"It might save some trouble, then, if I ask you now if you expect to
like me," said he, in a lower tone. "Why certainly, I do like you very
much," she replied, honestly. "What a stupid question," he thinks,
vexedly. "Why did I tell him I liked him?" she thinks, blushingly. So
the waves of anxiety and doubt begin to swell in these two hearts as
the outside waves beat with a truer sea-motion momently against the
steamer's side.

Between days of sea-sickness come delightful intervals of calm sea and
fresh breezes, when the party fly to the hurricane deck to get the very
quintessence of life on the ocean wave. One morning Mrs. Jerrold and
Edith were sitting there alone, with rugs and all sorts of head devices
in soft wools and flannels, and books and a basket of fruit. The matron
of the party was a tall, fine-looking woman, a good type of genuine
New England stock softened by city breeding. New Englanders are so many
propositions from Euclid, full of right angles and straight lines, but
easy living and the dressmaker's art combine to turn the corners gently.
Edith was like her mother, but softened by a touch of warm Dutch blood.
She was tall, almost stately, with a good deal of American style, which
at that time happened to be straight and slender. She was naturally
reserved, but four years of boarding-school life had enriched her store
of adjectives and her amount of endearing gush-power, and she had
at least six girl friends to whom she sent weekly epistles of some
half-dozen sheets in length, beginning, each one of them, with "My
dearest ----" and ending "Your devoted Edith."

As Edith and her mother quietly read, and ate grapes, and lolled in a
delightfully feminine way, voices were heard,--Mae's and Norman's. They
were in the middle of a conversation. "Yes," Mae was saying, "you
do away with individuality altogether nowadays, with your dreadful