"Now!" continued Miss Perceval, "get me another cup of tea. The last was
too sweet, the one before not strong enough, and the first half cold,
but this is worse than any. Do remember to mention, that yesterday night
the steward sent up a tin tea-pot, a thing I cannot possibly suffer
again. We must have the urn, too, instead of that black tea-kettle; and
desire him to prepare some butter-toast--I am not hungry, so three
rounds will be enough. Let me have some green tea this time; and see
that the cream is better than last night, when I am certain it was
thickened with chalk or snails. The jelly, too, was execrable, for it
tasted like sticking-plaster--I shall starve if better can't be had; and
the table-cloth looked like a pair of old sheets. Tell the steward all
this, and say, he must get my breakfast ready on deck in half an hour;
but meantime, I shall sit here with a book while you brush my hair."

The sick persecuted maid seemed anxious to do all she was bid; so, after
delivering as many of the messages as possible, she tried to stand up
and do Miss Perceval's hair, but the motion of the vessel had greatly
increased, and she turned as pale as death, apparently on the point of
sinking to the ground, when Laura, now quite dressed, quietly slipped
the brush out of her hand, and carefully brushed Miss Perceval's thin
locks, while poor Mary silently dropped upon a seat, being perfectly
faint with sickness.

Miss Perceval read on, without observing the change of abigails, till
Harry, who had watched this whole scene from the cabin-door, made a
hissing noise, such as grooms do when they currycomb a horse, which
caused the young lady to look hastily round, when great was Miss
Perceval's astonishment to discover her new abigail, with a very
pains-taking look, brushing her hair, while poor Mary lay more dead than
alive on the benches. "Well! I declare! was there ever anything so
odd!" she exclaimed in a voice of amazement. "How very strange! What can
be the matter with Mary! There is no end to the plague of servants!"

"Or rather to the plague of mistresses!" thought Laura, while she
glanced from Miss Perceval's round, red bustling face, to the poor
suffering maid, who became worse and worse during the day, for there
came on what sailors call "a capful of wind," which gradually rose to a
"stiff breeze," or, what the passengers considered a hurricane; and,
towards night, it attained the dignity of a real undeniable "storm."