"I will provide you with a paper," said the Professor, and hailed a passing boy. He laid the paper on her lap, and disappeared. The train started. Christobel looked out of the window as they slowly steamed across the bridge over the Thames. She loved the flow of the river, with its constant procession of barges, dredges, boats, and steamers; a silent, moving highway, right through the heart of the noisy whirl of London street-traffic. They ran past old St. Saviour's Church, now promoted to be Southwark Cathedral; out through the suburbs, until streets became villas, woods and meadows appeared, and the train ran through Chislehurst--peaceful English resting-place where lie entombed the bright Imperial hopes of France--then on through Sevenoaks, into the bowery green of the Kentish hop-gardens. After passing Sevenoaks, she took up the Professor's paper and glanced at it. Somehow she had felt sure it would be the _Daily Graphic_. It was the _Daily Mirror_! She had never held a halfpenny illustrated paper in her hands before. No doubt it was an excellent paper, and met the need of an immense number of people, to whom an additional halfpenny a day would be a consideration. But, that the Professor, when providing her with one paper, should have chosen a halfpenny instead of a penny paper, seemed to hold a curious significance, and called up sudden swift memories of the Boy. He would have bought _Punch_, the _Graphic_, the _Illustrated_, the _Spectator_, and a _Morning Post_, plumped them all down on the seat in front of her; then sat beside her, and talked, the whole journey through, so that she would not have had a moment in which to open one of them. (Oh, Boy dear! Don't look at this _Daily Mirror_. You might misjudge the good Professor. With your fifty thousand a year, how can you be expected to understand a mind which _must_ consider ha'pence, even when brides and wedding journeys are concerned. _Do_ keep away, Boy dear. This is not your wedding journey.) Then she opened the _Daily Mirror_, and there looked out at her, from its 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 lips, parted in a smile, seemed to be saying: "I jolly well mean to do it." Beneath was an account of him, and a description of the flight he was to attempt on that day, across the Channel, circling round Boulogne Cathedral, and back. He was to start at two o'clock. At that very moment he must be in mid-air. Oh, Little Boy Blue! Little Boy Blue! You have a way of making hearts stand still. * * * * * The boarding-house proved to be a place decidedly conducive to the taking of a fresh-air cure; because nobody remained within its four walls, if the weather could possibly admit of their going out.