A LITTLE QUEEN OF HEARTS

An International Story

By Ruth Ogden

Illustrated by H. A. Ogden

New York: Frederick A. Stokes Company

1893

A CONFIDENTIAL WORD.

A few years ago, when my first story saw the light, a little fellow, a stranger to me then, but who has since proved himself the truest of friends, wrote me a most welcome letter. He said, among other things: “I have read the book five times through. My nurse, Lily Jones, read the book to me twice, my mamma read the book to me once, and my Aunt Lizzie read the book to me twice, for I can only read in my reading-book.” Now you can understand, I think, how I have wanted to keep that boy for a friend, together with the other children who have proved themselves friendly; and so realizing they were all growing older each year, I have tried in the books I have written since then to keep pace with them, that they might not perhaps outgrow me for a little while yet.

At the same time, my heart, in a way, is still with the little people who count their years by a single numeral; and so, if you please, I want to take them aside for a moment, and just whisper in their ears that, although “A Little Oueen of Hearts” may seem a trifle too old for them at first, I have an idea they will not find that fault later on.

Ruth Ogden.

CONTENTS

[ A LITTLE QUEEN OF HEARTS ]

[ CHAPTER I.—HAROLD AND TED HAVE IT OUT. ]

[ CHAPTER II—GOOD-MORNING, MR. HARTLEY. ]

[ CHAPTER III.—ABOARD A WHITE STAR. ]

[ CHAPTER IV.—A FRIEND BY THE WAY. ]

[ CHAPTER V.—AND STILL ANOTHER. ]

[ CHAPTER VI.—THE CASTLE WONDERFUL. ]

[ CHAPTER VII.—“AND NOW GOOD-MORNING,” ]

[ CHAPTER VIII.—SOMETHING OF A SCRAPE. ]

[ CHAPTER IX.—GETTING OUT OF IT. ]

[ CHAPTER X.—A KNIGHT-OF-THE-GARTER PARTY. ]

[ CHAPTER XI.—WHAT CAME OF A LETTER. ]

[ CHAPTER XII.—DONALD'S NEW QUARTERS. ]

[ CHAPTER XIII.—MADAME LA GRANDE REINE. ]

[ CHAPTER XIV.—MADAME LA PETITE REINE. ]

[ CHAPTER XV.—A DARING SUGGESTION. ]

[ CHAPTER XVI.—MARIE-CELESTE'S DISCOVERY. ]

[ CHAPTER XVII.—INTO TED'S CONFIDENCE. ]

[ CHAPTER XVIII.—RATHER A BOOKISH CHAPTER. ]

[ CHAPTER XIX.—DONALD TURNS VALET. ]

[ CHAPTER XX—DOROTHY CALLS MARIE-CELESTE TO ACCOUNT.. ]

[ CHAPTER XXI.—WHAT HAPPENED IN THE SMALLEST CHURCH IN ENGLAND. ]

[ CHAPTER XXII.—THE LITTLE CASTLE'S NEW INMATES. ]

[ CHAPTER XXIII.—FOR LOVE OF MARIE-CELESTE. ]

A LITTLE QUEEN OF HEARTS

CHAPTER I.—HAROLD AND TED HAVE IT OUT.

He was a thoroughly manly little fellow—nobody questioned that for a moment, not even Ted; and yet there he sat, his head bowed upon his folded arms, while now and then something very like a sob seemed to shake the well-knit figure and give the boyish head an undignified little bob.

When at last he looked up, behold proof positive. There were tears not only in his eyes, but on the sleeve of his Eton jacket; and there was no longer any question but that Harold Harris, sturdy little Englishman though he was, had been having what is known on both sides of the water as a good, hard cry.

“How old was he?” asks Young America, a little mistrustful as to the right sort of stuff; but what does it matter how old he was, since this is certain, that he was not the boy to cry under any circumstances without abundant reason. It was evident now, however, that he was fast getting the better of himself. He sat up, and resting his head on one hand, reached with the other for the paper-knife, and began cutting queer little geometrical figures on the big silver-cornered blotter that half covered the table. It was evident too that his thoughts were not at all on what he was doing, and that the hard cry was being followed by a good, hard think. But this did not last long; Harold was simply trying to make up his mind, as the phrase goes, and that soon accomplished, he drew pen, paper and ink toward him and commenced writing a letter, with his head on one side and his lips tightly pursed together. Indeed, he never unpursed them until that same letter was sealed and directed and the stamp affixed with a very determined little air, as though firmly resolved that the thing he had done should brook no undoing. Then he slipped into his coat and hurried out to post it, and a few yards from the door he met Ted, who was just coming home.

“Hello, there!” cried Ted, coming to a halt with his hands in his pockets; “where are you going this time of night?”

“Out,” replied Harold, starting off at a run, for it was wet and damp, and, to use England's English, “quite nasty.” Ted gave a low whistle of surprise, Harold as a rule was such a civil fellow. But no matter. What did he care where he was going, and entering the house with a latch-key, he tossed his hat on to a hook and started upstairs, his thoughts already far afield from all that concerned his younger brother. Back they came again, however, as he reached the landing, and the old clock struck twelve. “So late as that?” he said to himself, and deciding to wait for Harold, he turned and went down again to the library. He hoped he should not have to wait long, for, since he was rather counting on a good night's rest, nothing more exciting seemed to offer. In the mean time, he would make himself as comfortable as possible on the library lounge. Indeed, to make himself as comfortable as possible had gradually grown to be the one thing worth striving for in the estimation of this young gentleman. A beautiful portrait of his mother hung over the library mantel, but it belonged to a closed chapter of his life, and he had almost forgotten its existence. He had never dreamed this would be so; he had never meant it should be; but that did not alter the fact that, flattered and made much of ever since he went up to Oxford, he had somehow had little time to think of his mother, and, sorrier than that, little inclination. Death was such a desperately gloomy thing to contemplate! Besides, to keep thinking about it did not bring any one back. And yet, as much as in him lay, Ted had loved his mother, and been very proud of her too. It seemed hard that she should not have lived a great while longer. But then she had been so very sad sometimes, and life of course wasn't worth very much under those conditions. When it ceased to be awfully jolly, perhaps it was just as well to have done with it. For him, thank his stars! that unhappy period had not yet arrived. To be a Christ Church Senior, with plenty of money and plenty of friends and a head that easily mastered enough learning to make a good showing, left little to be desired, especially when already endowed with a handsome face and a physique that every man envied—at least, so thought Theodore Harris, and so thought and affirmed the half score of intimate friends who enjoyed many of the good things of this life through his bounty. It was a pity that there was not one among them with insight enough to gauge the complacent fellow aright, and at the same time with honesty enough to take him to task for the profitless life he was leading. But nobody did, and so on he fared, thoughtless and selfish, and so wholly absorbed in the present that even alone and at midnight, with his eyes resting full upon his mother's portrait, he had no thought to give it nor the worthier past that it stood for. Indeed, to judge from the discontented look on his face, his mind did not rise for a moment above the level of his annoyance at being kept waiting.

“Why don't the fellow come back?” he muttered angrily, realizing, as he heard the clock strike half-past twelve, that he had been actually inconvenienced for a whole half hour; and shortly after “the fellow did come back,” the dearest little fellow in the world too, by the way, and shut to the big front door and locked it as he had done night after night during the last two years, while Ted was up at Oxford, and he had been living alone with the servants in the pretty little home there at Windsor.

“Harold!” rang out an impatient voice.

“What, you there, Ted?” with unconcealed gladness; it seemed so cheery to have some one awake in the house.

“Yes; of course I'm here. You didn't suppose I'd go to bed, did you, with you prowling the streets this time of night?”

That is exactly what Harold had supposed, but he had the grace not to say so as he threw himself into a great easy-chair opposite Ted and clasped his hands behind his head in comfortable stay-awhile fashion, and as though quite ready to be agreeable if Ted would only let him.

“I went out for a walk and to post a letter,” he said, after a moment, and with a perceptible little note of apology in his tone for his uncivil answer of the half hour before.

“It must have been important,” said Ted, apparently amused at the thought of anything relating to that younger brother being in reality of any importance: “I should think though it possibly could have waited for the morning post.”

“Yes, it could, but I couldn't.” Surprised at this, Ted elevated his eyebrows.

“It was a letter to Uncle Fritz,” Harold added.

“To Uncle Fritz!” with evident annoyance. “What in creation have you been writing to him about?”

“I have asked him to come over with Aunt Louise and Marie-Celeste and make us a visit this summer.” It took Ted a moment to recover from his astonishment; then he answered curtly, “Well, you can just write him another letter and take it all back. Did it occur to you I might have other plans for this house for this summer?”

“I thought you might perhaps propose to have some of your friends down here, same as last year,” Harold answered frankly.

“Well, that's exactly what I do propose to do, and here you've gone ahead in this absurd fashion. What did you do it for, anyway?” and Ted in his impatience got on to his feet and glared down at Harold as though he would like to have eaten him up.

Not a bit intimidated, Harold looked him straight in the face. “If you want to know what I did it for I'll tell you—I did it because I'm tired of the lonely life here. You haven't any more interest in me, Ted, than in a stick of wood; so I'm going to take things into my own hands now and begin to enjoy life in my own way. This little house is as much mine as yours, and I mean to have my turn this summer. I didn't like your friends last year, and took myself off. If you don't like mine this year you can do the same thing.” The role was such a new one for Harold to play that Ted stood utterly nonplussed. That Harold should deliberately assert himself in this way was such an unprecedented performance that he knew not what to say.

“What did you tell Uncle Fritz about me?” he asked presently. “I suppose you painted me as black as the ace of spades.”

“I didn't say a word about you. I wrote him it was awfully lonely here the last two years, and that it seemed to grow worse instead of better, and that if they'd only come over for the summer, we'd do all in our power to make them have a pleasant time of it.”

“Well, that is cool. Did you really say we'd do all in our power?”

“Of course I did. You like Uncle Fritz, don't you?”

“Of course I like him, but the cheek of it all,” and Theodore strode over to the window to think matters over. It was a fine thing anyway in Harold, he admitted to himself, not to have run him down to Uncle Fritz. If he was angry enough to take matters into his own hands in this way, it was a wonder he stopped short of telling him the truth about himself—not that Ted for a moment faced that truth in any honest fashion; for he was a very good fellow still in his own estimation. He had simply not taken Harold into account—no one could have expected that he should; but now it seemed the boy was beginning to resent that state of affairs. There was some show of reason in it, too, and he rather admired his spirit. It was rather natural, perhaps, that he should want to have “his turn,” as he said; very well, he should have it. For that matter, he would be rather glad himself to see something of Uncle Fritz. He had not really decided to ask any of the fellows down for the summer, though he had angrily made a declaration to that effect. Indeed, there was some talk of their going over the Continent together instead, which would be a deal more fun. All this while Harold sat motionless and silent.

“The mean part of it is, that you didn't tell me beforehand what you wanted to do,” said Ted, as the upshot of the thinking.

“What I wanted to do has not made any difference to you this long time. Besides, you would have told me I couldn't do it.”

“Of course I would” (for, as it often happens, it is easier to be reasonable in thinking than in speaking); “and I can tell you one thing, Harold, you'll be sick enough of your own bargain before it is over. What do you know about Marie-Celeste? Ten to one she's a spoiled, forward sort of youngster. American children are a handful always.”

“I'll risk it,” answered Harold; “and I only ask one thing of you, Ted, and that is that you'll be decent to them when they come.”

“Like as not I won't be here.”

Harold's face fell. It would seem such a breach of hospitality for Ted not to be at home, at least to welcome them. But, never mind, he could explain to Uncle Fritz, if he must, what an independent life Ted had led these last few years. He would hurt himself more than any one else by acting so ungraciously.

“Who's going to pay for things here at home, I'd like to know?” said Ted, after another few minutes of meditation. “There isn't enough of my allowance left now to tide me over to the first of the year, let alone running the house in fine style all summer.”

“You need not bother about that—there's enough of mine, and I can look after my own guests, which is more than you did for yours last year.” It was a mean little thrust, perhaps, on Harold's part, but Ted deserved it, for Harold had paid his half of the heavy expenses of the previous summer without a murmur.

Be it said to Ted's honor that he appreciated the situation, and colored up to the roots of his hair.

“You know how to rub a thing in,” he said, which was as wide of the truth as could be, for Harold had never alluded to the fact before, and made up his mind on the spot that he never would be mean enough to do it again. A little later the boys had said goodnight to each other, and not in an altogether unkindly spirit either. Ted had not been as angry as Harold had expected, and Harold, sorry for his thrust about money matters, had wound up by being rather conciliatory, and he was happier, on the whole, than he had been any time for a twelvemonth. And so it happens with the children, as with grown folk, that sometimes when there is a climax in the heart the head rises to the emergency, and is able to think a possible way out from besetting difficulties.

CHAPTER II—GOOD-MORNING, MR. HARTLEY.

It is one thing to extend an invitation. It is quite another to have it accepted. Harold realized this with a sigh as he woke the next morning. Still, hope was in the wind, where it had not been for a long time, and, what was more, the first suggestion of spring was in it too, and every one knows what a tonic that is; so the sigh, on the whole, did not have much of a show, and Harold set off for school with a heart that he hardly knew for lightness.

Besides, Ted had taken quite civil leave of him before going back to Oxford, and had said he fancied would be down again next Sunday, and that he would be on hand, like as not, if Uncle Fritz decided to come over—all of which, for any one who knew Ted as Harold knew him, was graciousness itself, and made Harold wish he had not waited so long before taking matters into his own hands. And in addition to all this, the morning was fine enough to brace anybody up, no matter what their troubles. The Eton boys in their tall hats (atoning, as it were, for the extreme briefness of their jackets) and wide-rolling linen collars were skurrying through the streets as though they had the right of way, as indeed they have in dear old royal Windsor; and here and there the flowing gown of a colleger spread itself to the April wind and floated out behind, to all appearances as glad as any peacock to show what it could do in that direction. Indeed, who knows of a more inspiriting sight anywhere than Eton College on an April morning? The quaint old buildings seem to bask in the broad spring sunshine; the trees that dot the grass-bare turf where the Upper School fronts the street are already casting tiny leaf-shadows, and on the other side, where the garden slopes down to the Thames, many a little branch and bush begins to glow with color. Even the old bronze statue of Henry VI. in the outer quadrangle, with all its panoply of robes of state and globe and sceptre, appears to look a little more chipper than ever and a trifle more conscious of the distinction of being the “munificent founder” of so glorious an institution. No wonder the boys love the old place, and even the dingy recitation rooms, whose quaint, high desks and slippery benches are notched with the penknives of many a boy, whose name, as a man, has come to be known through the length and breadth of England. To Harold it was a matter of no small pride, I assure you, that his particular seat on the form during that spring term was the same that had once been Gladstone's—“the prettiest little boy,” by the way, in the mind of his partial teacher, that ever went up to Eton. But all this, as you can plainly see, has nothing whatever to do with the title of this chapter, so it “behooves us,” as the preachers used to say, to turn our back on Harold and the charms of the renowned old college, and our faces toward the ocean and a far-off land—far off, that is, as far as Windsor and the English are concerned, but very near and dear to the hearts of some of the rest of us. Of course it is the letter that is turning our thoughts that way at this particular moment. It is tied firmly in a packet within a great leather bag, and, having been just in time to catch the mail-train, is being spirited down to Queenstown, where one of the great White Star steamers has been waiting full four long hours, so important are these reams upon reams of letters we and our English cousins keep sending one to the other across the water. Wind and tide favor the huge, swift ship, and early in the morning, the sixth day out, Fire Island light is sighted. It is a cloudless morning, the white sands of the South-shore beaches shine like silver in the sunlight, and the fresh sea breeze that is stirring holds its own the whole length of Long Island, and blows its purifying way into every street and alley of the vast city that lies at its farther end. A most uninteresting city, this city of Brooklyn, some people affirm; even those of us who love it best cannot claim that it is great in anything but “bigness” but there are homes there we will match against homes the world over, not for show or for luxury, but for pure and transcendent comfort. It is only a corner of the wide-spreading city of which we are speaking, and a little corner at that, but the charm of it lies in the fact that many of the streets open right to the harbor, and that many of the houses, as well, command the same glorious view. To be sure, one has need to overlook, in quite too literal fashion, the warehouses that front the water below the bluff, and here and there an unsightly elevator, but why let the eye rest on these, with the dancing blue water beneath you, and the Jersey hills beyond, and beyond that again, like as not, a glorious sunset. To be sure, the houses that line these streets stand most of them shoulder to shoulder, in barbarous, city-like fashion, and with far too much sameness in their general make-up and plan. But that is neither here nor there; we simply are claiming—we who love it—that it is a region of ideal homes. And more than this, there is a rare kindliness of spirit and an open-handed hospitality prevalent among the people. They are friends and neighbors in the best sense of the word; too high-minded and preoccupied to be gossipy or prying, they are interested in each other's affairs with the interest that means a sharing of each other's joys and sorrows.

So much for the corner—let who will gainsay it—and more for a little maid who lives there, and who is none other, as you may have imagined, than Marie-Celeste, the little Queen-Pin of this story. And Marie-Celeste she is always. For some reason or other neither she nor the friend of her mother for whom she is called is ever known by any shorter title. Indeed, the two names have even become to be written with a hyphen, and seemingly to belong to each other, and to be quite as inseparable as the three syllables of Dorothy or the four of Dorothea. At the time of our introduction to the little maid in question she has donned the prettiest of white embroidered dresses and a broad white sash (which she first tied in a great bow in front and then pulled round to where it belongs in the back), and has come down to the front steps to watch for somebody. She knows almost to a minute how long she will have to wait, for she heard the signal—three little, short, sharp whistles—about five minutes ago. She decides it is worth while to make herself comfortable, and also worth while, looking askance at the doubtful doormat, to bring a well-swept rug from within. Then she seats herself, and, clasping two fair little hands round one knee, just waits, letting eyes rove where they will and thoughts follow. That is a very pretty cage in the window across the way, but she feels sorry for the bird. People oughtn't to leave a canary hanging full in the sunshine on a warm day like this; and then she meditates awhile on the advantages of living on the side of the street that is shady in the afternoon. And now two or three gentlemen are coming by from the ferry, all of whom she knows by sight, for the short terrace where she lives is by no means a general thoroughfare, and just behind them is Mr. Eversley, May Eversley's father. She wishes he would look up, for she has a bow ready for him; but he doesn't, and she must needs defer her social proclivities yet a little while longer. And here comes a great yellow delivery wagon, with horses fine enough for a carriage and two men in livery. What a deafening noise it makes on the Belgian pavement! There! for a comfort it is going to stop for a minute at the next house. My! what a lot of bundles! And now the street is quite empty again, not a person on either side of the one, short block; but the whistle that has been ringing out more and more clearly at quite regular, three-minute intervals sounds very near indeed, and in another second a gray-suited individual, with soldier-like cap to match and a glitter of shining brass buttons, swings round the opposite corner, and makes a bee-line across the street. Our little friend is instantly on her feet, with one hand extended, and a “Good-afternoon, Mr. Hartley.”

“The same to you, Marie-Celeste,” replies the gray-coated newcomer, clasping the little, friendly hand in his.

“And how did it come out?” she asks in the next breath.

“It came out all right,” and Mr. Hartley leaned back and rested both elbows on the rail behind him.

“I knew you would win,” said Marie-Celeste complacently; “I felt perfectly sure of it, Chris.”

“And what is more, Bradford came in second.”

“You don't mean it!” for Bradford was assistant postman on the route that included the Terrace, and Marie-Celeste was naturally quite overwhelmed at the thought that both their men should have won. The winning in question had occurred at a foot-race the night before, an accomplishment somewhat in the line of the daily training of the average postman, and for which Christopher Hartley in particular had long shown a special aptitude.

“It was quite a big prize, wasn't it?” questioned Marie-Celeste, really longing to know the exact amount; but Mr. Hartley, not divining that, simply answered, his kind face radiant as a boy's, “The largest yet, Marie-Celeste—enough to take me home for two months this summer, and pay Bradford, besides, for doing double work while I'm gone. He can manage the route easily; the mails fall off more than half in the summer, you know.”

“Well, isn't that splendid!” with a world of meaning in her inflection and a face every whit as radiant as Mr. Hartley's own. “And now won't you please tell me everything about the race, from the start to the finish,” proud to show that she remembered the terms she had heard him use; and only too glad of the opportunity, Chris proceeded to give a graphic narrative of all the details of the exciting contest. Wide-eyed and interested, Marie-Celeste sat and listened, furtively scanning the street now and then for fear of interruption by some of the children of the neighborhood.

“Have you told any of the others?” she asked eagerly, when the story's end had been reached, and hoping in her heart of hearts that she was to have the pleasure of imparting news of such paramount importance to the neighborhood.

“Never a one; I dodged a crowd of them round the corner there for the sake of telling you first;” wherefrom it was easy to discover that Mr. Hartley had a somewhat partial regard for his earnest little listener. It was a decidedly partial regard, for that matter, and with reason. Had any other child friend along his route, no matter how friendly, questioned him day after day as to how he was getting on with his training for the race? Had any other among them promised to be on hand at the latest delivery on the afternoon succeeding it, so as to learn just what the issue had been, and at a time when he would be able to stop and tell about it? Would any one else in the world have thought of suggesting that he should give three short little whistles when he reached the Browns', in Remsen Street, so that she should know just how near he was? Surely no one; and it was just this surpassing interest in every living body, to the utter forgetting of all that concerned herself, that made Marie-Celeste different from other children, that made everybody love her, and that makes it worth while for me to try to tell this story of one summer in her blessed little life.

“Well, I'm just as glad as I can be,” she said joyously when at last Mr. Hartley thought he had better be moving on, and thought at the same time, too, I venture, that it was something to have won that race, if only to have caused such gladness.

“You haven't any letters for us, have you?” she added, as he turned to go down the step and she caught sight of the leather bag swung across his shoulder.

“Why, yes, I have,” diving into its depths, and angry at himself for his forgetfulness; “it's an important letter, too, I reckon; it's from England.”

“Why, so it is!” her eyes fairly dancing with delight and surprise. “It's from Harold, and we haven't heard from him in ever so long; but oh, dear, it's for papa, isn't it, and he's out driving.”

“You won't have very long to wait,” said Chris, smiling at her impatience, “if you're expecting him home to dinner.”

“But we're not, that's the bother of it. He and mamma are going to dine at the Crescent Club afterward, and I shall have to be sound asleep when they come home.” Then she asked after a moment of serious cogitation, “Do you suppose, Chris, that any of the children along your route open their fathers' letters, when they are sure they're from their cousins?”

“I can't say about that,” laughed Chris, as he went down the steps. “You know best; good-night, I'm off now.”

“Good-night, Chris,” rather absent-mindedly, and with eyes and thoughts still intent upon the letter. Would it be such a dreadful thing to open it? It was so hard not to know right away what was in it. She had never seen this English Cousin Harold, but when they had exchanged photographs at Christmas-time he had sent such a beautiful letter that she had come to feel that they were the best of friends. But no, hard as it was, she felt certain it would really be best not to open it; so she would put the letter in her pocket, and when she went to bed she would slide it under her pillow, and then only take little cat-naps until her father and mother should come home, and she could tell them about it, and hear what was in it. But alas! for the little cat-naps; for the lights blinked brightly in the harbor, and the ferry-boats whistled and let off steam in deafening fashion, and the stars came out, and the moon came up, and papa and mamma came home, and chatted gayly besides, with the door wide open into her room, and yet Marie-Celeste never wakened, and Harold's important letter lay sealed and unread, and as flat as a fluffy head could press it until the light of another morning.

CHAPTER III.—ABOARD A WHITE STAR.

There was commotion in the Harris household, notwithstanding the very early hour—the sort of commotion which means that somebody is off for Europe, somebody who has preferred remaining at home, and rising as early as need he, to boarding the steamer the night before and spending it tied to a noisy dock. In this case there were three somebodies, and you can easily guess who; for there was that in Harold's letter that had made Mr. and Mis. Harris feel they really ought to go if they could, and that moved Marie-Celeste to declare that go they must; that, in short, made the hearts of all three go out very warmly to the lonely little fellow across the water. And the best part of it all was that it had been the easiest thing in the world to arrange matters, and that a cable bore to Harold the glad word that they would come, so that he had not even to wait for a letter. And now the one week of preparation was over, and the carriage was at the door, and Mr. and Mrs. Harris were in it, and Marie-Celeste was taking effusive and affectionate leave of the maids, who were smiling and crying all in one, after the manner of an Irish parting. And now even that is done with, and the carriage rolls off, and the wagon-load of steamer trunks and bags jogs after, and Mary and Bridget and Norah dry their eyes on their respective aprons, and go back to a general cleaning up today, and like as not to Coney Island to-morrow. And what if they do, thinks their mistress. Indeed, she is altogether willing that they should, for if there is ever a time when the contrasts in life will not be overlooked it is when you are on your way to the steamer. It seems so pitiful to see men and women on every hand plodding away at the same old, monotonous tasks, when ahead of you are all the delights of novelty, travel, and leisure. Oh! if only every one might have “his turn” in this world of ours; but since that is out of the question, let there at least be as much Coney Island for housemaids as is consistent with good morals and faithful discharge of their duties; at least so thought one dear little mistress, with more heart, perhaps, than discretion, but a heart, all the same, that won every one to her and made life in her household move with infinite smoothness.

“I wonder, mamma, if Harold will like us?” said Marie-Celeste, when the excitement of immediate departure had sufficiently subsided for her to find any words at all.

“It's a little late in the day, dear, for you to do any wondering on that score.”

“Somehow, I hadn't thought until now how dreadful it would be if he didn't. He knows about you, though, papa. He knows you're all right—that's one comfort.”

“And he takes my word for it that you are,” said Mr. Harris; “so be sure you don't go back on me either of you. You will have to be on your good behavior every minute.”

Marie-Celeste gave her mother a little significant look, which her mother answered as significantly, and which gave Mr. Harris to understand that good behavior would depend altogether upon circumstances.

“It would be just as bad,” Marie-Celeste said thoughtfully, “if we didn't like Harold, wouldn't it? And there's Ted; we don't know much about him, do we?”

“Excuse me, my little daughter,” said her father, laughing, “if I casually remark that young in years though you be, you are just like a woman. Who has said a word until now about any ifs in connection with this trip of ours? But no sooner are we actually off, scarce ten minutes from home, in fact, than the great, uncomfortable, intimidating creatures come trooping in from every quarter, and the particular one that comes to me is this, If you find you don't like it when you get there, don't forget where the blame lies. I remember a little maid who said that go to Cousin Harold she must, whether or no.”

“So do I,” with a little shrug of her shoulders; “but you can't help thinking about things, all the same. What is Ted like, papa?”

“Well, Ted's a handsome, overgrown, headstrong boy, I should say—at least, he was when I was in Windsor four years ago; but you see he's a young man by this time and quite another fellow probably.”

“It is strange Harold didn't say anything about Ted in his letter,” remarked Mrs. Harris.

“Oh, that was pure accident, I imagine! Ted must be all right, or Harold would have said something about it which was rather wide of the mark in 'Uncle Fritz,' as you and I happen to know.”

“Overgrown and headstrong doesn't sound very nice,” Marie-Celeste said slowly; “I'm really not a bit afraid about Harold—I love him already, but I don't feel sure about Ted, somehow.” And if the truth be told, neither did Mr. Harris nor Mrs. Harris, nor anybody else, for that matter.

“Well, there's one thing, little girlie,” said her father; “there are wonderful places in England, which I mean you shall see; and how long we stay in Windsor depends—”

“Entirely upon how they treat us,” chimed in Mrs. Harris.

“Exactly; so it becomes us not to worry about any foolish little ifs.” And worry they did not from that moment, not one of the happy trio, about anything under the sun, or over it, and they sailed away with bright and happy faces. Tears were for eyes that left nearest and dearest behind, not for those who took them with them; and yet a wistful look, that was often to be seen on Mrs. Harris's expressive face, deepened as the Majestic steamed down the harbor. And when they reached the point where the white stones of Greenwood look down on the water, she stole alone to the rail of the deck, and the wistfulness turned to a mist that hid everything for a moment.

“Mamma is saying good-by to Jack and Louis,” said Marie-Celeste softly, and her father pressed the little hand that lay in his, but did not answer.

Marie-Celeste was up betimes the next morning—that is, if betimes means bright and early, and, stopping for a few minutes on her way to indulge in a savory cup of arrowroot, which the stewardess had made ready for her, she passed on up the stairs and out on to the saloon deek, looking as fresh and sweet in her dress of sailor-blue as a fair little morning-glory. The pity was there was nobody there to see, for there's nothing like the bloom of the very early morning-glory.

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.

But it was all fun. She didn't see how people, inclusive of certain near relatives of her own, could be willing to keep their state-rooms after seven o'clock on such a glorious morning. She only wished she had some one to enjoy it with her; and a few minutes later the wish came true, and in such delightfully surprising fashion. Just as she was nearing the break in the saloon deck that grants an open sky space to the steerage, she discovered some one coming toward her on the deck of the second-class cabin—some one who looked familiar, notwithstanding the absence of gray coat and brass buttons.

“Why, Chris Hartley!” she cried, and standing stock-still from sheer surprise. At the sound of the cheery voice, a lady, who was so fortunate as to have a deck state-room, and so unfortunate as to sorely need it, peered out and tried to smile a good-morning to the happy little stranger outside her window. Marie-Celeste smiled back again, but at the sight of the white face realized in a flash why some people keep their state-rooms at sea in the early morning. But of course there was only the merest little suggestion of a sympathetic thought to spend on the poor, white lady, with Chris Hartley but just discovered, and after that one instant of transfixed surprise she sped toward him, both hands extended; and over the gate that divides the first from the second cabin they indulged in the heartiest shaking of hands possible, while hats for the moment were expected to look out for themselves. Indeed, there is no telling how long the hand-shaking might have lasted but that the hats proved untrustworthy in the stiff northern wind that was blowing, Chris catching his on the fly and Marie-Celeste's saved almost as narrowly.

“Did you know we were on board, Chris?” were the first words that formed themselves into a sentence after the “Well, well, well!” of their first meeting.

“Of course I knew, and so I chose this steamer on purpose.”

“Who told you, Chris? You know I haven't seen you since the day you brought the English letter.”

“Bridget told me the next morning how that you had had a letter that was going to take you all to England, and then in a day or two I learned you were going on the Majestic, and I hurried right over to the office and secured the last berth they had left in the second cabin. But now I'm here I'm thinking I'll not see much of you, after all,” and Chris looked decidedly crestfallen.

“Why not, I should like to know?”

Chris glanced significantly at the gate between them.

“Oh!” beginning to understand; “don't they allow that to be opened?”

“No, they don't,” and Chris colored up a little in spite of himself; “but of course it's all right. I couldn't afford to travel first class, and I don't belong there anyway.”

“But you could easily get over that little gate,” said Marie-Celeste mischievously, and yet soberly too, for she foresaw what innumerable good times would be interfered with if Chris must stay in one place and she in another.

“No,” said Chris gravely, “that wouldn't do; but—”

“But what, Chris?”

“Oh, never mind! I guess we'll just have to have little talks right here when we can.”

“Well, I guess we won't just have to have anything of the sort,” making up her mind on the instant precisely what steps she would take. “I'll manage that; and now tell me, Chris, how you happen to be on this steamer at all. I thought you were going home this summer?”

“And where do you think home is?”

“Where?” far too eager to waste any time in mere thinking.

“In England, of course.”

“Why, then, I suppose you're English,” she said, with surprise and unconcealed disappointment.

“Why, then, I suppose I am,” Chris answered; “but really, I don't see why you should mind, Marie-Celeste.”

“Oh, I expected they would be different, the real English people—different from us. I had heard they were, and it isn't so interesting to have all the world alike.”

“Well, I wouldn't give up hope quite yet,” said Chris, very much amused; “you see, I'm not exactly real English, I've been in the States so long;” and when Marie-Celeste came to think of it, there was some comfort in that.

Meantime, a number of passengers had come on to the decks of both cabins, and a few moments later the little buglers appeared simultaneously on both sides of the saloon, and the call for breakfast rang out on the still sea air.

“There's something English for you,” said Chris.

“What do you mean?” with puzzled frown.

“Why, that's the English mess call,

'Officers' wives eat puddings and pies,

Soldiers' wives eat skilly'

—those are the words that go to it.”

“Why, so they do!” for the little buglers were obligingly repeating their strain, and Marie-Celeste discovered for herself that they fitted the notes exactly.

“What's 'skilly?'” she asked presently, as Chris expected she would.

“Well, it's a kind of stew that the soldiers' wives make. It's cheap and nourishing. We don't have anything just like it in America that I know of.”

“Well, you are English, after all, Chris,” with evident gratification; “there must be lots of more things you can tell me, and there's no end to the good times we'll have together; but I guess I'd better go now. I shouldn't wonder if mamma felt rather ill this rough morning—she isn't a very good sailor. Good-by, Chris; you'll come to the gate after breakfast?”

Chris promised, and watched the trim little figure till it disappeared; then he turned and paced the deck with a somewhat troubled look on his kind face. Somehow he had not given much thought to this subject of first and second class till on that first morning out, when he found the low iron gate imposing itself so resolutely between himself and his little friend; but then he realized at a bound how much there was in it. It might well happen that the father and mother, who were quite willing that their little daughter should have an occasional chat with the postman at home, would prefer not to recognize him in the role of a second-cabin passenger; and good Chris Hartley felt inclined to call himself all manner of names for thoughtlessly allowing himself to be put in such a position. If Mr. Harris should forbid Marie-Celeste to see him, or should just calmly ignore the fact that he was on board at all, it would be pretty hard to bear. And so Chris suddenly found himself face to face with the class distinctions that seem inevitable in this social world of ours, and in a way that might turn all the bright anticipations for this voyage into the reality of a most disagreeable experience. Yes, there was no doubt about it, he had acted like a fool; and rather than run the chance of being “made to know his place,” as the phrase has it, he believed he would have kept out of the way of Marie-Celeste all the way over if he had thought of it in time; but we, of course, believe nothing of the sort. How could he ever have had the heart to carry out such a doleful resolution, and what a pity if he had tried to! The truth was, Chris had too low an opinion of himself altogether. He had an idea, for instance, that he was a very plain-looking sort of a fellow, whereas there was something about him that made him distinctly noticeable everywhere he went. It was hard to tell just what it was—a brimming-over kindliness, I think, best describes it. It shone plain as day in his friendly eyes and hovered under his light mustache, and his head even seemed to be set on his shoulders in a most kindly fashion. But Chris himself was oblivious to all his charms, personal or otherwise, and in this modesty of his, and in many other ways as well, proved himself the gentleman; and the beauty of it was that Mr. Harris, being a true gentleman himself, had long ago recognized the article in his postman. It was a pity Chris should not have known this. It would have spared him a wretched hour or so that first morning at sea. Indeed, this not knowing is responsible for a great deal of this world's fret and worry, and yet too much knowing would be just as sorry a thing sometimes; so perhaps it would be as well for us to leave matters as they are for the present.

Meantime, Marie-Celeste had made her way to the bow, and to the doorway of a room there, which she had chanced to notice the afternoon before.

“Passengers are not allowed in here, are they?” she asked timidly.

“Not ordinarily,” said the captain, looking up from a chart spread out on a table before him.

Marie-Celeste could not possibly discover whether the tone was encouraging or no, but in any case she had no words with which to continue, so awe-inspiring proved the blue coat, gold braid, and the other insignia of the captain's office. Besides, it had taken so much courage to nerve herself up to the mere asking of the question, that she found she had none in reserve, and stood transfixed in the doorway, her little face aflame with embarrassment. Now, if there is a class of men anywhere who believe in what we were speaking of a minute ago (that is, a man's knowing his place), they are the captains of the ocean steamers. It is of course nothing but the enforcement of this very rule that renders ocean travel the safe and comfortable thing it is, and that assures you, even in case of accident, that the strictest discipline will be preserved. Indeed, I have an idea that Captain Revell inclines to apply the same rule to every one aboard of his great steamer, to passengers as well as to officers and crew, and so perhaps regarded the advent of Marie-Celeste in the light of an intrusion. And when you come right down to it, there was that in his tone, when he answered her question, that made her feel that he thought she should not have ventured it.

“Passengers having special business are admitted at any time, however,” added the captain, after what seemed an interminable silence, “and perhaps you have come on some special errand. If so, I should be glad to have you come in,” and the captain stood up and motioned Marie-Celeste to a seat on the other side of the table. I think he was beginning to discover what an unusually attractive little personage his visitor was, and to regret the moment's discomfiture he had caused her.

Marie-Celeste gave a very audible sigh of relief as she stepped up the two steps into the room, but she refused the proffered seat with the dignity of a little princess.

“No, I only want to stay for a moment,” she said; “I am quite sure now I oughtn't to have interrupted you, and I know papa will be angry; but I had a favor to ask, and—”

“And what, my little friend?” said the captain, quite won over to whatever the favor might be.

“And you looked so kind I dared to speak to you.”

“Kind, did I?” laughed the captain, immensely pleased. “Well, then, you must sit down, else, you see, you'll keep me standing; too, and tell me right away what the favor is, and I'll try to act up to the kindness for which you give me credit.”

“Well, it's just this, Captain Revell: first, could you let me sometimes go over into the second-class cabin?”

“Certainly I could; but what for, may I ask?”

“To see Chris Hartley; he's a second-class passenger, and he's the postman in our street; but it wouldn't do, would it, to undo the gate for me?”

“No, hardly, I think,”

“And it wouldn't do any better for me to climb over it, would it? I could do it easily.”

“No, I'm afraid that wouldn't answer.”

“Then, what are we going to do? There isn't any other way, I suppose,” with very evident despair.

“Oh, yes, there is, and I'll show it to you myself.”

Whereupon Marie-Celeste laid one little brown hand upon the captain's sleeve from an impulse of sheer gratitude, and the captain straightway laid a big brown hand atop of it.

“Now, that is what you wanted to ask first,” he said; “I am anxious to know what comes second.”

“No, I guess I won't bother you any more; I—”

“No, you shall not go till you have told me;” and the captain detained the little hand a prisoner beneath his own.

“Well, I was going to ask—you see, it is very much more interesting up here near the bow and the bridge and the crow's-nest—I was going to ask, if once in a while Chris could come over to the first cabin. You see, Chris doesn't know any one on board, excepting just me, and we're such good friends at home.”

“Well, that's a little different,” for the captain was puzzled to know how to answer, “and it's against the regulations; but it's very hard to refuse a little maid like you.”

Mr. Harris was on a search for Marie-Celeste, and chancing to pass the captain's room, glanced in, and glancing in, beheld his little daughter, and heard these last words.

“Excuse me, Captain Revell,” he said, touching his hat, and apparently much annoyed, “but I cannot imagine how my little daughter has found her way in here, or what favor she has made so bold as to ask. I trust you will not suspend any of the ship's regulations on her account.”

“Oh, that's all right,” laughed the captain, “I shall be only too glad to do what I can.”

“Oh, please don't bother any more about it—please don't,” entreated Marie-Celeste; “I was afraid papa would not like it. We'll go now, won't we?” looking up at her father with a most woful and beseeching little face.

“Yes, we will; but don't you think, Marie-Celeste, we would better ask the captain's pardon for intruding?”

“Not a bit of it,” answered Captain Revell; “there's no pardon to be asked of anybody, and I shall hope to have a call from you both very soon again,” he added cordially as his two visitors took their departure, and he settled back to his inspection of the chart.

“Don't say a word, papa, please, I don't want to cry here,” and Marie-Celeste held her father's hand very tightly.

“But you want some breakfast, dear, don't you?” Marie-Celeste shook her head, but as she seemed to know perfectly well what she did want, he suffered her to lead him over the high sill that keeps the water from rushing indoors in rough weather, and past the main stairway, and into a far corner of the library. There she pushed him gently into one of the corner sofas, and seating herself in his lap, looked straight into his eyes.

“Papa,” she said, with a little sob in her voice, “you are angry.”

“I am annoyed, Marie-Celeste.”

“You spoke pretty cross, papa; if you hadn't said 'my little daughter,' I should have cried right there—I know I should.”

“Well, you are my little daughter always, you know, no matter what happens, and that's one reason I cannot bear to have you do anything that seems the least mite bold.”

“Yes, you said something like that to the captain;” and as though she would have given all the world if he hadn't, “but I didn't mean to be bold really, only I felt so sorry for Chris;” and then she proceeded to tell, as coherently as her emotions would allow, of her unexpected encounter with her old friend, and how dreadful it would have been if they could not have seen anything of each other just because Chris was a second-cabin passenger, and of how she had mustered all her courage and gone straight to the captain to see what could be done about it.

“And he said it would be quite against the regulations, did he?” said Mr. Harris, immediately becoming interested in the situation.

“Oh, no; he said I could go to see Chris in the second cabin—he'd easily manage that—and then he said he knew I had something more on my mind, and made me tell him, and that was whether Chris could come to the first cabin sometimes, so as to look off at the bow. Do you think it was so very, very bold to ask that when he said I could not go till I told him?”

“No; that puts it in a different light, Marie-Celeste.”

“But I think—I think (for whatever her faults Marie-Celeste was fastidiously honest) the captain himself did not quite like it when I first spoke to him.”

“He got over his not-liking very quickly, then,” said her father, glad to be able to give a grain of comfort to his troubled little daughter, “but it would have been better to come to me first. It's one thing to be fearless and another thing to be—”

“I know, papa,” putting her finger to her father's lips; “please don't say that dreadful word again; I'll remember;” and Mr. Harris, knowing that she would, gave the little girl on his knee a good, hard hug, and bundled her off for a word with her mamma, comfortably tucked up in a steamer-chair on deck, and then hurried her down to the saloon for the breakfast that she stood in sore need of after such an eventful morning.

CHAPTER IV.—A FRIEND BY THE WAY.

Hartley,” called a cheery voice from somewhere forward. Chris was on his feet in an instant, and turning in the direction of the voice, discovered Mr. Harris and Captain Revell. It is astonishing how much can be couched in the ring of a word when one looks carefully to it; and the tone in which Mr. Harris called “Hartley” was enough to put Chris at his ease in an instant, and to make him hurry to the little gate with all fears as to his reception skurrying to the winds. Mr. Harris at once introduced him to Captain Revell, and Captain Revell as speedily informed him of the call with which Marie-Celeste had favored him and of her errand. “We are good friends, Marie-Celeste and I,” said Hartley proudly, “and I was counting on seeing something of her on the way over, but I understand now, of course, how it cannot be, and that we must content ourselves with a word now and then here at the gate, if Mr. Harris is willing.”

“But you are mistaken, Hartley,” said the captain cordially, for he took to the man the moment he saw him. “There is nothing to prevent your little friend from making you a visit whenever she likes. I have shown her the way myself through the passage below decks, and you are welcome to come forward in the same fashion whenever the bow has any attraction for you. As you are alone, you will hardly be missed from the second cabin, and it will be unnecessary to inform anyone of your special privileges;” and then the captain, who had an aversion to being thanked, moved hurriedly away before Chris had had a chance to put his gratitude into words.

“She's a fearless little body, that little daughter of ours,” said Mr. Harris at the close of the long talk he and Chris had been having at the gate. “I sometimes wonder what we had better do about it. She arrives at decisions so quickly and acts so promptly and is so outspoken, that she'll get herself and all of us into serious trouble some day, I imagine.”

“Never you fear, Mr. Harris,” said Chris warmly; “that kind do more good than harm;” and Mr. Harris believed in his heart that Chris was right. On thinking it over, he wondered too if he had not been rather easily annoyed with Marie-Celeste that morning, and if, on the whole, she had not been more brave than bold in her call upon the captain.. He would have been quite sure on that score had he known how the little heart had thumped and the little knees trembled as she made her way to the captain's room. But in any case he did not regret having put the little daughter on her guard. It would help rather than hinder that little woman's numerous projects should she learn to think twice before putting her quick resolves into action.

Meantime, Marie-Celeste herself had been making a new friend. A gentleman, entered on the passenger list as Mr. E. H. Belden, sat just at the entrance of the main stairway, a cigar poised in his left hand, a book balanced in his right; the book closed for the moment, with his forefinger marking the place, and his elbow resting on the arm of his steamer-chair. To all appearances, Mr. E. H. Belden was absorbed in meditation, and presumably in a line of thought suggested by the book be had temporarily suspended reading—a line of thought, at any rate, that made him wholly oblivious to his surroundings. It was somewhat of a surprise, therefore, for him to find his book flying out of one hand with a momentum that swept the cigar out of the other; but he did not need to look far or long for an explanation. “Oh, I'm so sorry,” gasped a breathless little body, as quickly as she could reverse engines and bring herself in front of the offended party. “It was very careless of me. I slipped because I tried to turn too short a corner. Please let me get the book for you,” and she bounded to the spot where it had landed, while Mr. Belden, detecting a faint scorching odor, hastened to rescue the lighted cigar from the folds of a steamer rug lying on the next chair.

“I hope it hasn't strained the cover,” said Marie-Celeste, looking the book over carefully before returning it. “They are a little too fine for steamer use, aren't they?” for it was a volume from the ship's library, and boasted a costly half-calf binding.

“Yes, rather too fine,” attracted and pleased by the child's friendliness; “but you have not done it any harm, I think.”

“There was no use in my being in such a hurry. I think I will make myself sit right down here a few moments for punishment.”

“I would, by all means,” said Mr. Belden, smiling at the inference to be drawn from the remark.

“I was only on my way to our state-room for a book,” Marie-Celeste further explained. “It is called 'The Story of a Short Life.' Did you ever read it?”

“No, but I think I should like it, for I find life rather too stupidly long myself.”

“Why, how is that?” Marie-Celeste exclaimed, as though nothing could possibly have more interest for her, as indeed, for the moment, nothing could.

“Oh, I fancy I cannot exactly make you understand how. I haven't very good health, that's one reason; and too much money, that's another; and not very much faith in human nature, for a third; besides, no one in the world that I care very much for; so you see I am in rather a bad plight.” Marie-Celeste sat and stared at Mr. Belden, and Mr. Belden, all intent, closely watched the effect of this somewhat unusual declaration.

“What is your family motto?” she queried, after a moment's serious reflection.

“Why in Heaven do you ask that?” for Mr. Belden, who was not in the habit of talking to children, was not as wise as he might have been in his choice of words.

Marie-Celeste straightened up a little, as though to show she did not quite approve, and then she replied, with an air of childish dignity that was vastly amusing, “Because it was his family motto that helped Leonard (he's the boy in the story I spoke about) ever so much, and that taught him to be cheerful and contented, and it seems to me”—this last very slowly and thoughtfully—“that you are very much like Leonard, only grown up. I suppose, as you're English, you've surely got a family motto.”

“How do you know I'm English?”

“Oh, because papa said, when you were walking on the deck last evening, that 'you were very English indeed.'”

“Well, do you think, on the whole, that your father meant to be complimentary?”

“I do not know exactly, but papa likes almost everything in England, and we have some English relatives whom we are very fond of. They live in Windsor, and we are going to spend the summer with them.”

“In Windsor?” with evident surprise; “and what is their name, may I ask?”

“Harris, the same as ours;” for Marie-Celeste detected nothing unusual in the question.

“So?” and then, as Mr. Belden seemed suddenly to retire into himself and his own thoughts, she made a move to go.

“Oh, don't go yet; seems to me you ought to talk to me a while longer, if only for punishment, as you said.”

“Oh, no, I didn't say quite that,” for the first time appreciating the situation; “but anyhow I shall not bother about it, because you know what I meant.”

“Of course I do,” more touched than he would have cared to admit by her confiding friendliness; “but I want you to wait,” he added, “while I try to answer your question about our family motto. I've never thought much about it, but it's 'Dwell as though about to depart,' or some cheerful stuff like that. It's the kind of a motto, you see, to give one an unsettled sort of feeling, instead of making him contented.”

“It's queer,” said Marie-Celeste, “but I believe—yes, I'm sure that very motto stands at the head of one of the chapters in my book.”

“Indeed? Why, then, I should like to read it. Will you have finished with it before the voyage is over?”

“Oh, I'm through with it now really. I'll get it for you right away,” and suiting the action to the word, she was off one moment and back the next with the book in her hand.

“Tell me a little what it's about, please,” urged Mr. Belden, unwilling to let this new little friend give him the slip, and nothing loath, Marie-Celeste settled comfortably back in the steamer-chair beside him.

“You think it won't spoil it for you?” she asked, by way of preface.

“Not a bit of it.”

And thus reassured, she launched out upon a detailed narration of Mrs. Ewing's beautiful story, graphically describing little Leonard's fortunes and trials, and his heroic self-mastery at the last.

“You see he wasn't a goody boy at all,” she said, when all was told, “just brave and grand.”

“I see,” said Mr. Belden, which was quite true, notwithstanding a strange and wholly new sensation in his eyes. “And now if you will excuse me,” he added, “I will go down to the smoking-room and commence the book at once.”

Marie-Celeste was rather surprised to find herself left thus abruptly alone. Happily for her, however, she did not know how sadly akin to Leonard's had been some of Mr. Belden's experiences, or she would have flinched a little in the telling. It was the realization of this kinship of experience and yet of the widely different effect upon soul and character that had impelled him to take his sudden leave of Marie-Celeste, and then, pausing a moment at the smoking-room door, he went on and down to his state-room, for he had much to think over, and a long, long time he sat there, his elbows resting on his knees and his face buried in his hands.

CHAPTER V.—AND STILL ANOTHER.

Although a transcendent interest in grown-up people is one of the traits that make it worth while to tell this story of a summer in the life of little Marie-Celeste, yet she was none the less a friend of children of her own age, or over it or under it for that matter, provided they seemed to stand in want of a friend. Otherwise, it must be confessed, she concerned herself very little about them. Born with a positive genius for spending and being spent, the claims and opportunities of ordinary child friendships seemed hardly to give her enough breathing room; and so it chanced that she passed very little time with the faultlessly dressed and somewhat overcared-for children of the steamer, who did not seem to need her, and a great deal of time with Chris and Mr. Belden, who did. Be it said to the credit of the latter gentleman that, after that first conversation with Marie-Celeste, he was far more careful in the way he talked with her, and Mr. Harris was quick to discover the fact, or the new friendship would have ended as unexpectedly for Mr. Belden as it had begun. There was about Marie-Celeste at all times the same implicit childish confidence that unnerved the bold robber in “Editha's Burglar,” and yet she herself was always quick to discover when this same confidence was being taken advantage of, and when she would best fly to cover. More than once she had shown in her contact with people an inerrancy of intuition (if my youngest readers will excuse two such big words) that had greatly gratified her father and mother, who had a theory of their own about the education of children, and gave her rather more rein than some would consider either safe or advisable. At the same time, every movement of the little daughter was carefully watched and every project followed up by a certain paternal relative, and never more so than during those days of steamer life, when so many hours were passed with the new friend and the postman. When with Chris it was forward clear to the bow to lean over the rail and see the magnificent prow cut the water; or way to the stern, to watch the far-shining train, the screws churned into white foam behind them; or an hour 'midships, where the ever-varying amusements with which the steerage passengers beguile the weary hours can be looked down upon from the saloon deck of either first or second cabin. Then, at five every clear day, afternoon tea with the captain, for which they had a standing invitation, and by means of which both she and Chris came to be on terms of wonderful intimacy with that august officer, so that they joked over the rare souchong and delicious little toasted cakes (the secret of whose making was kept close-guarded by the steward) with a familiarity that, to themselves at least, never ceased to be a wonder. With Mr. Belden everything was different. It was generally after an hour or so of prowling about with Chris, and when she was a little tired and in the mood for a quiet talk, that she would seek him out; and, as a rule, she would find him comfortably tucked up in a steamer rug, with another awaiting her coming on a chair beside him. Then Chris, after carefully tucking her in, in most approved fashion, would be off, with a touch of his hat, and with profound gratitude in his heart for the strength of limb and muscle that made him regard Mr. Belden's inactive life in the light of a sorry burden. That the latter often so regarded himself was evident in the ever-deepening lines of weariness that seamed his pale and handsome face.

“Well, what have you and your good Chris been up to to-day?” would be invariably Mr. Belden's first question; and after Marie-Celeste had told the little or much there was to tell, they would as invariably drift round to talking about books, for they both loved them. One day it was “Little Lord Fauntleroy” and “Hans Brinker,” and then Marie-Celeste “had the floor”; and the next it was “The Story of a Short Life,” when honors were even, as they used to say in whist, because both had so lately read it. And then for three days together, during the hour for the daily chat, Marie-Celeste sat an entranced listener, while the wonderful story was told of beautiful little Isabel of Valois, the child-queen whom Richard of Bordeaux brought to England at the age of nine, and whose childish reign was so soon concluded. It had chanced that the book that had been brushed so summarily from Mr. Belden's hand when Marie-Celeste made his acquaintance had proved to be Dixon's “Royal Windsor;” and as soon as the terms of their friendship were unquestionably established, she made so bold as to ask many questions regarding its contents; for what could have more interest for a Windsor-bound little maiden than the story of the Royal Castle? And the best part of it was that the book happened to be the second volume, and therefore contained the history of Madame la Petite Reine, as the little French Isabel was called. Never proved fairy tale more charming than this true story as it fell from Mr. Belden's lips. Over and over he told it, adding each time some delightful new touch of detail, till at last Marie-Celeste knew it quite by heart, and rested therein contented.

But not all of their little daughter's time, that Mr. and Mrs. Harris were willing to spare to others, was spent with these grown-up friends of hers. On the second day out Chris had made a most interesting and pathetic discovery. A little sick bugler was stowed away in an undesirable second-cabin state-room that had remained unengaged; and Chris, noticing that a bowl of broth or some sort of nourishing food was carried thither three times a day, but that apart from this no one ever entered or left the state-room, questioned the steward, and as soon as he learned the facts, made his own way in, to the great delight of the lonely little fellow. Then the next morning he interested Mrs. Harris (who was proving a far better sailor than any one had dared to hope) in his new little protégé, and after that, as a matter of course, Marie-Celeste and the little bugler became the best of friends.

“Donald,” she said on her second visit, for the one preceding had naturally been limited to the ordinary themes of first acquaintance, “I wish you would tell me a little more about yourself. Mamma says you have been ill a long time in New York with a fever, but that now you are quite over it and are on your way home; and that's all we know.”

“That's all there is,” running one little white hand through his hair as he spoke, in an apparent effort to make himself more presentable.

“Oh, you're all right,” said Marie-Celeste, smiling; “curly hair like yours looks better when it's mussed.”

“Would you like me to come and straighten you up a bit?” called Chris, who had really established himself as Donald's nurse, and sat whittling in his own state-room just across the passage.

“No, Chris, he doesn't need you at all,” Marie-Celeste volunteered; “he looks very fine as he is” (which gracious compliment brought a very becoming color to the little blanched face). “Besides, Chris, he is going to tell me something about himself—aren't you, Donald? Just what you choose, though, you know, because mamma said I must not seem to be inquisitive, and I'm not, Donald, really—just interested, that's all.”

“What kind of things do you want to know?” as though quite willing to be communicative, but at a loss where to begin.

“Why, how you happened to be a bugler, and how you happened to be ill in New York, and where your home is?”

“No home,” said Donald, laconically, and with an unconscious little sigh that went straight to Marie-Celeste's heart; “I was in the Foundling Hospital all my life till I came on the Majestic.

“Ill all your life!” exclaimed Marie-Celeste.

“Oh lands, no! I never was ill a day that I know of till that fever got hold of me.”

“Then why did you stay in an hospital?”

“It was more what we call an asylum in America,” explained Chris, who, as a permitted eavesdropper, felt at liberty to join in the conversation on occasion.

“It's a place,” explained Donald, “where children are cared for who haven't any particular fathers or mothers.”

“Oh!” said Marie-Celeste, but in a bewildered way, as though she could not quite take in the idea.

“It isn't very pleasant not knowing who you belong to, but it isn't such a bad place to stay. They keep things scrubbed up to the nines, and everything's as neat and well ordered as a ship. I think being trained that way was one thing that made me want to go to sea.”

It was easy to see, from the grave look on Marie-Celeste's face, that she was still pondering the sad predicament of “no particular father or mother,” but she asked, “Where was the hospital, Donald?”

“In London; and like as not if you go there you'll go out to see it. They always have lots of visitors on Sundays. They dress the girls up awful pretty in black dresses with short sleeves, and mitts that come way up over the elbow, like ladies' gloves at a party, and caps and kerchiefs folded crosswise round their shoulders, like this.”

“You've seen a picture of them singing out of a book, haven't you?” called Chris, by way of illustration.

“Why, so I have,” said Marie-Celeste; “we gave an artist-proof of it to our minister one Christmas.”

“I've seen it too,” continued Donald, wondering whether an artist-proof and a waterproof had anything in common; “but the girls aren't often so handsome as that; but I'll tell you when they do look pretty as a picture: that's on a clear Sunday morning, just about midway in the service, when the sun comes streaming through one of the choir windows in a great white shaft of light, I think they call it. It just goes slanting across the benches, and then the girls it happens to strike, no matter how homely they are, really look just beautiful, with their white caps and kerchiefs all lighted up in the sunshine. I used to think they put the girls on that side to show them off, for the boys just look pretty much as boys always do.”