Peggy McQueen was all alone on this beautiful morning in early spring. Only a child in years, for not a month over twelve was Peggy. She stood there, leaning on the half-door of her own little caravan, and gazing dreamily out and away across the sea, the sunshine on her shapely arms--bare to her well-rounded shoulders were they, for she was not yet quite dressed--sunshine on her rosy cheeks and lips, and sunshine trying to hide itself in the floating masses of her auburn hair. Calm and lovely though the sea was to-day, with its blues and its opals and its patches of silver--silver borrowed from the sun--this little lass was not at this moment thinking of the sea at all, much though she love…
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