of the heavy sea. Drifting with wind
and wave is a simple thing for a big vessel. There is no struggle, no
tearing asunder of resisting forces. Thus might a boat caught in the
pitiless current of Niagara glide towards the brink of the cataract
with cunning smoothness.

And then, while the occupants of the saloon were endeavoring to
persuade each other that all was well, the loud wail of the siren
thrilled them with increased foreboding. It was not the warning note
of a fog, nor the sharp course-signal for the guidance of a passing
ship, but a sustained trumpeting, which announced to any steamer hidden
in the darkening waste of waters that the _Kansas_ was not under
control. It was a wild, sinister appeal for help, the voice of the
disabled vessel proclaiming her need; and the answer seemed to come in
a fiercer shriek of the gale, while the added fury of the blast brought
a curling sea over the poop. The _Kansas_ staggered and shook herself
clear. The wave smashed its way onward; several iron stanchions
snapped with reports like pistol-shots, and there was an intolerable
rending of woodwork. But, whatever the damage, the powerful hull rose
triumphantly from the clutch of its assailant. Shattered streams of
water poured off the decks like so many cascades. Loud above the
splash of these miniature cataracts vibrated the tense boom of the
fog-horn.

It was a nerve-racking moment. It demanded the leadership of a strong
man, and there are few gatherings in Anglo-Saxondom which cannot
produce a Caesar when required.

"Say," shouted the American, his clear voice dominating the turmoil,
"that gave us a shower-bath. If we could just stand outside and see
ourselves, we should look like an illuminated fountain."

That was the right note--belief in the ship, contempt of the darkness
and the gale. The crisis passed.

"There really cannot be a heavy sea," said Elsie, cheerfully
inaccurate. "Otherwise we should be pitching or rolling, perhaps both,
whereas we are actually far more steady than when dinner commenced."

"I find these lulls in the storm most trying," complained Isobel.
"They remind me of some wild animal hunting its prey, creeping up with
silent stealth, and then springing."

"I have never before heard a fog-horn sounded so continuously," said
the missionary's wife, a Mrs. Somerville. "Don't you think they are
whistling for assistance?"

"Assistance! What sort of assistance can anybody give us he