The peculiar isolation of the place appeals to the average tourist in most pathetic fashion, and no sooner have our friends of the driving party crowded within the diminutive door than Mr. Harris, hat in hand, commences to take up a collection, with a view to making a radical addition to the contents of the roomy contribution-box. Just as he is concluding the exercise of this truly churchly function, and Marie-Celeste is dropping her very last sixpence into the depths of the appealing hat, the little doorway is suddenly darkened---as it has need to be when any one comes through it--and in the next second Ted is standing in their midst. The collection goes sliding on to the floor, to be re-collected at leisure, and everybody, with the exception of Mr. Farwell, is trying to seize Ted's hand at once. Precedence, however, is given to the claims of Marie-Celeste, and the upturned face is greeted with the most prodigious kiss.