“No, only this, Harold, and that is, that the orders are all given, and that whether I live or die, the Home will be ready by next autumn;” and who would have imagined, to look at the light in the two faces, that they were really standing face to face with the grave, mysterious thought of death.
The Majestic is lying, with all steam up, out in the Mersey. Chris is leaning over the ship's side, and Donald, again in sailor rig, is close beside him; for Ted had dispensed with Donald's services when he decided to follow up the driving party, and he had at once hurried back to Nuneham to help Chris, who was trying to get everything into shape for the old people before leaving. The tender, with its second and last load of passengers, is bearing down on the steamer, and now they can distinguish the Harrises and Albert—of whom Chris has heard so much—mounted on Theodore's shoulder. Marie-Celeste holds in her two hands a generous bouquet, which was handed to her just as she stepped aboard of the tender. Its roses are bound together with a little blue garter, which she was quick to recognize, and she knows very well she has need to thank Uncle Selden for this priceless souvenir of that happy Knight-of-the-Garter party.
Foremost among the number to leave the tender is a man in livery, which some of the passengers have at once identified as none other than that worn by the servants of the Oueen.
“Whom do you want, may I ask?” questions Donald politely, since the man, once aboard, seems hesitating which way to turn. Inclined at first to resent the interference, the man stares at Donald a moment, and then, possibly conciliated by the semi-official aspect of his sailor costume, condescends to reply:
“I have these,” motioning toward the articles in his hands, “for one of the passengers—Miss Marie-Celeste Harris.”
“Here she is, then,” answers Donald, for the Harrises have that moment come aboard.
“Are you Miss Marie-Celeste Harris?” asks the man, taken aback by the suddenness of her advent on the scene.