"Our uncle the canon," whispered Eliza; "he walks just that way, and
Napoleon copies him."

"My, he looks about fifty!" said Panoria. "What do you suppose he is
thinking about?"

"Not about us, be sure," Eliza declared.

"I believe he's dreaming," said mischievous Panoria; "let us scream out,
and see if we can frighten him."

"Silly! you can't frighten Napoleon," Eliza asserted, clapping a hand
over her companion's mouth. "But he could frighten you. I have tried
it."

Napoleon stood a moment looking seaward, and tossed back his long hair,
as if to bathe his forehead in the cooling breezes. Then entering the
grotto, he flung himself on its rocky floor, and, leaning his head upon
his hand, seemed as lost in meditation as any gray old hermit of the
hills, all unconscious of the four black eyes which, filled with
curiosity and fun, were watching him from behind the lilac-bush.

[Illustration: _At Napoleon's Grotto_]

"Here, at least," the boy said, speaking aloud, as if he wished the
broad sea to share his thoughts, "here I am master, here I am alone;
here no one can command or control me. I am seven years old to-day.
One is not a man at seven; that I know. But neither is one a child when
he has my desires. Our uncle, the Canon Lucien, tells me that Spartan