“But you have a home now, haven't you, Donald, that you're going to when we reach England?”
“No; I don't know where I'm going I haven't decided,” he added, with studied indifference; for Donald preferred not to burden these new friends of his with his trials and perplexities. Likely as not he would be able to find some decent enough place in Liverpool, and he thought, if he managed very carefully, his savings might be made to hold out till he could put to sea again on his dear old Majestic.
“And now I'd like to know all about you,” said Donald, by way of changing the subject; “there must be a deal more to tell when you've had your father and mother to help you remember things, than when you've had to do all the remembering yourself. Getting your start in a foundling hospital is sort of like being led into the world blindfold.”
“Pretty old talk for a youngster,” thought Chris; “but I suppose it comes along of his being alone half the time, with so much chance to think.”
“Would you like me to commence at the very beginning,” asked Marie-Celeste, “when I was just a mere scrap of a thing?” Donald nodded assent.
“Well, then, I was rather good-looking, if you don't mind, and a real sunshiny little body, papa says.” Donald looked as though he could readily believe it, and Chris, in the retirement of his stateroom, shook his head, as though he felt sure of it.
“But of course I soon got over that, and almost as soon as I was in short dresses I began to show I had quite a little will of my own, and then for two or three years they had a pretty hard time with me. I would have regular tantrums, and just kick and scream if I couldn't do just what I wanted to. I had two dear little brothers then, and I remember—-yes, I remember this myself—how they used to amuse me and try to make me good. And sometimes they seemed very proud of me, and sometimes, Donald, I was proud of myself, too. Mamma used to dress me in white dresses with short sleeves that came just to my elbow, tied round with pink or blue ribbons, and a sash to match, tied on one side in front, and I knew it was pretty and stylish, and used to walk around with my head in the air, and people would laugh and say I was awfully cunning. Somehow or other I was rather spoiled, you see; but when I was only five years old Louis and Jack died, both in one week, of diphtheria, and mamma says from that week I have never given her any real trouble. It seemed as though I remembered how Louis and Jack wanted me to be good, and so I did try very hard. And now I almost always think of them when I am getting into a temper, and if I get the best of it, I feel that they know and are glad.”
“It must have been hard for your mother to do without them,” said Donald a little awkwardly, but with his face full of sympathy.
“Very hard, Donald; and oh, how she used to cry; but mamma is very good and sweet, and is so thankful that she has papa and me left. You know, Jack and Louis used to say, 'Jesus, gentle Shepherd.' at bedtime every night, just as I do, and mamma says she thinks of them now, just as little lambs safe-folded by the dear Shepherd they used to pray to every night. I think it's that that makes her brave and bright.”
“That's a beautiful way to think,” said Donald warmly, and Chris thought so too, and stopped whittling.