Mr. Harris was on a search for Marie-Celeste, and chancing to pass the captain's room, glanced in, and glancing in, beheld his little daughter, and heard these last words.
“Excuse me, Captain Revell,” he said, touching his hat, and apparently much annoyed, “but I cannot imagine how my little daughter has found her way in here, or what favor she has made so bold as to ask. I trust you will not suspend any of the ship's regulations on her account.”
“Oh, that's all right,” laughed the captain, “I shall be only too glad to do what I can.”
“Oh, please don't bother any more about it—please don't,” entreated Marie-Celeste; “I was afraid papa would not like it. We'll go now, won't we?” looking up at her father with a most woful and beseeching little face.
“Yes, we will; but don't you think, Marie-Celeste, we would better ask the captain's pardon for intruding?”
“Not a bit of it,” answered Captain Revell; “there's no pardon to be asked of anybody, and I shall hope to have a call from you both very soon again,” he added cordially as his two visitors took their departure, and he settled back to his inspection of the chart.
“Don't say a word, papa, please, I don't want to cry here,” and Marie-Celeste held her father's hand very tightly.
“But you want some breakfast, dear, don't you?” Marie-Celeste shook her head, but as she seemed to know perfectly well what she did want, he suffered her to lead him over the high sill that keeps the water from rushing indoors in rough weather, and past the main stairway, and into a far corner of the library. There she pushed him gently into one of the corner sofas, and seating herself in his lap, looked straight into his eyes.
“Papa,” she said, with a little sob in her voice, “you are angry.”
“I am annoyed, Marie-Celeste.”