For some reason or other the spirits of our driving party seemed steadily rising. It was simply impossible to put anybody out of humor, no matter what happened. Everything was lovely and just as it should be, even to the pelting showers that came down with such swift suddenness as to almost soak them through before they could get under cover of waterproofs and umbrellas, and then a moment after left them stranded in brilliant sunshine, fairly steaming within the rubber coats which, with much difficulty, had but just been adjusted. Indeed, every day seemed more full of enjoyment than the one that preceded it and to call for more enthusiasm. If any one had asked Mr. Harris, for instance, how he accounted for this, he would probably have laughed good-naturedly at the question, and answered: “Why, easily enough! How could it be otherwise with this glorious weather, this beautiful country, and our jolly little party!” But the real secret of what made the party so jolly was, in fact, quite beyond Mr. Harris's ability to divine. The real secret lay with Marie-Celeste and Dorothy in the good news that had been committed to their keeping; and, strange to say, it seemed to mean as much to Dorothy, who was no relation of Theodore's, as to Marie-Celeste, who was. As a result, they were both brimming over with fun and merriment; and as there is, fortunately, nothing in the world more contagious than good spirits, the other members of the party were equally merry without in the least knowing why. Even Mr. Farwell, who had simply been invited to fill up and because he was a friend of Mr. Harris's, fell under the spell, and bloomed out in a most surprising and delightful manner, and by the time the first week was over felt as though he had known them all all his life, and, indeed, very much regretted that such was not in truth the case.
From the Waterhead Hotel, at Coniston, the plan had been laid to retrace their way a few miles over the same road by which they had come from Windermere, make a stop for two or three hours at the Rothay Hotel, and then drive on to Keswick that same afternoon. But just as they were rolling into Grasmere, the off-leader, with the total depravity peculiar to animal nature, struck the only stone visible within a hundred yards on that perfect roadway, laming himself instantly and in most pronounced fashion. This chanced to be the first mishap; but then could you really call an accident a mishap that simply necessitated a three-days' stay in the beautiful Wordsworth district? Our sunshiny little party, at any rate, chose not so to regard it, and scoured the whole lovely region on foot, reading Wordsworth's poetry in their halts by the roadside, and growing familiar with every foot of the lanes he so dearly loved. Not content with their morning spent in the Grasmere Church, and beside his grave in the little churchyard without, they even made their way to Wordsworth's old home—beautiful Rydal Mount—hoping, on the strength of a card of introduction to the gentleman residing there, to possibly be allowed to see the house. The gentleman, however, when they presented themselves at his door, politely bowed them out instead of in, and they were fain to content themselves with the lesser privilege of inspecting the prettily terraced garden.
When, after the three days' rest, the off-leader had been coaxed into proper driving condition, they started off once more, but rather late in the afternoon, planning to take things in quite leisurely fashion, out of regard for the same off-leader, and depending upon the wonderful English twilight to bring them into Keswick before ten o'clock. It happened to be a local holiday in Cumberland, and as a result here and there they encountered a solitary specimen of humanity prone upon his back or his face, just as it chanced, by the roadside, or, not quite so badly off as that, reeling along to wherever home might be in that apparently houseless region. At six o'clock, on one of the highest points on the road that leads to Keswick, they stopped at the Nag's Head, a typical roadside inn, for supper, the sounds of revelry in whose tap-room at once accounted for the sorry customers they had met upon the road before they reached it. It was exceedingly interesting to the American contingent of the party to gain a little insight into the life of the English “navvies;” and they passed the little tap-room, reeking with smoke and smelling of pipes and beer mugs, rather more often than circumstances would warrant, for the sake of looking in on the jolly fellows, and catching a sentence or so of their almost unintelligible dialect. A truce to all this, however, for fear you should imagine, and with reason, that even at this late stage I am going to fare so wide of my province of story-teller as to conduct you in guide-book fashion through the counties of Westmoreland and Cumberland. But, nevertheless, up to this same Nag's Head Inn we simply had to come, because some one else, in whom we have an interest, is coming there too as fast as a good road-horse can carry him. It seems that opposite the Nag's Head Inn the Church of England has built a tiny edifice, and as though to apologize for the apparent unreasonableness of building any church there whatsoever, they have made a most miniature affair of it. A placard suspended within proclaims the fact that it is the smallest church in all England, and beneath it a contribution-box, of dimensions out of all proportion to the surroundings, invites spare shillings for the maintenance of the lonely little parish.
The peculiar isolation of the place appeals to the average tourist in most pathetic fashion, and no sooner have our friends of the driving party crowded within the diminutive door than Mr. Harris, hat in hand, commences to take up a collection, with a view to making a radical addition to the contents of the roomy contribution-box. Just as he is concluding the exercise of this truly churchly function, and Marie-Celeste is dropping her very last sixpence into the depths of the appealing hat, the little doorway is suddenly darkened—-as it has need to be when any one comes through it—and in the next second Ted is standing in their midst. The collection goes sliding on to the floor, to be re-collected at leisure, and everybody, with the exception of Mr. Farwell, is trying to seize Ted's hand at once. Precedence, however, is given to the claims of Marie-Celeste, and the upturned face is greeted with the most prodigious kiss.
“I thought we should happen to meet you somewhere on this trip,” said Mr. Harris, when things had subsided enough for an attempt at conversation, groping the while on all-fours, and with Harold's help, for the fugitive shillings on the floor.
“Well, you can hardly call it happening to meet, when I've been riding since early this morning to catch you. I expected to overtake you at Grasmere, but found you were well on your way to Keswick by the time I reached it.”
“Well, where did you come from, anyhow, old fellow?” asked Harold, pleased beyond measure that Ted had seen fit to follow them up in this fashion. He could not imagine whatever had suddenly brought it about, after all the neglect of the summer; but that did not in the least diminish his delight.
“I came from home, Harold,” Ted replied; “I went back there two weeks ago, but it was so lonely I couldn't stand it, and so when I found out through the Allyns about where you were, I came posthaste after you. Besides, you know, when I discovered that my brake had been walked off with in a rather cool fashion, I concluded I had some rights in the case, and came to look after them. I see it's been terribly abused,” glancing in the direction of the brake, which, minus the horses, stood in front of the inn across the narrow road; “it was as good as new when you started.”
But these last remarks, so like the old Ted, but for the fact that he was not in the least in earnest, were hardly listened to at all by Harold. He was thinking his own glad thoughts. Five weeks yet till the Harrises would sail for home! Ted would have a chance to redeem himself in that time and make up for all his coldness and neglect; and the joy of it all was that it looked as though he was going to try to do it.
“Half crown, please, for being permitted to join the party,” said Mr. Harris, presenting the hat to Ted, after making sure that none of the coins were still missing; and Ted, though wholly bent on practising close economy, felt the circumstances justified the outlay, and did as he was bid.
There was only one person to whom Ted's coming was not a source of unalloyed pleasure. The addition of a seventh member to the party made it necessary that some one should occupy the vacant back seat on the brake between the grooms, and Mr. Farwell was gentleman enough to insist upon being allowed to take his regular turn in the matter. He would not have minded this much, however, only that, being endowed with average qualities of discernment, he soon realized he had been obliged to take a back seat in more senses than one. Dorothy continued to be most polite and friendly, but that Ted filled the role of an old and privileged friend was at once evident on the face of things, and Mr. Farwell endeavored to accept the situation with the best grace possible, and succeeded, be it said to his credit, remarkably well.
Mr. and Mrs. Harris were soon taken into Ted's confidence—the very next day, in fact, as they were sitting in the garden of the hotel at Keswick—and listened as raptly to his narration of all that had happened these last few weeks as the little circle outside the cottage door had listened to Marie-Celeste. Ted, however, made no excuses for himself, whereas Marie-Celeste's account was full of them; and so one narration was naturally far less plausible than the other. The one fact that seemed to Mr. and Mrs. Harris to defy credulity was that Ted should have fallen into the hands of the Hartleys, for in what other little cottage in all England could such a transformation have been wrought? Where else could he have been brought into such close touch with all the old home interests as he had been there, first through Chris and afterward through Donald and Marie-Celeste, and where else could he have come to see so clearly that he had been wilfully trampling upon all that is truest and best in life? “Fritz,” said Mrs. Harris that evening, as in company with Marie-Celeste they were strolling home from an hour spent in the little churchyard where the great poet Southey is buried, “I think it is beautiful to realize what a grand part Providence plays in the world.”
“Providence!” said Marie-Celeste thoughtfully; “really, I do not know just what people mean by Providence.”
“The word is from the Latin,” said her father, who, with most college men, liked to bring his knowledge of derivations to the front now and then, “and the dictionary, I think, would tell you that it means God's thoughtful care for everything created.”
“Exactly,” said Mrs. Harris, “only it seems to me that people are often in too much of a hurry to make use of the word, for you can't he certain until you are able to look hack upon a thing whether it was surely of God's ordering or man's short-sighted scheming. Still I am inclined to believe, even at this stage of the proceeding, that our coming over here this summer has indeed been a beautiful providence and a few weeks later, for good and sufficient reasons, there was not a shadow of doubt on that score left in the mind of any one.”
Nothing could have exceeded the air of importance with which Albert was striding along the streets of Windsor, and notwithstanding the shortness of his legs, his valet de chambre, in the shape of a newly acquired French nurse, had difficulty in keeping up with him. The fact was, Albert was intrusted with a most important piece of information—the bearer of a message that had cleared his own mental horizon from so much as the vestige of a cloud, and which he felt sure would bring equal joy to the others for whom it was intended. The destination toward which he steered, without deviation to right or left, and with great regard for economy of time and space at corners and crossings, was the Little Castle, and he marched up the path from terrace to terrace, and rang the bell with all the complacency of a drum-major.
It was expected, of course, that faithful old Margaret, who was master in chief of affairs in the Little Castle, would, as usual, in the absence of the family, answer the bell, and the message intended for her was half way over Albert's lips before he took in the fact that the individual who had opened the door bore about as close resemblance to Margaret as the tower of the Little Castle to its door-mat.
“Why—why, who are you?” asked Albert as soon as he could check the impassioned utterance of his message, and instantly demanded in the next breath, “and—and where is Margaret?”
“Here I am, dear,” said Margaret, coming toward him as rapidly as an extra touch of rheumatism would permit, “and I suppose you wonder who this is who has let you in?”
“Nes,” said Albert, whose anxiety as to who this intruder might be was somewhat allayed by Margaret's appearance on the scene.
“Well, this is Mr. Everett Selden, Harold's uncle, who has come down from London to make us a little visit,” Margaret explained.
“Oh, dat's all right den!” favoring Mr. Selden with a benignant smile; “and—and now, Margaret. I came round to tell you dat dey are coming home on Saturday. We've had a letter from Dorothy dis morning, and dey sent me down to tell you.” (Margaret fortunately was considerate enough not to take the wind out of the little fellow's sails by informing him that they had had letters of their own that morning.) “And, Margaret, dey will get here in time for luncheon, and I would have a very good luncheon, Margaret, and everything all b'ight and shiny.”
“Just as you say, Master Albert,” making a little curtsey to this self-appointed master, and with difficulty restricting her emotions to a smile.
Meanwhile, Mr. Selden stood on one side immensely entertained, for he had previously had no idea that executive ability ever made a showing at quite such an early age.
“And now,” said Albert, free to turn his attention to less important matters, “did you open the door for me because you saw a little boy coming up the terrace?”
“Yes, that was the way of it,” Mr. Selden replied.
“But you did not know what little boy I was?”
“Oh, yes, I did; Marie-Celeste told me about you one day when I had a good talk with her in St. George's.”
“Elaine,” said Albert, turning abruptly to the French nurse, “I would like to talk to Harold's uncle, and I would like to stay to luncheon—I often stay to luncheon, don't I, Margaret?” Margaret's answer was that he often did, and Mr. Selden's assurance that nothing would give him greater pleasure at once settled the matter, and Elaine was compelled to return without her charge, but entrusted with the message to Albert's mamma that Mr. Selden would himself bring him home early in the afternoon.
“I remember that Marie-Celeste told me,” said Mr. Selden, placing a comfortable chair for Albert opposite his own, near the open window, “that you were very fond of a good talk now and then; and I'm very glad of that, because there isn't anything else that I could do to amuse you.”
“Why isn't there?” said Albert, noting Mr. Selden's dressing-gown, and impressed with his semi-invalid air; “aren't you strong enough to do anything but talk?”
“No, I'm not so badly off as that yet, Albert; but you see I've lived alone so long; that I haven't much of an idea how to amuse little boys.”
“Why did you tome down here when ev'rybody was away?” for Albert felt that the case needed to be still further investigated; “were you inwited?”
“Oh, yes, indeed I was invited! Harold's brother Ted invited me—urged me, I may say, to come whenever I chose, and to stay as long as I liked.”
“How long do you sink you will like to stay?”
“I think I would like to stay always.”
“Always till you die?”
“Yes, I think I should—that is, if you don't mind, Albert;” for Albert's sense of proprietorship in the Little Castle was very evident.
“Oh, no, I'll not mind—perhaps we'll grow to be friends, and often have long talks. Marie-Celeste said you had long talks on the steamer—that was how she came to know you so well.”
“Yes, we did have beautiful talks on the steamer, but the very best one of all was in St. George's Chapel, a month or so ago.”
“Nes, I know,” as though there was little of interest to Marie-Celeste that was not sooner or later confided to him. “Did she tell you dat time, Mr. Selden, 'bout our Knight-of-de-Gartcr day?”
“Oh, yes, indeed.”
“And 'bout dis?” groping in the side-pocket of his sacque, and producing a little circle of blue ribbon.
“I can't quite make out what it is, Albert,” said Mr. Selden, peering anxiously at the rather indistinguishable little object.
“Well, dat's what it is and drawing up his kilt and the trouser leg underneath, Albert slipped the garter over his foot and up to its right place, just above the knee. This brought the gold lettering partly into view, and enabled Mr. Selden to grasp the situation.
“Oh, I see,” he said; “you made believe you were a little Knight of the Garter yourself.”
“Nes; just for a bit of fun, I made believe I was a little knight all dat day; but of course I didn't tell anybody, only Dorothy, who made it for me. But do you know,” very confidentially, “dat I felled asleep in de church beside Timothy, so dat de garter showed, and den de children teased me awfully 'bout it, and Marie-Celeste calls me her little knight now almost always. But you won't ever tell dat I told you why she calls me dat, will you?”
“No, I promise, Albert;” and Margaret coming in just then to announce luncheon, the blue garter was surreptitiously removed and left for the time being on the library table, and was not thought of again by its rightful owner. Mr. Selden, finding it there later in the afternoon, slipped it into his pocket, with an idea of the use he might some time make of it.
For the next three days, to Mr. Selden's delight and amusement, Albert was a constant visitor at the Little Castle, and when Saturday came he put in an appearance at a prematurely early hour, for fear, by any chance, the driving party should reach home before the time appointed; and as that was exactly what they did do, he congratulated himself very highly for his extraordinary forethought. Not but what he had full three hours to spare, only the Allyns, who were invited to luncheon at the Castle, failing to reach there before the arrival of the brake, he felt that nothing but his own timely precaution had spared him a similar disappointment.
“Dat sounds like dem,” said Albert for about the fiftieth time to Mr. Selden.
“Hardly, I think;” but humoring Albert to the extent of stepping out on to the door-step; “it is a whole hour ahead of time yet.”
Hut Albert was right, and a moment later the four-in-hand wheeled up at the gate, and the glorious driving trip was over.
“Who can that possibly be with Albert?” queried Harold, naturally mystified at the appearance of a gentleman, in the easy costume of house coat and slippers, standing complacently in the doorway of the Little Castle.
“It's Uncle Everett, that's who it is;” and clambering down the side of the coach, Ted was up the path, and had him cordially by the hand in less than a minute.
“Well, this beats all,” said Harold to himself; “what is going to happen next, I wonder?” But he had the graciousness to defer his own greeting to Uncle Everett until he assisted Aunt Lou and Dorothy and Marie-Celeste to dismount, by aid of the brake's steps, and which much practice, by the way, enabled them to accomplish very skilfully.
Albert, you may be sure, was standing as close as possible to the foot of the steps, and tumbled curls and rumpled collar soon bore witness to an exceedingly hearty exchange of greetings. But the beauty of it was, that everybody seemed to have every whit as glad a welcome for Uncle Everett as Ted himself; and for Mr. and Mrs. Harris the surprise was in store of finding that Marie-Celeste's steamer friend and Uncle Everett were one and the same person; but surprises being the order of the day just then, everybody was coming to take them quite as a matter of course. Mr. Selden soon sought out an opportunity to tell why he had been so ungracious as not to reveal his identity on the steamer, though he felt naturally that his explanation did not reflect very much to his credit, as was indeed the truth; but Mr. and Mrs. Harris were not the people to bear a grudge against anybody if it could by any reasonable possibility be dispensed with, and of course other explanations were called for. Uncle Everett's presence had to be explained to Harold, and Ted told him all about their week together in London, but not yet about the borrowed money. That confession, together with all the rest, would be made a little later on, when Harold and he should have gotten a little nearer still to each other.
Well, it was a merry luncheon they had in the Little Castle, but after luncheon the situation grew rather serious and pathetic. They had had such a good time together for four happy weeks, it seemed hard each to have to go his own way and realize that all the good times were over; and, happily, even Mr. Farwell felt very sorry, too, notwithstanding he had been obliged to concede rather more than was altogether agreeable after Ted made his advent among them.
Among the letters that Mr. Harris found awaiting him was one from Chris, telling him that he and Donald were booked for the Majestic, sailing from Liverpool the first of October. “All right,” said Mr. Harris to himself; “we go, too, then, if we can,” which was somewhat of a question, considering the crowded state of autumn ocean travel. But good fortune still favored our little party, and Mr. Harris's telegram reached Liverpool just in time to secure state-rooms which, within the same hour, had been relinquished. So there was only one month more before them now, and one week of that Mr. and Mrs. Harris and Marie-Celeste were to spend in London. But the household in the Little Castle tried to make it a happy month—as happy as they could, that is, with the cloud of coming separation hanging over them. There was another cloud, too, that broadened and deepened as the month drew near its close; Uncle Everett was far from well. Just at first he had entered into the excursions and driving to which much of the time had been given over, but latterly he had preferred to stay at home, and now for a week he had been confined to his room. All the while, however, he was utterly uncomplaining, seeming to be bent upon making up for all the fretful moodiness of the selfish old bachelor days up in London. And so the first of October came round, finding him still in his room, and there was no help for it but for the Harrises to take leave of him there.
Everybody tried to make the farewells as cheery as possible, and Mr. Selden promised to visit the States later in the fall if he grew stronger. “If not,” he said, “I'll see you all when you come over next spring to Ted's wedding”—for that was another beautiful outcome of the summer. Ted was to be married at the close of his senior year, and the Little Castle was again to have a dear little mistress—a mistress as like to Dorothy as you can possibly imagine.
When, at last, the moment had come for turning their backs on the Little Castle, two carriages were waiting at the door, for quite a party were going up to see them off at Liverpool—Ted and Dorothy and Harry Allyn and Albert, but not Harold. His good-byes were said at the station, as it was planned they should be; and then dismissing the carriages, he hurried home as fast as ever he could and straight up to his Uncle Everett's room.
“Why, Harold, boy, what does this mean?” glancing from his easy-chair toward the clock on the mantel; “can it be the train has gone without you?” and Uncle Everett's face could not possibly have looked more troubled.
“I meant it should,” for Harold had “tied up,” as he called it, to Uncle Everett with all his heart these last four weeks, and he was not going to leave him alone and half ill in his room for even twenty-four hours, if he could help it.
“Oh, Harold, you ought not to have done it!” but Uncle Everett showed how deeply he was touched by this strong mark of devotion; and Harold, drawing up a chair, sat silent for a few moments. The house had seemed so terribly bereft and lonely as he had come up through it, that he found he had hardly the heart to talk. And yet what had he stayed at home for if not to be, if possible, of some cheer and comfort? But there was no use in making an effort to talk about anything but exactly what was uppermost.
“We're going to miss them a great deal, Uncle Everett,” he said at last, “and it will be a comfort to get right to work at the studying”—for it was high time that he and Ted were back at work again, for both had had to be excused from the opening days ol the term. “All the same, I shall manage to spare you, Uncle Everett, for your visit to the States when you get stronger;” for it was understood now that Uncle Everett's permanent home was to be within the walls of the Little Castle.
Mr. Selden sat thoughtfully a moment looking into the air before him, and then arriving at a decision, he turned in his chair toward Harold: “It may not be kind,” he said quietly, “to tell you of it just now, when your heart is already heavy enough; but, Harold, I shall never be any stronger. The doctors told me what I had already suspected a month ago up in London.”
“Never be any stronger!” exclaimed Harold, almost defiantly and almost overcome with intensity of feeling. “Well, I don't believe it, Uncle Everett, and they had no right to tell you that; it takes away half a man's chances.”
“I made them tell me, Harold, I had so many things to arrange, and it is because they told me that I came post-haste down here to Windsor while you were all still away, for I felt, whenever it happened, I wanted to die in the Little Castle, in a place I could call home, if for only a little while. But, Harold, I cannot bear to sadden you. It may be I shall live ever so much longer than they think, and get the best of the doctors. I only wanted you to understand that you wouldn't get rid of me for any visit.”
Harold tried to smile, but the situation was too serious.
“The reason I've told you now, Harold, is because we may not have such another good chance for a talk; and the reason I have told you at all is because there is something more I want to tell you. I have been wondering naturally what I should do with my money, and I've decided to leave a fourth of it to you and a fourth to Ted. Yes, I know you don't need it, but you are my sister's children, and I want to do just this with it. But the other half, Harold—what do you suppose I am going to do with that?” his pale face glowing at the thought.
“What, Uncle Everett?” Harold's interest to learn relieving for the moment the overmastering ache at his heart.
“I am going to build a Home down in Sussex—that's where your mother and I were born, you know—and a lady up in London—a lady, mind you, Harold, but who has lost husband and children and everything else in the world, is going to take care of it for me. Then as soon as it is ready all the institutions for children in London are to be told about it, and whenever a little girl comes along who seems to be too fine, in the best sense of the word, for the life of the ordinary institution, down she is to go to Cranford, to be cared for in the Home; and it is to be a home, Harold, prettily furnished, with rooms for ten children, and everything as dainty as can be. You see, you can only keep it home-like if you limit it to rather a small number. And then when it comes to be well known with its family of dear little daughters, I hope that, once in a while, people who have had little children and lost them, and people who have never had them at all, and now and then a maiden lady, or even an old bachelor, will come down there and carry off one or more of the little girls, to bring them up as their own in their own homes, and so room will be made for others.”
“Uncle Everett, that's the most beautiful”—
“Wait a moment, Harold, for it isn't all told yet. In the living-room of the Home I am going to have a beautiful open fireplace (for of course there won't be any parlor)—the most beautiful that can be made—and right above the tiles and under the ledge of the mantel I am going to have the legend, in gold letters, that will shine even in the twilight, 'For love of Marie-Celeste” and then Mr. Selden paused to see how the idea seemed to strike him.
“Excuse me for a moment, Uncle Everett,” for when boys' hearts grow too full, they prefer to go off by themselves, and it is not a bad plan, by the way. “I was a goose,” he said, coming back in a few moments, and putting his arm lovingly along the back of Uncle Everett's chair; “but, you see, it was one thing coming right on the top of another so,” knowing that Uncle Everett understood. “Isn't there more to tell now?”
“No, only this, Harold, and that is, that the orders are all given, and that whether I live or die, the Home will be ready by next autumn;” and who would have imagined, to look at the light in the two faces, that they were really standing face to face with the grave, mysterious thought of death.
The Majestic is lying, with all steam up, out in the Mersey. Chris is leaning over the ship's side, and Donald, again in sailor rig, is close beside him; for Ted had dispensed with Donald's services when he decided to follow up the driving party, and he had at once hurried back to Nuneham to help Chris, who was trying to get everything into shape for the old people before leaving. The tender, with its second and last load of passengers, is bearing down on the steamer, and now they can distinguish the Harrises and Albert—of whom Chris has heard so much—mounted on Theodore's shoulder. Marie-Celeste holds in her two hands a generous bouquet, which was handed to her just as she stepped aboard of the tender. Its roses are bound together with a little blue garter, which she was quick to recognize, and she knows very well she has need to thank Uncle Selden for this priceless souvenir of that happy Knight-of-the-Garter party.
Foremost among the number to leave the tender is a man in livery, which some of the passengers have at once identified as none other than that worn by the servants of the Oueen.
“Whom do you want, may I ask?” questions Donald politely, since the man, once aboard, seems hesitating which way to turn. Inclined at first to resent the interference, the man stares at Donald a moment, and then, possibly conciliated by the semi-official aspect of his sailor costume, condescends to reply:
“I have these,” motioning toward the articles in his hands, “for one of the passengers—Miss Marie-Celeste Harris.”
“Here she is, then,” answers Donald, for the Harrises have that moment come aboard.
“Are you Miss Marie-Celeste Harris?” asks the man, taken aback by the suddenness of her advent on the scene.
“Yes, I am,” Marie-Celeste replies in a voice all but inaudible with surprise.
“Then the Queen's compliments, miss, and a bon voyage!” and grandiloquently delivering himself of this little speech, he presses two packages into her hands and retreats to the tender before she has at all had time to take it in. Marie-Celeste stands a moment, the observed of all observers, and especially of those who have overheard the message. Then our little party, moving off a short distance by themselves, crowd close about her in breathless excitement while the papers are removed from a glorious bunch of orchids. There is a card attached that reads,
For the Little Queen of Hearts,
FROM
Madame La Grande Reine.
The other package proves to be a tiny velvet box, containing a curious, quaint necklace, and this bears the inscription on one of its ends of faded ribbon,