“Yes, Miss Dorothy,” but with her mind quite intent on the letter, and therefore rather absent-mindedly.
“Well, then, do you know, I believe I shall tell her.”
“Oh, Miss Dorothy,” with all the absent-mindedness gone in a minute, and with gravest reproach in the dark brown eyes, “you wouldn't—you wouldn't do that!”
“Why, my dear child, I almost feel as though I ought to; it is such an uncommon thing for a little girl of twelve to be in surreptitious correspondence with at least three different people, for there has been a different hand on every letter. It seems wrong to me to-be helping on such a mysterious proceeding, with no idea whatever of what it all means.”
“Miss Dorothy,” said Marie-Celeste, “I am in a great big secret, that's all, but I do wish—I do wish very much that you were in it too,” which was indeed the truth, for this not being able to talk over matters with anybody was almost more than she could longer endure.
“Well, don't you believe it would do to take me in, then?” said Dorothy rather entreatingly. “I confess I would like to know what Theodore Harris is writing to you about; and besides it doesn't seem fair to put too much upon a little girl like you. You seem to be thinking so hard so much of the time.”
“They are pretty nice thoughts, though,” Marie-Celeste replied, “as you'll see when I tell you, because I've about decided to tell you. I think it's right, too, and I don't believe they'll mind, and I am going up to the house to bring the other two letters and read them to you. It will make you happier than anything you ever heard,” and Marie-Celeste spoke truer than she knew.
Meanwhile, Dorothy sat gazing out over beautiful Lake Coniston, wondering if she were really doing the right thing in persuading Marie-Celeste to confide in her, and unable to arrive at any decision. She was sitting on a little rustic seat down by the water's edge, which Marie-Celeste, with her passion for exploring new surroundings, had discovered the evening before, almost immediately upon their arrival at the Waterhead Hotel. It was here that Dorothy had counted on finding Marie-Celeste, and it was here that she was left alone with her thoughts while Marie-Celeste ran off on her self-imposed errand. It was a beautiful little sheet of water that lay there at her feet, with its densely wooded banks and its wilderness still uninvaded by civilization; and just across the lake the setting sun was crimsoning the chimneys and pointed gables of the only house upon that farther bank. It is this home that lends its own special interest to the little lake, for it is the home of that grand old idealist, Ruskin. It is just such a home as you would know that wise philosopher would choose, far from the haunts of men and all the devastating improvements of the age. A grand place, too, to work, you think; and then you recall with a sigh that the light of that glorious mind has well-nigh gone out, 'neath the weight of physical weariness and infirmity, and then the solitary home begins to look a little like a prison in your eyes, as you realize how glad its inmate would be to exchange it for the Palace of that King whose divine intent for the world he has so marvellously interpreted for us all in the days when soul was still master of hand and brain.
But there was no room in Dorothy's mind just then for musings either on nature or Ruskin, and it is to be feared that the dancing blue of the water and the purple shadows on the hills and golden glow of the sunset made little impression on her wholly preoccupied mind. What could Theodore Harris be writing to Marie-Celeste about, and who could the other two letters be from? Those were the absorbing questions of the hour; and at last Marie-Celeste is back again on the little seat beside her, ready to unlock her precious secrets, and with the three mysterious letters spread, one upon the other, open in her lap.
“Now, think a moment, Marie-Celeste,” said Dorothy seriously; “are you sure it is perfectly right to tell me?”