“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.”