But Mark was too ill to trouble himself about the storm or the ship, or what was to become of them, and he lay there perfectly prostrate.
The steward came from time to time anxious looking and pale, but Mark did not notice it.

He for the most part refused the food that was brought to him, and lay back in a sort of stupor, till at last it seemed to him that the ship was not rocking about so violently.
Then came a time when the cabin seemed to grow light, and the steps of men sounded overhead as they were removing some kind of shutter.
Lastly he woke one morning with the sun shining, and his father, looking very haggard, sitting by his berth.
"Well, my lad," he said, "this has been a sorry holiday for you.

Come, can't you hold up a bit?
The steward's going to bring you some tea." "I--can't touch anything, father; but has the storm gone ?" "Thank Heaven! yes, my lad.

I never was in a worse!" "But you said it was a capful of wind," said Mark faintly.
"Capful, my lad! it was a hurricane, and I'm afraid many a good ship has fared badly." "But the _Petrel's_ all right, father ?" "Behaved splendidly." "Are we--nearly at Plymouth ?" was Mark's next question.
"Nearly where ?" "At Plymouth.

I think, as I'm so ill, I'd better not go any farther.
How is mother ?" "Going to get up, my lad, and that's what you've got to do." "I'll try, father.