So much for the corner--let who will gainsay it--and more for a little maid who lives there, and who is none other, as you may have imagined, than Marie-Celeste, the little Queen-Pin of this story. And Marie-Celeste she is always. For some reason or other neither she nor the friend of her mother for whom she is called is ever known by any shorter title. Indeed, the two names have even become to be written with a hyphen, and seemingly to belong to each other, and to be quite as inseparable as the three syllables of Dorothy or the four of Dorothea. At the time of our introduction to the little maid in question she has donned the prettiest of white embroidered dresses and a broad white sash (which she first tied in a great bow in front and then pulled round to where it belongs in the back), and has come down to the front steps to watch for somebody. She knows almost to a minute how long she will have to wait, for she heard the signal--three little, short, sharp whistles--about five minutes ago. She decides it is worth while to make herself comfortable, and also worth while, looking askance at the doubtful doormat, to bring a well-swept rug from within. Then she seats herself, and, clasping two fair little hands round one knee, just waits, letting eyes rove where they will and thoughts follow. That is a very pretty cage in the window across the way, but she feels sorry for the bird. People oughtn't to leave a canary hanging full in the sunshine on a warm day like this; and then she meditates awhile on the advantages of living on the side of the street that is shady in the afternoon. And now two or three gentlemen are coming by from the ferry, all of whom she knows by sight, for the short terrace where she lives is by no means a general thoroughfare, and just behind them is Mr. Eversley, May Eversley's father. She wishes he would look up, for she has a bow ready for him; but he doesn't, and she must needs defer her social proclivities yet a little while longer. And here comes a great yellow delivery wagon, with horses fine enough for a carriage and two men in livery. What a deafening noise it makes on the Belgian pavement! There! for a comfort it is going to stop for a minute at the next house. My! what a lot of bundles! And now the street is quite empty again, not a person on either side of the one, short block; but the whistle that has been ringing out more and more clearly at quite regular, three-minute intervals sounds very near indeed, and in another second a gray-suited individual, with soldier-like cap to match and a glitter of shining brass buttons, swings round the opposite corner, and makes a bee-line across the street. Our little friend is instantly on her feet, with one hand extended, and a “Good-afternoon, Mr. Hartley.”