“You must manage somehow,” she had said seriously to Martha; “I must see all I can of Chris's little Marie-Celeste to-day, for you know it is hardly likely, Martha, that I shall ever see her again.”
“I'm quite sure I can manage, Mrs. Hartley,” the little maid said proudly, confident that her long apprenticeship had made her fully equal to the occasion, and inwardly rejoicing in the full sense of responsibility.
At the exact hour agreed upon as the best time for dinner, the little maid, turned cook and waitress, announced the meal as ready, and her reward came in the children's demonstrative approval. “Never tasted anything so delicious” was on their lips repeatedly; and Marie-Celeste having told, to the supreme delight of all who listened, the story of her visit to the Queen, even went so far as to declare that she was enjoying it more than the luncheon in the Castle. Mrs. Hartley said, “Oh, my dear!” in a most deprecating way; but there was no gainsaying the evident sincerity of the declaration.
“Perhaps it's because I feel a little more at home in a cottage,” Marie-Celeste explained; “and then, besides,” looking affectionately toward Chris, “it's so fine to be with old friends, you know;” and Chris shook his head and glanced toward his grandmother as much as to say, “Well, now, Granny dear, did you ever see such a darling?”
“Granny dear” shook her head as much as to say, “No, Chris, I never did;” and Marie-Celeste, daintily preoccupied with a drum-stick, was fortunately none the wiser for this exchange of open admiration.
At the conclusion of dinner Chris took the boys off to a neighboring farm to show them some wonderful Jersey cattle that were expected to take the prize at a coming county fair; but Marie-Celeste, preferring Mrs. Hartley's society, decided to remain at home. No sooner were they gone, however, than Mrs. Hartley, arriving at the decision that she knew better than Mr. Harris himself what was best for him, and that it would doubtless do him good to meet this bright little girl, entered immediately into a bit of diplomacy on her own account.
“Marie-Celeste,” she said, “will you do a little favor for me? Will you run and ask Martha if one of the cup-custards was left over from dinner?”
“Martha says yes, Mrs. Hartley.”
“Well, then, will you ask her to give it to you on a little tray, and a piece of sponge-cake besides, well powdered with sugar?”
“Here it is, Mrs. Hartley,” carefully bringing the laden tray, and looking every whit as pretty as the picture of La Chocolatière, and not unlike her in her pose and gentle dignity.