He came slowly, his eyes fixed on the sea, his hands clasped behind his back.
"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.