In any case
it was very late and everybody was moving.

A petulant cry from Molly expressed her own desires exactly.

"Papa, dear Papa! What makes the folks go wobbling around the way they
do? I wish they wouldn't! I wish they would--would keep
real--perfectly--still! I wish! Oh! dear!"

The Judge rose at once and, despite her size, caught up his daughter and
marched off with her toward Mrs. Hungerford's stateroom, whither that
experienced voyager had as suddenly preceded him. When he came back, a
few minutes later, he found that Miss Greatorex had vanished, and that
Dorothy sat alone on the deserted deck wondering what in the world was
the matter to make everybody rush off at once, or almost everybody.
Wondering whether she should follow, and if her guardian would return
and need her rugs again; yet placidly thinking over the delightful
evening she had spent and how strange it was for her, "just plain
Dorothy," to be having such a splendid trip in such charming company.

"Well, lassie, are you all right? Don't _you_ feel a 'little queer,'
too?"

"Yes, thank you, Judge Breckenridge. I'm right enough but I don't know
whether Miss Greatorex wants me to come to our room now or whether
she'll need her things again. She went away in a great hurry, seems if;
and so--so did 'most everybody else. Funny for them all to get sleepy
just in a minute so."

The old traveler laughed and patted Dorothy's shoulder.

"A 'fog swell' is what we've struck. That explains the darkness and the
hasty departure of our neighbors. Seasick, poor creatures! and no
suffering worse, while it lasts. Sure you aren't yourself, Dorothy?"

"No. I don't feel any different from ever, yet, Judge Breckenridge."

"Good enough. I'm mighty glad for you. Poor little Moll will be apt to
have a sorry time of it until we reach Yarmouth and land. By the way,
lassie, I observe that you've been well trained to give a person their
name and title when you speak to them. But we're on our holiday now, you
know, and mustn't work more than we can help. So, my dear, suppose you
call me Uncle Schuy, or simply Uncle, while we are together. 'Judge
Breckenridge' is considerable of a mouthful for a small maid who, I
hope, will have to address me a great many times. I shall find it
pleasant to be 'Uncled' for I greatly miss our boy, Tom."

He did not add, as he might, that some pity mingled in this desire.
Coming unobserved upon the little figure sitting alone in the
st