“I wonder if Ted will mind?” as though thinking the matter over. “I think I'd better ask him; but I shall do it anyway, since this is my summer.”
“Your summer?” but Harold had no time to explain, and hurried over to Ted, who was talking with Uncle Fritz and Aunt Lou, and who was gracious enough to say, “Do as you like, Harold and as that, you see, was just what Harold had meant to do, there was no trouble at all about it. And this was the beautiful way it had happened, and Donald was being built up and strengthened with all sorts of nourishing food, and was gaining strength every day.
“Donald,” said Marie-Celeste, curling up on the window bench beside his chair, “just how do you feel this morning?”
“First-rate; better than any day yet,” said Donald, who, by the way, never called Marie-Celeste by any name whatsoever—“Marie-Celeste” seemed quite too familiar, and “Miss Harris” was out of the question.
“Well, then, do you want to hear about it now?” she asked eagerly.
“You bet I do,” and then Donald begged her pardon with a blush.
“It's quite a long story; are you sure you feel strong enough?”
“Sure;” and forthwith Marie-Celeste sailed away on the wings of a marvellous story. It had been a wonderful week, that first week at Windsor, and Marie-Celeste had tried to see it all with two pairs of eyes; for born little Englishman though Donald probably was, it had been only since he had actually come to Windsor that he knew anything whatever about it. Coming out in the train from London, the beautiful castle had first flashed upon our little party, through the perfect arch of the frequent English rainbow, and Donald had straightway asked, “Oh, what is that?” and Marie-Celeste had straightway replied, “Why, Donald, of course that's the castle!”
“Whose castle?”
“The Queen of England's, Donald!” as though such a lack of knowledge was simply incredible. So, you see, there was a vast amount of ignorance to be enlightened, and Marie-Celeste was fairly revelling at the prospect of being the one to do it.