Why, that plan in itself was worth all the rest of the trip; and when Mr. Harris, to whom the idea had first occurred, suggested it, Marie-Celeste had put her two arms round her father's neck, declaring “he was just a darling and yet, when you come to think of it, he was the very same old curmudgeon of a papa, and not one whit altered either, who had been so soundly berated for insisting that it would be better for Donald to have some easy work to do than to idle away the whole summer.”
Ah, well! the little Queen had deeply repented that sorry episode; and endeavoring ourselves to forget it, let us agree never again so much as to allude to it.
So down to Nuneham they went bright and early Saturday morning, and, feeling fine as a lark, or as two larks, to speak more correctly, they preferred doing the walking themselves over the mile and a half out from Nuneham to engaging a most unpromising horse attached to a little carry-all to do it for them. They would at least seem to be getting over the ground at a faster rate, and be able to work off considerable superfluous energy into the bargain. And it was really marvellous how soon they reached their destination. Far too excited to converse by the way, every breath was reserved for the exertion of walking, and so it happened that they made almost the best time on record. And when they reached the cottage, or rather the little lane that runs down between the hedgerows, who did they see at once but Chris himself, busy at work in the garden, and Donald, hoe in hand, close beside him, cutting vigorously at the weeds round some hop-vines, and both working away with such a will and such a farmer-like air that it looked as though both had mistaken their calling. But working with a will sometimes means nothing more than determination to do one's duty; and from what we happen to know, Chris would much have preferred setting cheerily forth on his round in Uncle Sam's far-away city, and Donald was probably dreaming of the blue boundless sea and the steamer ploughing its way in the teeth of a driving nor'easter. But wherever their thoughts may have been, they instantly both stopped thinking, for first they heard the familiar bugle-call of the steamer ring out on the air in the clearest sort of a whistle; and then—could they believe their eyes?—there stood Marie-Celeste and Harold right before them on the other side of the hawthorn.
“Well, I never!” cried Chris, and in one bound was over the hedgerow.
“My eyes!” was Donald's surprised exclamation, and then he took to his heels and ran to the cottage as fast as his legs could carry him.
“Mr. Harris,” he panted, with what little breath his run had left him, “your brother has come—he's just out in the lane there with Marie-Celeste, and they'll both be right in here in a minute.”
“What stuff you are talking, Donald,” for Ted could not believe his ears.
“It's the truth, sir, and you've only a minute, unless you want to see him but it was so very plain that Ted didn't want to see him, that Donald, who more fully took in the need for haste, pressed Ted's hat and cane into his hand, and then throwing open one of the shutters of the back windows of his room, helped him to make the best possible time getting through it. It was rather heroic treatment for a convalescent, who was barely equal as yet to even commonplace modes of proceeding, but there was nothing else to be done if the secret was still to be kept.