“Oh, we're on your break, Ted—Harold couldn't write to ask for it, you know, because we didn't know where you were, and we're stopping at Oxford now; but we left papa and mamma and Miss Dorothy and Mr. Farwell for to-day, because Harold and I preferred coming down here to surprise Chris and Donald to seeing all the colleges in the world.”
“Who is Mr. Farwell?”
“Oh, he's a very nice young artist, a friend of papa's.”
“And he is taking a driving trip on my break, is he?” said Ted demurely, and not appearing exactly to fancy the idea.
“Why, of course, as he's in our party, Ted.”
“Yes, I understand; and now, Marie-Celeste, you are going to help me keep my secret, are you? But you know you're not to tell anybody for a while, not even your father and mother; do you think you can do it?”
“I will surely do it, Cousin Theodore, if you will do something for me; will you promise me you will?”
“If I can, little cousin;” for who could withstand the entreaty in the earnest childish voice?
“Will you come home, Cousin Theodore, as soon as ever you can?”
“What's the use, Marie-Celeste? Nobody cares for me there any more, I've been such a selfish, ungracious fellow this long while.”