling for pleasure like." "Good gracious! what a position for her to be in," said Salemina.

"Can't you take her back to the steamer and put her to bed ?" "I could ask the captain, certainly, miss, though of course it's something we never do, and besides we have to set the ship to rights and go across again this evening." "Ask her what hotel she is going to, Salemina," we suggested, "and let us drop her there, and put her in charge of the housekeeper; of course if it is only sea-sickness she will be all right in the morning." The girl's eyes were closed, but she opened them languidly as Salemina chafed her cold hands, and asked gently if we could not drive her to an hotel.
"Is--this--your--baggage ?" she whispered.
"It is," Salemina answered, somewhat puzzled.
"Then don't--leave me here, I am from Salem--myself," whereupon without any more warning she promptly fainted away on the trunk.
The situation was becoming embarrassing.