“Who is your little white-faced friend?” Harold had asked at the first opportunity.
“Oh, that is Donald you heard mamma speak about!”
“Donald who?”
“Oh, I don't really know who, and nobody does! He is called Donald Brown. He was brought up in the Foundling Hospital, in London, and hasn't any particular father or mother.”
“My! but that's hard; and he's been awfully ill, hasn't he?”
“Yes, for weeks and weeks in New York with a fever; and he hasn't gained a bit of strength on the voyage, either.”
“He's going home, I suppose?”
“He's going: somewhere, but I don't believe he knows where. The steamer, he says, seems most like home to him. He's one of the cabin boys and buglers when he's well.”
“I say,” said Harold, “let's bring him home to Windsor!”
“Oh, could you?” cried Marie-Celeste, who had thought of the selfsame thing herself, but had not dared to suggest it.