rary to anywhere else.

Only second to the library in the affection of its young mistress was
her bed chamber with which it was connected by a small boudoir.
Furnished in Louis XVI. style, it was a beautiful room, decorated in
the most dainty and delicate of tones. The bed, copied after Marie
Antoinette's couch in the Little Trianon was in sculptured Circassian
walnut, upholstered in dull pink brocade, the broad canopy overhead
being upheld by two flying cupids. The handsome dressing table with
three mirrors and chairs were of the same wood and period. On the
floor was a thick carpet especially woven to match the other
furnishings.

To-day, littered as it was with trunks and clothes, the room lacked its
usual sedateness and dignity, but Helen did not mind. She would have
preferred it to look far worse if only her loved one were not going
away. His clothes lay scattered all over the floor. There was still
much to be done.

Kenneth himself realized it as he ruefully surveyed the scene. Hurry
he must. A director's meeting to-night, the steamer sailing to-morrow
and here he was not nearly ready. Helen could see no reason why
Francois should not do the packing, but he insisted on doing it
himself, and was soon deep in the work of filling the trunks that stood
around.

While he worked, almost unconscious of her presence, she sat
disconsolately on a trunk and watched him, and from time to time, as if
ashamed to let him see her weakness, she turned her head aside to
furtively wipe away a tear. No doubt her misgivings were foolish.
Husbands left their wives on business trips every day. Sensible women
were not so silly as to cry over it. It was to be only temporary, she
knew that, yet her heart misgave her. She had tried to be resigned to
this South African journey, to accept it without protest, but her
feelings were too much for her. When she married Kenneth Traynor, the
energetic, prosperous Wall Street promoter, everybody knew that it was
a love match. Standing six feet two in his stockings, muscular,
sinewy, without an ounce of superfluous fat, Kenneth Traynor looked as
though he could give a good account of himself no matter in what tight
place he found himself. His clean cut features and strong chin denoted
strength of character, his deep set blue eyes, a blue of a shade so
light rarely seen except in the peasants of Normandy, beamed with
frankness and honesty, a kindly smile hovered about his smooth, f