rried down the garden with the note. Going by the lane, and taking a
short cut across the fields, he would reach the Professor's rooms in a
quarter of an hour. Until then, life was somewhat intolerable.

The proud blood mantled again over the face, the strong sweet beauty of
which the Boy so loved. Her letter to the Professor had not been easy
to write. She had had to be true to herself, and true to him, in the
light of what she knew to be his real feeling in the matter; bearing in
mind that before long he would almost certainly learn from Miss Ann
that she had replied to his proposal after having read his sentiments
on the subject, so candidly expressed on the first page of his letter
to his sister.

To relieve her mind, after this intricate whirl of
cross-correspondence, she took up the _Daily Graphic_, and opened it,
casually turning the pages.

Suddenly there looked out at her from the central page, the merry,
handsome, daring face of her own Little Boy Blue. He was seated in his
flying-machine steering-wheel in hand, looking out from among many
wires. His cap was on the back of his head, his bright eyes looked
straight into hers; his firm young lips, parted in a smile, seemed to
say; "I jolly well mean to do it!" It was the very picture she had
seen in the Professor's _Daily Mirror_, in her dream of the night
before. Below was an account of the flight from Folkestone which he
was about to attempt.

Then she remembered, with a shock of realization, that the flight
across the Channel, round Boulogne Cathedral and back, was to take
place on that very day. His telegram, of the night before, had said:
"I am going to do a big fly to-morrow. Wish me luck." Ah, what if it
ended as she had seen it end in her dream: great broken wings; a mass
of tangled wire; and the Boy--_her_ Boy--with matted hair, and wounded
head, asleep beneath the sailcloth!

Her heart stood still.

With their perfect joy so near its fulfilment, she could not let him
take the risk. Was there time to stop him?

She looked at the paper. The start was for 2 p.m. It was now eleven
o'clock.

She remembered his last words: "When you want me and send--why, I will
come from the other end of the world."

She never quite knew how she reached the telegraph-office. It seemed
almost as dreamlike as her flight from the top to the bottom of the
Folkestone cliffs. But it was not a dream this time; it was desperate
reality.

Why do people