THERE is a thrill upon awaking on your first morning on board a ship at sea which all the German U-boats under the ocean can scarcely increase. You may imagine all you please what it may be; and it will amaze you with something more. Ruth Alden had imagined; and her first forenoon on shipboard was filled with surprises.
She had gone aboard from the New York quay at nine the evening before, as she had been warned to do; she had looked into her cabin—a small, square white compartment with two bunks, upper and lower, an unupholstered seat, a washbowl with a looking glass beside the porthole and with a sort of built-in bureau with four drawers, above which was posted conspicuously the rules to be observed in emergencies. These were printed in French and English and were illustrated by drawings of exactly how to adjust the life-preservers to be found under all berths. Someone, whose handbaggage bore the initials "M. W." and who evidently was to share the cabin with her, had been in before her and gone out. Ruth saw that the steward disposed her cabin baggage beside M. W.'s; she shut herself in a moment after the steward had gone, touching the pillow of her bunk, reading the rules again, trying the water-taps. She stood with
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