“I look as though I belonged right here, don't I?” said Chris, glancing down at his English suit of homespun. “But you ought to see me in my gray uniform and brass buttons. Really, Mr. Morris, fond as I am of the old people here, I often wish I were back at work again. It seems like my own country over there now, and I've grown to love it.”
“I don't know exactly—somewhere about the first of October. Same steamer, if I can manage it, with Marie-Celeste.”
“Marie-Celeste!” exclaimed Ted; and then, bethinking himself, he asked quite casually, “Who is Marie-Celeste, I should like to know?”
“Well, she's just a dear child, Mr. Morris—a little American of twelve or thereabouts—but there isn't a little girl in all England can hold a candle to her.”
“Can it be possible there are two little American Marie-Celestes in England this summer?” thought Ted; and then, trying with all his might not to betray his excitement, he asked further, “How did you come to know her, Chris?”
“She's on my route, Mr. Morris. Along of my being fond of children, I know all of the boys and girls pretty well at the houses where I call; but Marie-Celeste is different from the rest. She just takes your heart by storm, with her confiding, little trusting ways and her interest in you. Here's a picture of her, that her mother let her give me last Christmas,” and Chris began a search through many papers in his wallet for the cherished photograph. Meantime, Ted realized how weak he was, that such a matter as this should put him into a tremble; and later, when Chris gave him the photograph, he could only manage by the greatest effort to keep his hand from shaking as he held it, but the picture settled matters. From beneath the curve of a wide-brimmed hat looked forth the familiar face of his own little cousin, Marie-Celeste, and the color rushed up into his forehead.
“I guess I'm tiring you with talking so much,” said Chris; “I'll tell you all about her some other time;” and Ted, replying, “Well, somehow or other, I do seem to get exhausted precious easily,” turned over and closed his eyes.
“A nap'll do wonders for you, Mr. Morris;” and lowering the shades at the two ivy-grown windows, and adjusting the screen that stood near the bed, Chris left the room. But a nap, as often happens, would not do anything at all for poor Ted just then. It did not have the ghost of a chance, in fact. How could it with so many queer thoughts and sensations chasing each other pell-mell through his mind. Wouldn't Chris be surprised, he thought, if he knew that Marie-Celeste was his own cousin, and living that moment in Ted's own home was one of the precious company from whom he was anxious to keep all knowledge of this worst and last scrape. But he felt like a fraud, lying there in the Hartleys' dear little cottage, and letting them think him another man altogether from the fellow he really was. Indeed, he experienced the same sensation every time any one called him by the name of Morris, which had been the first name to occur to Harry Allyn, in his desire to shield his friend on the night of the accident. “And yet,” argued Ted, “I'm doing it to save the folks at home the disgrace of it, and Harry and Dr. Arnold seem to think it all right; and yet, I declare if I know myself what to think. And what a remarkable thing it is that I should have fallen right into the hands of this old friend of Marie-Celeste's! Like as not my secret will out some day in spite of me. It would have been out at once if Chris had not been so considerate as to keep himself out of the way, so that we did not meet that morning on the steamer. I wonder if I ought not to tell just Chris, anyway; but somehow or other I do not seem to have strength enough even to make up my mind, and I'll give up trying for the present;” and so, ceasing to make any effort whatever, the little nap that would not come for the asking stole quietly in and laid its blessed touch of oblivion upon poor, troubled Ted. Now, this discovery of Ted's, that Chris was a friend of Marie-Celeste, and the perplexing state of mind that followed, had transpired, you understand, two weeks previous to this particular chapter, and Ted, you remember, is lying on the chintz-covered lounge in the living-room, having gained strength enough in the mean time to walk from his bed to the lounge unaided. Mr. Hartley is reading his morning paper, sitting in the shade just outside the cottage door, with his chair tipped back against the shingles. Now and then, as he comes across anything he thinks will interest Ted, he lets the chair drop on to all-fours, shifts his position so as to bring himself into line with the door, and reads the article or paragraph aloud. Ted, amused, and grateful as well at the manner in which the old keeper has gradually softened toward him, always listens attentively, and courteously feigns interest, when he finds he cannot command the real article. Mrs. Hartley, still busy about her morning household duties, occasionally flits in and out of the room, and Ted's eyes follow her devotedly every moment that she is there. He has grown to love the dear old grandmother with the whole of his wayward heart, and she seems to him the embodiment of all that is calm and loving and benignant. Indeed, it were difficult to tell how much of the blessed change that has been gradually coming over Ted is due to her noble, placid face. He has sufficient knowledge of human nature to realize that nothing but years and years of noblest thinking and doing will bring that look into a face, and he finds his soul fairly bowing down before her. On one of these busy flittings of Mrs. Hartley's, Ted has detained her for a moment, to ask some trifling question, and just as she is about to make a reply, Chris, returning from his daily ride into Nuneham for the mail, swings into the room with his breezy, postman-like air, and empties the contents of the little Hartley mail-bag upon the table.
