The Argosy — page 236: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

Fenny Morris's Voyage. 22 “ He is not my father!” whispered Jenny, falling into a seat. “Not your father!” cried Mr. Dacey, in astonishment. ‘Oh I beg your pardon. I took up the impression that he was. Perhaps he is your uncle.” ‘No, he is nothing—to me. He is—Mrs. Webb’s old friend.” Jenny spoke in a gasping kind of way. Her companion’s surprise melted away into a quiet determination. “Why, then,” he exclaimed, ‘this is almost more than one could ex- pect, my aged friend”—with a nod towards the green gentleman. “I shall be obliged to give you a little different treatment. Don’t worry yourself about e/tier of them,” he added in an earnest tone to Jenny. ¢¢ You go and lie down, and trust to me.” Jenny took the advice: and lay as still as she could during what seemed the most endless, wretched night she had ever known. Her deserted aunt, her expectant and disappointed sister, rose like staring shosts before her again and again, every time more distractingly real , till, conscious of the fearful distance that was hourly swelling between them, she groaned in hopelessness and despair. Morning came at last, and she rose with a wretched feeling in head and heart, and holding by the sides of her room—for the ship was heaving wildly—strove to make herself presentable, and hide as much as possible the tears she had been shedding. On reaching Mrs. Webb’s room, she found that lady plunged into a state of hopeless apathy that startled her. “Jenny, I came for your sake. If I die, bear my last words to William,” was all that she murmured. ‘Came for my sake!” thought Jenny. ‘‘ Why surely her mind is wandering. She was coming herself before ever | was. But there’s all the more need for me to do what I can for her.” Partly forgetting her misery in soothing the pillow of the one who had in idea so sacrificed herself for her, Jenny waited tenderly on her friend and made her as easy as was possible. One great thing was, that she herself was not so very ill. During the morning she was a witness of what appeared to be a conflict between the stranger and Mr. Bumble on the subject of a large tumbler of mustard and water. A mysterious gleam of enlivenment stole into the shadows of Jenny’s mind as she watched the younger man resolutely follow the dodging head of his venerable charge, and finally penning it in the far corner of his berth, by main force pour the mixture down his throat. Gulpings, sputterings, and gaspings reached her ears, followed by cries for help and cries against such barbarity. “Will you have some tea, miss ?” asked the cabin boy. “Ves ; thank you,” answered Jenny, almost cheerfully. ‘I think I could drink a cup. But I will give one to this sick lady first.” Mrs. Webb took it without hope, but without complaint; assuring Jenny GOMGOOO CO im