Mr. and Mrs. Harris were soon taken into Ted's confidence--the very next day, in fact, as they were sitting in the garden of the hotel at Keswick--and listened as raptly to his narration of all that had happened these last few weeks as the little circle outside the cottage door had listened to Marie-Celeste. Ted, however, made no excuses for himself, whereas Marie-Celeste's account was full of them; and so one narration was naturally far less plausible than the other. The one fact that seemed to Mr. and Mrs. Harris to defy credulity was that Ted should have fallen into the hands of the Hartleys, for in what other little cottage in all England could such a transformation have been wrought? Where else could he have been brought into such close touch with all the old home interests as he had been there, first through Chris and afterward through Donald and Marie-Celeste, and where else could he have come to see so clearly that he had been wilfully trampling upon all that is truest and best in life? “Fritz,” said Mrs. Harris that evening, as in company with Marie-Celeste they were strolling home from an hour spent in the little churchyard where the great poet Southey is buried, “I think it is beautiful to realize what a grand part Providence plays in the world.”