about eight or nine years of age, a dainty elfin little
person with bewitching blue eyes and a mop of short, flaxen curls. She
was evidently well used to traveling, for she would lift a tiny finger
to summon the waiter, and gave him her orders with all the
_savoir-faire_ of an experienced diner-out. Perhaps her clear-toned
treble voice was a trifle too high-pitched for the occasion, and would
have been better had it been duly modulated, but her parents seemed
proud of her conversational powers and allowed her to talk for the
benefit of anybody within ear-shot. That she excited comment was
manifest, for many looks were turned to her corner. The criticisms on
her were complimentary or the reverse. "Isn't she perfectly _sweet_?"
gushed a young lady at Irene's left. "Sweet? She ought to be in the
nursery instead of showing off here!" came a tart voice in reply, from
some one whose face was invisible but whose back and shoulders expressed
an attitude of strong disapproval. "Hope we shan't be boxed up with her
in the same carriage to Paris! I vote we give her a wide berth at
Calais."

Irene laughed softly. The little flaxen-haired girl attracted her; she
felt she would have gravitated towards her compartment rather than have
avoided her. But traveling companions were evidently more a matter of
chance than choice, for the crowd that turned out of the train at Dover
became mixed and mingled like the colored bits of glass in a
kaleidoscope. Irene realized that for the moment the one supreme and
breathless object in life was to cling to the rest of her family, and
not to get separated from them or lost, as they pushed through narrow
barriers, showed tickets and passports, traversed gangways, and finally
found themselves on board the Channel steamer bound for France. Father,
who had made the crossing many times, scrambled instantly for
deck-chairs, and installed his party comfortably in the lee of a funnel,
where they would be sheltered from the wind. Mrs. Beverley, who had
inspected the ladies' saloon below, sank on her seat, and tucked a rug
round her knees with a sigh of relief.

"It will be the 'Black Hole of Calcutta' downstairs," she remarked. "I'd
rather stay on deck however cold it is. The mother of the wee
yellow-haired lassie is lying down already, evidently prepared to be
ill. The stewardess says we shall have a choppy passage. She earns her
tips, poor woman! Thanks, Vincent! Yes, I'd like the air-cushion,
please, an