“Good-night, Chris,” rather absent-mindedly, and with eyes and thoughts still intent upon the letter. Would it be such a dreadful thing to open it? It was so hard not to know right away what was in it. She had never seen this English Cousin Harold, but when they had exchanged photographs at Christmas-time he had sent such a beautiful letter that she had come to feel that they were the best of friends. But no, hard as it was, she felt certain it would really be best not to open it; so she would put the letter in her pocket, and when she went to bed she would slide it under her pillow, and then only take little cat-naps until her father and mother should come home, and she could tell them about it, and hear what was in it. But alas! for the little cat-naps; for the lights blinked brightly in the harbor, and the ferry-boats whistled and let off steam in deafening fashion, and the stars came out, and the moon came up, and papa and mamma came home, and chatted gayly besides, with the door wide open into her room, and yet Marie-Celeste never wakened, and Harold's important letter lay sealed and unread, and as flat as a fluffy head could press it until the light of another morning.