Marie-Celeste!” gasped Ted, letting his book fall from his hands.

“Cousin Ted!” gasped Marie-Celeste; and flop went the cup-custard over on one side, and then rolled off of the tray altogether. Perhaps you think gasped is a pretty strong word; but when you are fairly taken off your feet with surprise, you can’t for the very first moment do much better with words than gasp them.

“Where did you come from, Marie-Celeste?” Ted demanded almost roughly, and as though she had no right in the world to come from any place whatsoever.

“How do you come to be here, Cousin Theodore?” parrying question with question, and drawing her little figure to its full height, in resentment of the tone in which Ted had spoken.

“Oh, you need not make any pretence,” Ted said sarcastically. “Donald has been mean enough to go back on me, and you know all there is to tell. I can see through the whole thing, cup-custard, sponge-cake and all, and Harold ‘ll be down here in a moment to help lord it over the prodigal.”

“What do you mean. Ted?” for she really did not understand all he said. “Donald hasn’t told me anything, nor Harold, nor anybody. They’ve all gone off to see some cows somewhere, and Mrs. Hartley asked me if I would not take this little tray down to Mr. Morris, the gentleman who had met with the accident,” and Marie-Celeste gave a comprehensive glance through the little orchard, as though still expecting to discover the real object of her search under some neighboring tree.

“I am the gentleman who met with the accident,” said Ted, smiling in spite of himself, “and my name is supposed to be Morris.”

The smile relieved matters somewhat, and Marie-Celeste, setting the little tray on the ground, picked up the cup-custard, which had suffered nothing by its fall, and putting it back in its place on the tray, took a seat in the corner of the rug, to which Ted motioned her, and then clasping her two hands round her knees, asked in a tone of most earnest inquiry, “Now tell me, Cousin Theodore, why do you do things like this?”

“You mean, why do I let myself be thrown out of my trap in a runaway accident, and then be foolish enough to let myself be almost killed into the bargain?”

“Have you really had an accident, Ted?” with a solicitude that went straight to Ted’s heart.

“Yes, considerable of an accident. I fancy it would have done for me, Marie-Celeste, if I had not fallen into the hands of these good people here.”

“But oh, Ted,” why didn’t you send us word? Mamma and I would have come down and taken care of you every moment and she spoke as though they would have just loved to do it.

“Marie-Celeste, you are a dear child;” and Ted, who was hungering at last for the love of kith and kin, could not keep his eyes from growing a little misty. He realized, too, how he had done absolutely nothing; to warrant this little affectionate outburst, and felt sorely humiliated—a sensation which had been very common to poor Ted of late.

“How did the accident happen?” asked Marie-Celeste; and touched by his grave face, she moved a little farther up on the rug.

“Oh, by being a fool, as usual! We were off on a lark, four of us, and I got into a fix so than I couldn’t manage the horses, and—”

“Ted, do you mean”—and then Marie-Celeste hesitated—“do you mean that you really took so mueh wine that you did not know what you were about?” for she wanted to understand the whole matter clearly, no matter how shocking it might prove.

“Yes, that was it, Marie-Celeste;” but the child little guessed how the high-strung fellow winced under the confession, and how his self-disgust never reached quite such high-water mark as at that moment.

“Well, go on,” said Marie-Celeste in a tone of utter hopelessness; and then she added, with the air of a little grandmother, “don’t keep anything back, Ted; I would rather know all there is.”

“Well, that’s about all there is, Marie-Celeste, and it’s enough, isn’t it? I was caught under the trap as it went over, and they picked me up as good as dead and carried me into the Hartleys.”

“But you told us all at Windsor you were going on a driving trip with Mr. Allyn.”

“So I was before the accident.”

Marie-Celeste paused a moment to straighten things out in her mind; then she asked, “But why, Ted, did you tell them your name was Morris?”

“Harry Allyn did that. He knew 1 would feel awfully mortified, and he wanted Harold never to know.”

“He never shall,” Marie-Celeste said slowly, giving her full endorsement to that part of the proceeding, and Ted inwardly pronounced her a dearer child than ever.

“Where is Harry Allyn now?”

“He stops up at the hotel at Nuneham, and comes down to look after me ever day.”

“Do his people know?”

“They know about the accident, but not where we are staying.”

“Oh, well, that makes me understand why Miss Allyn said she hardly believed we would meet you on this driving trip. All the rest of us were hoping we would. Miss Allyn would have hoped so, too, if she had not known, I suppose.”

“Well, I don’t suppose anything of the kind,” said Ted, “but what’s this about your driving trip, Marie-Celeste?”

“Oh, we’re on your break, Ted—Harold couldn’t write to ask for it, you know, because we didn’t know where you were, and we’re stopping at Oxford now; but we left papa and mamma and Miss Dorothy and Mr. Farwell for to-day, because Harold and I preferred coming down here to surprise Chris and Donald to seeing all the colleges in the world.”

“Who is Mr. Farwell?”

“Oh, he’s a very nice young artist, a friend of papa’s.”

“And he is taking a driving trip on my break, is he?” said Ted demurely, and not appearing exactly to fancy the idea.

“Why, of course, as he’s in our party, Ted.”

“Yes, I understand; and now, Marie-Celeste, you are going to help me keep my secret, are you? But you know you’re not to tell anybody for a while, not even your father and mother; do you think you can do it?”

“I will surely do it, Cousin Theodore, if you will do something for me; will you promise me you will?”

“If I can, little cousin;” for who could withstand the entreaty in the earnest childish voice?

“Will you come home, Cousin Theodore, as soon as ever you can?”

“What’s the use, Marie-Celeste? Nobody cares for me there any more, I’ve been such a selfish, ungracious fellow this long while.”

“We all care for you, Ted, really, very much—papa and mamma and Harold and I.”

“Well, that’s very kind indeed of you; but then I suppose, as you’re my relations, it’s only Christian for you to care a little.”

“But people care who are not your relations—Miss Dorothy Allyn cares, and Albert.”

“How do you happen to know that.”

“Oh, because one day after Miss Allyn had been playing the organ in St. George’s—and oh! doesn’t she play beautifully!—we talked a little while on the Castle terrace, and we talked about you, and I asked her if you were ever so nice as Harold, because we couldn’t help being a little disappointed in you, Cousin Ted, and she said yes, that you used to be every bit as nice, and if you had not been spoiled up at Oxford you would have turned out all right. She didn’t say just those words, you know, but that was the meaning.” Ted was silent for a few moments, and when at last he spoke he said slowly, “Yes, I will come home, Marie-Celeste, as soon as I can; I promise.”



0183

“Thank you, very much,” as though Ted had done her the greatest personal favor; and then, seeming to feel that their talk had come to a natural end, she asked quite casually, “Will you have the custard now?&rdqu............