And as we sat on the soft turf among the empty shells, looking out over the long line of weather-bitten headlands and tumbled rocks, with the blue sea creaming at their feet, I suppose I must have heaved a sigh, for Carette laughed and said-- "Ma fe, but you are lively to-day, Phil." "I'm sorry," I said.

"I was thinking of the old times when we used to scramble about here as merry as the rock pipits.

They were very happy days, Carette." "Yes," she nodded, "they were happy days.

But we've grown since then." "One can't help growing, but I don't know that it makes one any happier." "Tell me all you did out there," she said, and I lay in the sunshine and told her of our shipwreck, and of the Florida swamps, and of the great city of London through which I had come on my way home.

And then, somehow, our talk was of the terrible doings in France, not so very many years before, of which she had never heard much and I only of late.