cakes which Mademoiselle had packed for her picnic--poor Mademoiselle,
who could not understand how any _demoiselle_ could prefer to eat her
food upon the beach. In fact, Chris had only carried the point because it
was her birthday, and naturally Mademoiselle had not been informed that
she had invited a guest to the meagre feast.

Chris, however, was quite content. With the serenity of childhood she was
sure there would be enough. She even told herself privately that it would
be the best birthday-party she had ever had. And Cinders was apparently
of the same opinion.

They raced nearly all the way to the rocks, spurred by the sight of a
familiar white figure awaiting them there. He came to meet them with his
customary courtesy, bare-headed, with shining eyes.

"Will you accept my good wishes?" he said, as he bent over her hand.

She laughed and thanked him. "I'm getting horribly old. Do you know I'm
seventeen? I shall have to put up my hair next year."

"I grieve to hear it," he protested.

"Never mind. It isn't next year yet. Have you remembered the lantern?
Where is it? No, I don't want any help, thank you. I balance best alone."

She was already skipping over the rocks with arms extended. He followed
her lightly, ready to give his hand at a moment's notice. But Chris was
very sure-footed, and though she allowed him to take her parcel, she
would not accept his assistance.