r waiting army of Israel! Here
was Jericho hastening to meet it. Why had she allowed Ann Harvey to
keep her so late? Why had she gone at all, during the Boy's own time?
She might have known he would come.... Should she walk past the
mulberry, as if making for the house, just for the joy of hearing him
call "Christo_bel_"? No, that would not be quite honest, knowing he
was there; and they were always absolutely honest with one another.

She passed, breathlessly, under the drooping branches. Her cheeks
glowed; her lips were parted. Her eyes shone with love and expectation.

She lifted a hanging bough, and passed beneath.

His chair was there, and hers; but they were empty. The Boy--being the
Boy--had not come back.

* * * * *

Presently she went slowly up to the house.

A telegram lay on the hall table. She knew at once from whom it came.
There was but one person who carried on a correspondence by telegraph.
_Reply paid_ was written on the envelope.

She stood quite still for a moment. Then she opened it slowly.
Telegrams from the Boy gave her a delicious memory of the way he used
to jump about. He would be out of his chair, and sitting at her feet,
before she knew he was going to move.

She opened it slowly, turned to a window, and read it.

"_How are you, dear? Please tell me. I am going to do my big fly
to-morrow. I jolly well mean to break the record. Wish me luck._"

She took up the reply-paid form and wrote:

"_Quite well. Good luck; but please be careful, Little Boy Blue._"

She hesitated a moment, before writing the playful name by which she so
often called him. But his telegram was so absolutely the Boy, all
over. It was best he should know nothing of "the man she loved," who
had gone out at the gate. It was best he should not know what she
would have called him, had he been under the mulberry just now. She
was--undoubtedly--going to marry the Professor. In which case she
would never call the Boy anything but "Little Boy Blue." So she put it
into her telegram, as a repartee to his audacious "dear." Then she
went out, and sent it off herself. It was comforting to have
something, however small, to do for him.

She came in again; dressed for the evening, and dined. She was
thoroughly tired; and one sentence beat itself incessantly against the
mirror of her reflection, like a frightened bird with a broken wing:
"_He is going to do a big fly to-