Mr. Arbuton. It was a scene, and nothing could have annoyed him more
than this tumult which poor Mrs. Ellison's misfortune occasioned among
the bystanding habitans and deck-hands, and the passengers eagerly
craning forward over the bulwarks, and running ashore to see what the
matter was. Few men know just how to offer those little offices of
helpfulness which such emergencies demand, and Mr. Arbuton could do
nothing after he was rid of his burden; he hovered anxiously and
uselessly about, while Mrs. Ellison was carried to an airy position on
the bow of the boat, where in a few minutes he had the great
satisfaction of seeing her open her eyes. It was not the moment for him
to speak, and he walked somewhat guiltily away with the dispersing
crowd.

Mrs. Ellison addressed her first words to pale Kitty at her side. "You
can have all my things, now," she said, as if it were a clause in her
will, and perhaps it had been her last thought before unconsciousness.

"Why, Fanny," cried Kitty, with an hysterical laugh, "you're not going
to die! A sprained ankle isn't fatal!"

"No; but I've heard that a person with a sprained ankle can't put their
foot to the ground for weeks; and I shall only want a dressing-gown, you
know, to lie on the sofa in." With that, Mrs. Ellison placed her hand
tenderly on Kitty's head, like a mother wondering what will become of a
helpless child during her disability; in fact she was mentally weighing
the advantages of her wardrobe, which Kitty would now fully enjoy,
against the loss of the friendly strategy which she would now lack.
Helpless to decide the matter, she heaved a sigh.

"But, Fanny, you won't expect to travel in a dressing-gown."