head, feeling as if every minute were an hour, and he kept gurgling,
"Tom's a bad boy--he gets money all the time, and I'm going to see what
he's doing with it," with feeble waves of his legs, that put Polly in a
fright lest he should roll off the sofa at every lurch of the steamer.

"Tom is coming," at last she said, putting her hand on the hot
forehead. "Please stay still, sir; you will be sick."

"But I don't want Tom to come," cried the old gentleman, irritably.
"Who said I wanted him to come? Hey?" He turned up his head and looked
at her, and Polly's hand shook worse than ever when the little snapping
eyes were full on her face, and she had all she could do to keep from
running out of the room and up on deck where she could breathe freely.

"I am so sorry," she managed to gasp, feeling if she didn't say
something, she should surely run. "Does your head feel better?" And she
smoothed his hot forehead gently just as Phronsie always did
Grandpapa's when it ached. And when she thought of Phronsie, then it
was all she could do to keep the tears back. Where could she be? And
would Jasper never come back?

And just then in ran Tom with a great clatter, complaining noisily
every step of the way. "I told you you'd much better get off to your
stateroom, Granddad!" he exclaimed. "Here, I'll help you down there."
And he laid a hasty hand on the feeble old arm.

"I think he is sick," said Polly, gently. Jasper came hurrying in.
"Phronsie is all right," he had time to whisper to Polly.

"Oh, Jasper!" the colour rushed into her cheek that had turned quite