A sudden shrill laugh burst from the French woman, who
had been looking at Mrs. Waldeaux with insolent, bold
eyes. But as she laughed, her head fell forward and she
swung from side to side.

"It is nothing," she cried, "I am only a little faint.
I must go below."

The ship was now crossing short, choppy waves. The
passengers scattered rapidly. George took his mother to
her stateroom, and there she stayed until land was
sighted on the Irish coast. Clara and her companions
also were forced to keep to their berths.

During the speechless misery of the first days Mrs.
Waldeaux was conscious that George was hanging over her,
tender as a mother with a baby. She commanded him to
stay on deck, for each day she saw that he, too, grew
more haggard. "Let me fight it out alone," she would beg
of him. "My worst trouble is that I cannot take care of
you."

He obeyed her at last, and would come down but once
during the day, and then for only a few hurried minutes.
His mother was alarmed at the ghastliness of his face and
the expression of anxious wretchedness new to it. "His
eye avoids mine craftily, like that of an insane man,"
she told herself, and when the doctor came, she asked him
whether sea-sickness affected the brain.