It was her birthday, and Chris scampered over the sands with Cinders
tugging at her skirt, singing as she ran. She had three good reasons for
being particularly happy that day--the first and foremost of these being
the long-anticipated adventure that lay before her; the second that her
two young brothers had improved so greatly in health that the tedious
hours of her solitude were very nearly over; and the third that a letter
from Jack, cousin and comrade, was tucked up her sleeve.

Jack's letters were infrequent and ever delightful. He always struck the
right note. He had written for her birthday to tell her that he had
bought a present for her to celebrate the memorable occasion, but that he
was reserving to himself the pleasure of offering it in person when they
should meet again, which happy event would, he believed, take place at no
distant date. In fact, Chris might see him any day now, since the
privilege of escorting her and her following back to England was to be
his, and he understood that the ruling power had decreed that their
return should not be postponed much longer.

She was by no means anxious to go; in fact, when the time came she would
be sorry. But she was not thinking of that to-day. It was not her custom
to dwell upon unwelcome things, and Jack had, moreover, made the prospect
attractive by the suggestion that they might possibly spend two or three
days in Paris on their return. Paris under Jack's auspices would be
paradise in Chris's estimation. She could imagine nothing more
enchanting.

So she and Cinders were in high spirits and prepared to enjoy the
birthday treat to the uttermost. She carried a small--very small--bag of