Elsie, strung half-consciously to the highest tension by the
affrighting probability of being set adrift in a small boat at the
mercy of the sea roaring without--a sea which pounded the steel hull of
the _Kansas_ with such force that the great ship seemed to flinch from
each blow like a creature in pain--Elsie, then, faced by such an
intolerable prospect, was a prey to real anxiety because the wearing
apparel scattered by Courtenay on the floor was becoming soaked in
brine.
She actually stooped to rescue a coat which was not yet saturated
beyond redemption. As she lifted the garment, a packet of letters,
tied with a tape, fell from its folds. She placed the coat on the
writing-table, and endeavored to stuff the letters into a pigeon-hole.
They were too bulky, so she laid them on the coat. In doing this she
could not avoid seeing the words, "Your loving sister, Madge," written
on the outer fold of the last letter in the bundle.
And that brought a memory of her previous visit to the captain's
stateroom; the contrast between the careless chatter of that glorious
summer afternoon and the appalling midnight of this fourth day of the
voyage was something quite immeasurable; it was marked by a void as
that which separates life and death.
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