Among the letters that Mr. Harris found awaiting him was one from Chris, telling him that he and Donald were booked for the Majestic, sailing from Liverpool the first of October. “All right,” said Mr. Harris to himself; “we go, too, then, if we can,” which was somewhat of a question, considering the crowded state of autumn ocean travel. But good fortune still favored our little party, and Mr. Harris's telegram reached Liverpool just in time to secure state-rooms which, within the same hour, had been relinquished. So there was only one month more before them now, and one week of that Mr. and Mrs. Harris and Marie-Celeste were to spend in London. But the household in the Little Castle tried to make it a happy month--as happy as they could, that is, with the cloud of coming separation hanging over them. There was another cloud, too, that broadened and deepened as the month drew near its close; Uncle Everett was far from well. Just at first he had entered into the excursions and driving to which much of the time had been given over, but latterly he had preferred to stay at home, and now for a week he had been confined to his room. All the while, however, he was utterly uncomplaining, seeming to be bent upon making up for all the fretful moodiness of the selfish old bachelor days up in London. And so the first of October came round, finding him still in his room, and there was no help for it but for the Harrises to take leave of him there.