lay there panting, there sounded from above a long, soft whispering, as though some one was gently, gently rustling among tissue paper to find something. It was grandma saying her prayers. . . .
A long time passed. Then the stewardess came in; she trod softly and leaned her hand on grandma’s bunk.
“We’re just entering the Straits,” she said.
“Oh!”
“It’s a fine night, but we’re rather empty. We may pitch a little.”
And indeed at that moment the Picton boat rose and rose and hung in the air just long enough to give a shiver before she swung down again, and there was the sound of heavy water slapping against her sides. Fenella remembered she had left that swan-necked umbrella standing up on the little couch. If it fell over, would it break? But grandma remembered too, at the same time.
“I wonder if you’d mind, stewardess, laying down my umbrella,” she whispered.
“Not at all, Mrs. Crane.” And the stewardess, coming back to grandma breathed, “Your little granddaughter’s in such a beautiful sleep.”
“God be praised for that!” said grandma.
“Poor little motherless mite!” said the stewardess. And grandma was still telling the
