Marie-Celeste, here is a letter for you, and it is the third one you have received under cover of direction to me; and, if I am not mistaken, I recognize the handwriting on this one; I believe it is from Theodore Harris.”

Marie-Celeste, with a meek little “thank you,” simply took the letter from Dorothy’s extended hand.

“And, Marie-Celeste,” Dorothy continued, “you are not showing them to your mother. They come enclosed in these envelopes, and that is so that she shall not know that you receive them, I suppose.”

“Yes, Miss Dorothy,” but with her mind quite intent on the letter, and therefore rather absent-mindedly.

“Well, then, do you know, I believe I shall tell her.”

“Oh, Miss Dorothy,” with all the absent-mindedness gone in a minute, and with gravest reproach in the dark brown eyes, “you wouldn’t—you wouldn’t do that!”

“Why, my dear child, I almost feel as though I ought to; it is such an uncommon thing for a little girl of twelve to be in surreptitious correspondence with at least three different people, for there has been a different hand on every letter. It seems wrong to me to-be helping on such a mysterious proceeding, with no idea whatever of what it all means.”

“Miss Dorothy,” said Marie-Celeste, “I am in a great big secret, that’s all, but I do wish—I do wish very much that you were in it too,” which was indeed the truth, for this not being able to talk over matters with anybody was almost more than she could longer endure.

“Well, don’t you believe it would do to take me in, then?” said Dorothy rather entreatingly. “I confess I would like to know what Theodore Harris is writing to you about; and besides it doesn’t seem fair to put too much upon a little girl like you. You seem to be thinking so hard so much of the time.”

“They are pretty nice thoughts, though,” Marie-Celeste replied, “as you’ll see when I tell you, because I’ve about decided to tell you. I think it’s right, too, and I don’t believe they’ll mind, and I am going up to the house to bring the other two letters and read them to you. It will make you happier than anything you ever heard,” and Marie-Celeste spoke truer than she knew.

Meanwhile, Dorothy sat gazing out over beautiful Lake Coniston, wondering if she were really doing the right thing in persuading Marie-Celeste to confide in her, and unable to arrive at any decision. She was sitting on a little rustic seat down by the water’s edge, which Marie-Celeste, with her passion for exploring new surroundings, had discovered the evening before, almost immediately upon their arrival at the Waterhead Hotel. It was here that Dorothy had counted on finding Marie-Celeste, and it was here that she was left alone with her thoughts while Marie-Celeste ran off on her self-imposed errand. It was a beautiful little sheet of water that lay there at her feet, with its densely wooded banks and its wilderness still uninvaded by civilization; and just across the lake the setting sun was crimsoning the chimneys and pointed gables of the only house upon that farther bank. It is this home that lends its own special interest to the little lake, for it is the home of that grand old idealist, Ruskin. It is just such a home as you would know that wise philosopher would choose, far from the haunts of men and all the devastating improvements of the age. A grand place, too, to work, you think; and then you recall with a sigh that the light of that glorious mind has well-nigh gone out, ‘neath the weight of physical weariness and infirmity, and then the solitary home begins to look a little like a prison in your eyes, as you realize how glad its inmate would be to exchange it for the Palace of that King whose divine intent for the world he has so marvellously interpreted for us all in the days when soul was still master of hand and brain.

But there was no room in Dorothy’s mind just then for musings either on nature or Ruskin, and it is to be feared that the dancing blue of the water and the purple shadows on the hills and golden glow of the sunset made little impression on her wholly preoccupied mind. What could Theodore Harris be writing to Marie-Celeste about, and who could the other two letters be from? Those were the absorbing questions of the hour; and at last Marie-Celeste is back again on the little seat beside her, ready to unlock her precious secrets, and with the three mysterious letters spread, one upon the other, open in her lap.

“Now, think a moment, Marie-Celeste,” said Dorothy seriously; “are you sure it is perfectly right to tell me?”

“But you said you’d tell my mother if I didn’t,” laughed Marie-Celeste.

“Oh, no, dear! I didn’t put it quite like that. I only wondered if, perhaps, it was not my duty. But I know from what you have already told me that everything is all right. You see, I did not quite like to have a hand in anything so very unusual without being taken just a little into your confidence. You remember, when the other letters came, you scampered off in most excited fashion to read them all by yourself somewhere, and then never opened your lips about them afterward, so that I could not help feeling that it was a very queer proceeding, and that I really ought to look into it.”

“Yes, I understand perfectly, Miss Dorothy; and Ted says right here at the end of his letter: ‘Tell Miss Allyn all about things if you think best.’” And of course that settled matters beautifully, quieting the last little suggestion of a compunction on Dorothy’s part.

“Now, the best way to tell you,” Marie-Celeste began, “will be to read the letters. This first one is from Donald. ‘London, August 20th’”—

“London, Marie-Celeste!”

“Wait, Miss Dorothy; it will explain itself,” smiling with delight at the pleasant surprises contained in those three precious letters.

“‘London, August 20th. My dear friend’ (you know, Donald has to begin that way, because he didn’t like to say Marie-Celeste, and so never called me anything), ‘you will be surprised to find I am in London, and, what is more, that 1 have come up to London as a valet for a gentleman, and the gentleman, let me tell you, is your cousin, Mr. Harris. You know we grew to be good friends all those weeks together down at the Hartleys’, at Nuneham!’”

“Do you mean to say,” interrupted Dorothy—for the letter was not explaining things quite as fully as might be desired—“that Donald has actually been staying in the same cottage with Theodore?”

“You knew about Ted’s accident, didn’t you, Miss Dorothy? Ted said you did, that your brother had told you.”

“Yes, I knew about that, but I do not know where it happened or where he has been staying all these weeks.”

“You’ve heard me talk about Chris, our postman, haven’t you, who came over on the steamer with us?”

“Yes, certainly.”

“Well, then, if you will believe it, it was just by his grandfather’s cottage, just outside of Nuneham, where the accident happened, and they’re the people who’ve been caring for him; and then when Donald went down there to work on the farm, of course he discovered him; and then when I went down the other day from Oxford, I discovered him too, and poor Ted’s had a very hard time to keep his secret.”

“But Harold was with you, Marie-Celeste,” said Dorothy eagerly; “does he know, too?”

“No, Harold doesn’t know; it’s all on his account that there’s any secret about it now; you know Ted wants to prove to Harold that he means to do the right thing before he lets him know the worst there is about him. He means to tell him everything some day.” And then Marie-Celeste proceeded to narrate at length her unexpected encounter with Ted under the apple-tree, so that Dorothy gradually came to a clear comprehension of how matters stood, and Marie-Celeste was free once more to let Donald speak for himself.

“‘And what we came up to London for,’ continued the letter, ‘was to see a gentleman about some business matters; and the gentleman we wanted to see was Mr. Belden—your rich old bachelor friend you know—and who did he prove to be but a Mr. Selden, Mr. Theodore’s own uncle? His name was printed Belden by mistake on the passenger list, and when Mr. Selden made friends with you that first day out, and found out that you were going to visit his nephews at Windsor, he didn’t tell anyone it was wrong, because he didn’t want you or your father or mother to know who he was.’”

“What did I tell you, Marie-Celeste,” interrupted Dorothy with a little air of superiority, “that time you told me about him in St. George’s? I knew it must be the same man.”

“But, Miss Dorothy, ever since this letter came I’ve been wondering why he didn’t want us to know wh............