away were finally and completely left behind, did a sudden stab of
realization pierce Chris, while the quick words that her playmate of the
beach had uttered only that morning flashed torch-like through her brain.

Then and only then did she remember him, her _preux chevalier_, her
faithful friend and comrade, whose name she had never heard, whom she had
left without word or thought of farewell.

So crushing was her sense of loss, that for a few seconds she lost touch
with her surroundings, and sat dazed, white-faced, stricken, not so much
as asking herself what could be done. Then one of the boys shouted to her
to come and look at something they were passing, and with an effort she
jerked herself back to normal things.

Having recovered her balance, she managed to maintain a certain show of
indifference during the hours that followed, but she looked back upon
that journey to Paris later as one looks back upon a nightmare. It was
her first acquaintance with suffering in any form.

Jack Forest, big, square, and reliable, was waiting for them at the
terminus.

The two boys greeted him with much enthusiasm, but Chris suffered her own
greeting to be of a less boisterous character. Dear as the sight of him
was to her, it could not ease this new pain at her heart, and somehow she
found it impossible to muster even a show of gaiety any longer.

"Tired?" queried Jack, with her hand in his.

And she answered, "Yes, dreadfully," with a feeling that if he asked