The decks were still wet from their daily mopping, the folded steamer chairs were ranged five deep beneath the cabin windows, and nothing seemed to be quite in shape yet save her own tidy little self. She went forward as far as she could to the bow, and then turned her back toward everything, so as to see how it seemed to be _way out at sea_; and not being conscious of any remarkable sensations, was somewhat disappointed. “Out of sight of land” had always stood with Marie-Celeste for such an awe-inspiring condition of affairs that she expected to feel all sorts of chilly and creepy feelings when she fairly faced the thought; and yet here she stood, alone to all intents and purposes, and no land anywhere, and yet not so much as the suggestion of a chill or a creep. She turned round and looked at the ship, and smiled at the man at the wheel, and guessed she knew what the trouble was, and guessed right. She wasn't a bit afraid; that was the secret of her disappointment, if it could in truth be called a disappointment. It was such a beautiful, stanch, great ship, with its large masts and spars and network of interlacing halyards, that its wideness meant more to her just then than even the wideness of the sea; and she felt so safe and at home on it withal, that all the expected uncanny sensations had need to be postponed to some more favorable occasion. With this cherished illusion so soon disposed of, she decided to take a little turn on the deck. The steamer was pitching a good deal--“pitching horribly,” some of the passengers below would have told you, but all the more fun for Marie-Celeste; and plunging her hand deep in her reefer pocket, she set off at a swinging gait. Now it was all up-hill, and the wind blowing such a gale that she had need to bend way over, holding firmly to her sailor hat the while, to make any headway whatever; and now in a trice it was very much down-hill indeed, and the little knees had to be stiffly braced to prevent her ladyship from bowling along at a dangerously rapid pace.