In the meantime, here was she, stranded with a damaged foot, and all the delights of the sea temporarily denied to her.  Perhaps not quite all, when she came to think of it.  She could not paddle, but she might manage to hobble down to the shore, and sit on the sun-baked rocks.  Even Mademoiselle could surely find no fault with this.  And she might possibly find someone to talk to.  She was so fond of talking, and it was a perpetual regret to her that she could not understand the speech of the Breton fishermen.

It was on the morning of the second day after her accident that this idea presented itself.  All the previous day she had sat soberly in a corner of the little garden that overlooked the little plage where none but bonnes and their charges ever passed.  Nothing had happened all day long, and she had been bored almost to tears.  The beaming smiles of Mademoiselle, who was thankful to have her within sight, had been no sort of consolation to her, and on the second day she came rapidly to the conclusion that she would die of ennui if she attempted to endure it any longer.

She did not arouse Mademoiselle’s voluble protests by announcing her decision.  Mademoiselle was busy with the boys, and what was the good?  She was her own mistress, and felt in no way called upon to ask her governess’s leave.

Her foot was much better.  The nurse had strapped it for her, and, beyond some slight stiffness in walking, it caused her no pain.  Her hair was tied discreetly back with a black ribbon.  It ought to have been plaited, but as Mademoiselle had no time to bestow upon it and Chris herself couldn’t be bothered, it hung in glory below the confining ribbon to her waist.

Whistling to Cinders, who was lying in the sunshine snapping at flies, she rose from her chair in the shade, dropped the crochet with which Mademoiselle had supplied her on the grass, and limped to the gate that opened on to the plage.

At this juncture a rhythmical, unmistakable sound made her pause.  A quick gleam of pleasure shone in her blue eyes.  She turned her head eagerly.  A troop of soldiers were approaching along the plage.

Sheer fun flashed into the girl’s face.  With a sudden swoop she caught up the lazy Cinders.

“Now you are not to say anything,” she cautioned him.  “Only when I tell you, you are to salute.  And mind you do it properly!”

Cinders licked the animated face so near his own.  When not drawn by his one particular vice, he was always ready to enter into any little game that his mistress might devise.  He watched the oncoming soldiers with interest, a slight frown between his brows.

The soldiers were interested also.  Chris of the merry eyes was not a spectacle to pass unheeding.  She smiled upon them—­there were about forty of them—­with the simplicity of a child.

Rhythmically the blue and red uniforms began to swing past.  Their wearers stared and grinned at the smiling little Anglaise who was so naively pleased to see them.