s rough, and the ship was tossing and reeling like a
drunken man. John found himself unable to lie down or sit up. He spent
the day in rolling alternately in his berth or on the floor, groaning,
"Surely I will die."

The purser came and laughed at his distress, assuring him that he would
survive. Next day he felt better and crawled out upon the deck. The sea
still ran high, though the sky was clear, and the sun shone on the
wildly agitated sea.

He saw a wretch as miserable as himself crouching under a hencoop and
holding both hands upon his tortured stomach. John Stevens paused for a
moment at the rail, gasping with seasickness.

"Say, neighbor, are you having a hard time?" asked the seasick but
cheerful individual under the hencoop.

"My head hurts," John gasped.

"Verily, I ache all over," returned the new acquaintance under the
hencoop.

At this moment the cabin door was thrown suddenly and unceremoniously
open, and a man past middle age darted forward as if he had been shot
out of a cannon and went sprawling upon the deck, howling as he did so:

"Good morrow, stranger!"

John was not astonished at the sudden appearance of the man, but was
rather alarmed at the violence of his fall. He ran to him and assisted
him to rise.

"Are you injured?" he asked.

"Nay, nay; the fall was not violent."

The man under the hencoop, who had been a disinterested spectator, took
occasion to remark:

"Marry! my friend, I wish it were I who had taken such a tumble; surely
it would have crushed the stones in my stomach."

"I am not sick," the new-comer answered, rising to his feet. "I was
thrown by the sudden lurch of the ship; but it will soon be over."

"I trust so," groaned the seasick man by the hencoop.

"But the sea runs high," the old man said, "let us go in."

John Stevens, who had partially recovered from his seasickness, went
into the cabin with the stranger. He had formed no acquaintances since
coming on board the vessel and was strangely impressed with this old
gentleman. Men cannot always brood on the past and retain their senses.
John Stevens was not a coward, yet the helpless condition of his wife
and children made him dread danger. When they were seated he said:

"You do not belong at Jamestown."

"No. I am from London and know no one at Jamestown."

"You came in the last ship?"

"We did."

"You did not come alone?"

"No; my daughter Blanche came with me. She is all the child I have."

John