Donald was gone. They had seen him off at the station--Harold and she--and Donald, never allowing himself for a moment to regard this whole affair in any light but the true one, kept a stiff upper lip to the last, and smiled the cheeriest good-by as the guard banged the carriage-door and the train glided out from the depot. Before he jumped on the train, however, he had whispered, as the last of many entreaties: “I know it's all for my sake, Marie-Celeste, but all the same, it's an awful grind on me the way you're acting; and if you don't come to see it so pretty soon, your father and mother will wish they had never let you do anything for me. Honor bright, Marie-Celeste, you're not fair to them or to me at all. Please give in as soon as you go home, and say you're sorry, because you are--you _know_ you are.” And it was the “yes, I am” in Marie-Celeste's eyes, though her lips still firmly pressed each other, that made Donald's heart a thousand-fold lighter. And so, as you have read, Marie-Celeste did really give in, without so much as a mental reservation, and other hearts than Donald's were wondrously lightened, and there was joy throughout all the kingdom that the queen had come to her senses.