Donald was sorry, because he never had met “such lovely people” as the Harrises and Mr. Hartley, and never expected to again, and I half believe Mr. Belden was sorriest of all. He was going right up to his club in London, to lead the same old loveless, self-centred life, and somehow the glimpse of something very different he had had through Marie-Celeste made it appear more vapid and colorless than ever. But the steamer did not mind how any of her passengers were feeling--she must make the best possible record, no matter who was glad or sorry; and on she steamed, past lonely and beautiful Holyhead, and then through the wide Irish Sea (that seems indeed a veritable ocean in its wideness), until land once more was sighted and the harbor reached, and the anchor dropped off the wonderful docks at Liverpool. And then, in a few moments, the tender that was to land them was bearing down upon them, and a handsome, eager-faced little fellow, in an Eton jacket, was standing as far forward as possible in her bow, and an older fellow, who resembled the younger one closely, was standing, I am happy to say, close beside him.