Polly wished
that they, too, were staying at Cliffmore.

A few days had passed since the visit, and Princess Polly, still
thinking of the day at Avondale, sat stringing shells on a long
rose-colored cord.

She was sitting on a low seat in the garden, her box of shells beside
her. The shells were for Leslie, and Polly was selecting them with
much care, that they might be of nearly the same size.

The garden was charming with its fine wall, and the lovely flowers
that blossomed within its enclosure.

The house set well up on the beach, and its broad lawn and flower beds
were surely safe from any encroachment by the sea, yet as a
precaution, the massive wall had been built, and if by any chance a
storm should drive the waves a bit too far, they would break against
the wall, and then recede, leaving the garden unharmed.

The string of shells was now nearly a half yard in length, and Polly
held it up for the admiration of Rose and Sprite, who had just
arrived, and were running along the path.

"Oh, isn't it lovely?" said Rose, "and the colors, how nice they look,
first bluish white and then cream white."

"Leslie will like that," said Sprite.

"Anyone would, they're strung so prettily."

"I've ten more shells to add to the string and then it will be all
ready for Leslie. Everybody keep still until I have the ten shells in
place," said Princess Polly, "and then I'll talk with you."

Rose and Sprite pretended to be making a great effort to keep still,
but the task was evidently too much for them, and after a few seconds
of silence, Rose laughed, Sprite echoed, and then Polly laughed
because they did.

"Oh, you two can't keep from talking," she said, "and neither can I,
that is, not for very long, but I did keep still until I put the tenth
shell on the string, and I'll put it in this little box. There, now
I'll listen, for I know you've something to tell."

The three little friends were now sitting on the long garden seat, the
tall shrubs behind them making a cool shade.

Mr. Sherwood had had the space inside the fine wall filled with rich
loam, so that inside the garden gate was a genuine country garden,
while outside the wall lay the sandy beach, and the surf, and spray.

The flowers in the garden seemed to like the breezes from the sea, for
their colors were glowing, and their perfume sweet.

"There's such queer news this morning," Sprite said. "First, a sailor
that Pa knows came up from the wharf, and he