se!" he made quick rejoinder. "When you suffer we suffer
also. Also"--he paused an instant--"Mr. Mordaunt awaits you, _petite_.
Will you not go to him?"

She shivered. "Need I, Bertie? I don't want to."

It was the cry of a child--a child in distress--plunged for the first
time in the bitter waters of grief, turning instinctively to the friend
of childhood for comfort. "I don't want anyone but you," she said
piteously. "You understand. You loved him--and Trevor didn't."

"Oh, but, Christine--" Bertrand began.

"No, he didn't!" she maintained, with sudden vehemence. "I always knew he
didn't. He put up with him for my sake; but he never loved him. He never
noticed his pretty little ways. Once--once"--she began to sob--"it was on
our wedding-day--he slapped him--for chasing a cat! My sweet wee
Cinders!"

She broke down utterly upon the words, and there followed such a storm of
tears that Bertrand was forced to abandon all attempts to reason with
her, and could only kneel and whisper soft endearments in his own
language, soothing her, comforting her, as though she were indeed the
child she seemed.

But it was long before she even heard him, not until the paroxysm had
spent itself and she lay passive and utterly exhausted, with her hands
fast clasped in his.

"You are good to me," she murmured then, and in a moment, "Why, Bertie,
you're crying too!"

"Ah, pardon me!" he whispered, under his breath. "But to see you in pain,
my little one, my bird of Paradise--"

"No," she said, a strange note of conviction in her voice, "I shall never
be that any more now that Cinders is gone. I shan't be young like that
any more. I--I shall grow up now, Bertie. I daresay Trevor will like me
the better for it. But you won't, dear. You will be sorry, I know. We've
been playfellows always, haven't we, even though you grew up and I
didn't? Well"--there came a sharp catch in her voice--"we shall both be
grown-up now."

And then, all in a moment, as if some panic urged her, she started up,
drawing his hands close. "But we'll be friends still, won't we, Bertie?
You won't talk of going away any more, will you? Promise me! Promise me,
Bertie!"

He hesitated. "It might be better that I should go," he said slowly. "It
is possible that--"

She interrupted him almost hysterically. "Oh no, no, no! I want you here.
I want you, Bertie, Don't you understand?"

"But yes," he said. "Only, _petite_--"

"You will promise, then?" she broke in,