“Where do you go after Carcassonne?” she asked, politely, then saw, with astonishment that Serena was crying! “Oh, don’t do that!” cried Cynthia distressed. “Look here, you aren’t happy. Can’t you tell me about it?” “Oh I hate France, I hate Europe, I hate this town worst of all!” and Serena suddenly flopped down beside Cynthia and dropped her head on a much surprised Yankee shoulder. “I want to go ho ... ome! I want ... to ... go ... ho ... ome!” “Is it just homesickness?” asked Cynthia gently. She certainly knew a lot about that feeling since she came abroad, but Serena shook her head, then started to wipe her eyes. “No ...” forlornly. “It’s ... it’s Jack.” “Jack? Oh ... ah ... yes,” murmured Cynthia vaguely. “Come, sit up and tell me all about it,” and she patted the other’s back, reassuringly. She had heard that it was sometimes easier to tell your troubles to a stranger. Serena may have heard that too, for she said: “It’s Aunt Anna, really. She’s mother’s oldest sister. Oh I know she doesn’t look it, but she’s always had money and can afford to do things to keep young and buy clothes to make herself pretty and I guess that’s about all she cares about anyway. I guess long ago she was in love with Jack’s father, too, though that’s only a sort of guess.” “Jack?” “Jack Hemstead. He’s a boy from home,” as though that were sufficient explanation. “And when Jack ... Jack said he ca ... cared for me ...” she swallowed, waited a minute and went on, “Aunt Anna made fun of him, and said it was all foolishness at our age, though I’m eighteen ... and Jack’s nearly twenty one, and finally she said she’d take me abroad for the summer and then maybe I’d see Jack wasn’t so marvelous. But he is, oh he’s the most marvelous person.” She’d start to cry again if Cynthia wasn’t careful. “But haven’t you written him?” she asked. Serena nodded vigorously. “Yes, but we had a quarrel just before I left. He said if I really cared I’d marry him then, even if we weren’t of age. But I guess maybe I wanted the trip and I thought I could have Jack too, and I haven’t heard a word, not one single word since I left home. I’ve written and written begging him to write me and I’m so ashamed!” “Something’s wrong somewhere,” thought Cynthia, wondering what on earth she could do about it. “Tell me more about him? And how long have you been over?” “Only four weeks and Auntie’s really been awfully kind, in her own way. She’s bought me things and things, and we shopped for clothes till I never want to see another Paris label again. I hated Paris. Then Aunt decided to come to Carcassonne. We are sailing from the south of France. She said she’d once read a poem about it. But you’re the first young person I’ve talked to since we left home. On the boat she was awfully sick and wanted to be read to all the time, so I just stayed in the cabin with her, I was so grateful for the trip. But I didn’t know Jack wasn’t going to forgive me,” she wailed.