"But marriage would mean more than this, and our long friendship emboldens me to say that I should grieve to see you--owing perhaps to pressure or advice from others--burden your life with family ties for which you surely do not yourself feel any special inclination. "And, now, my friend, I must not close my letter without telling you how great a happiness has come into my lonely life. I am about to marry a man whom--" Miss Charteris paused, and looked through the open window to the softly moving leaves of the old mulberry-tree. A gleam of amusement shone in her eyes, curving her lips into a tender smile. The Boy seemed beside her, slapping his knee and rocking with merriment at the way she was about to bewilder Miss Ann and the Professor--"a man whom I have known and loved for over twenty years. "I am sure you will wish me joy, dear Professor. "Believe me, always, "Gratefully and affectionately yours, "CHRISTOBEL CHARTERIS." She rang the bell, and sent the answer to the Professor's letter, by Jenkins. She could not wait for the slow medium of the post. She could not let him remain another hour in the belief that, in order to save her from disappointment, he was compelled to marry Christobel Charteris. She stood at the breakfast-room window, and watched Jenkins as he hurried 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.