arbara. They were
usually engaged in the Fine Arts, and she could never quite decide
whether the hair had been the result of the profession, or vice versa.

After talking for some time, Barbara had her first lesson in ecarte,
which she welcomed gladly, as helping to keep her awake. Then the
whole family escorted their visitors to the station, where they stood
in a row and waved hats and hands for a long time after the train had
left. It was getting rather late when they reached the little inn once
more, and Barbara was thankful that she had the excuse of a substantial
dinner to fall back upon when she was offered more of the landlady's
"pleasant beverage."

When the good-byes had been said it was growing dark, and the girl,
thinking of their last adventurous drive, wondered if Mademoiselle
Loire was any more reliable. However, after the first mile, she cast
dignity aside, and begged to be allowed to sit down in the hay at the
back of the cart and go to sleep, either the eel or her efforts to make
herself agreeable having created an overpowering desire for slumber,
and she was still dreaming peacefully when they drove into St. Servan,
and rattled up the narrow street to their own door.

CHAPTER XV.

THE STRIKE.

It was now the beginning of August, and just "grilling," as Donald
would have expressed it.

It seemed almost as difficult to Barbara to leave the sea as it is to
get out of bed on a winter morning.

"It must be so very nice to be a mermaid--in summer," she said, looking
back at the water, as she and Marie went up the beach one morning.

"Yes," returned Marie, "If they had short hair. It must take such a
lot of combing."

Marie was not so enthusiastic about bathing as her companion. Perhaps
her want of enthusiasm was due to the fact that she was not allowed to
bathe every day, because "it took up so much time that might be devoted
to her studies." At first Mademoiselle Therese had tried to persuade
Barbara that it would be much better for her to go only once or twice a
week too.

"There are so many English at the _plage_," she complained, "that I
know you will talk with them; and it is a pity to come to France to
learn the language and waste your time talking with English, whom you
can meet in your own country."

"But I won't talk with them," Barbara had assured her. "You know how
careful I have been always to speak French--even when I could hardly
make myself understood."

The girl