"What a shame!"
"Yes." He laughed with his old lightheartedness. "I don't see why we're bound to have fathers," he submitted comically.
"Well—we'll go to another theater on Saturday," Marie consoled him. "Saturday is a half-day holiday for everybody, isn't it?"
128 "Yes—till Saturday, then."
He wrung her hand so hard at parting that her fingers felt quite dead for some seconds afterwards, but she had really enjoyed herself, and looked after young Atkins gratefully as he strode off down the street.
"There's a letter from Chris," Miss Chester said, as Marie entered the room. Her quick eyes noticed the color that rushed to her niece's cheeks. "Over there on the mantelshelf."
Marie took the treasure upstairs to read. She sat down on the side of the bed and broke open the envelope with trembling hands. She had not heard from him now for three days; she wondered if this was to say that he was coming home.
"Dear Marie Celeste,—Hope you are well—I have had no letter from you since the end of last week. The weather has changed a bit up here, and we have had some rain. Feathers sent you a box of heather this morning; I don't suppose you'll care much for it, but he insisted on sending it. By the way, a curious thing happened yesterday. We were at the third hole, and there were some girls on the green in front of us. One of them had lost a ball and I found it, so we talked, and who do you think she turned out to be? Why, your friend, Dorothy Webber! It's a coincidence, isn't it? You never told me she was such a fine player. I've got a match with her this afternoon. She sent her love to you. I hope you are having a good time. I've got as brown as coffee since I came up here—being out-of-doors all day, I suppose. By the way, if you look in my room you'll find a box of new golf balls. You might send them up to me. I will write again soon.—Yours affectionately, Chris."
So he had met Dorothy Webber after all. Marie Celeste's heart felt as cold as a stone as she sat there with Chris' scrappy letter in her hand.
He was up there in Scotland, amongst the heather and the mountains, quite happy and contented, whilst she . . . Her eyes fell again to his hurried scribble.