“Yes;” but naturally wondering that the man should know her name.
“You are likely to find her right in there, sir,” indicating the direction by a nod of his head. “She was coming in some day to copy off part of the inscription from the Prince Imperial's tomb.”
So this old sexton and Marie-Celeste were evidently on the best of terms, and the child, with her genius for making friends, was probably in the confidence of half of Windsor by this time; and Mr. Belden selfishly wished she would not be so indiscriminate in her friendships.
The “right in there” of the sexton evidently referred to Braye Chapel, within a few feet of the door by which he had entered; and glancing in through the open-work carving of the partition enclosing it, he discovered Marie-Celeste seated on a cushion on the floor, her back against the wall, busily writing away on the portfolio on her lap.
Mr. Belden moved noiselessly to the doorway, and stood unobserved, looking down upon her for several seconds, until glancing up for the next sentence in the inscription, she suddenly beheld him.
“Why, Mr. Belden!” she cried, transfixed with surprise; “how long have you been there, and wherever did you come from?”
“I have been here about a minute, I should say, and I ran out from London this morning to take a look at old Windsor, and, you see, I have had the good fortune, as I half hoped I should, to run across my little steamer friend.”