So down to Nuneham they went bright and early Saturday morning, and, feeling fine as a lark, or as two larks, to speak more correctly, they preferred doing the walking themselves over the mile and a half out from Nuneham to engaging a most unpromising horse attached to a little carry-all to do it for them. They would at least seem to be getting over the ground at a faster rate, and be able to work off considerable superfluous energy into the bargain. And it was really marvellous how soon they reached their destination. Far too excited to converse by the way, every breath was reserved for the exertion of walking, and so it happened that they made almost the best time on record. And when they reached the cottage, or rather the little lane that runs down between the hedgerows, who did they see at once but Chris himself, busy at work in the garden, and Donald, hoe in hand, close beside him, cutting vigorously at the weeds round some hop-vines, and both working away with such a will and such a farmer-like air that it looked as though both had mistaken their calling. But working with a will sometimes means nothing more than determination to do one's duty; and from what we happen to know, Chris would much have preferred setting cheerily forth on his round in Uncle Sam's far-away city, and Donald was probably dreaming of the blue boundless sea and the steamer ploughing its way in the teeth of a driving nor'easter. But wherever their thoughts may have been, they instantly both stopped thinking, for first they heard the familiar bugle-call of the steamer ring out on the air in the clearest sort of a whistle; and then--could they believe their eyes?--there stood Marie-Celeste and Harold right before them on the other side of the hawthorn.