o the really important things to be done there
while I was in New York City. Most of the furniture is there now. Ever
so many of the smaller things yet to be done, I can do or have done. My
trousseau is attended to, so I'll have time to make daily pilgrimages to
our forest retreat."

"I've thought of all that, too. I knew you'd wish to finish the work at
Haven Home. The touring car or my roadster are always at your service to
take you there. You know you love to drive the roadster. It's already as
much yours as mine. You can always take one of your girl friends with
you. It's bully in you to be so brave about it. It helps me more than I
can say." Tom caught Grace's hands in a loving, steadfast clasp.

For an hour or more they sat side by side on the davenport, each
sturdily trying to conceal the blow which the unlooked-for swing in Mrs.
Gray's business affairs had dealt them. Tom's chief cause for sorrow was
in the fact that he must leave the girl he adored, even for so brief an
interval of time. Grace's sadness, which she sternly concealed from him,
lay far deeper. Though Tom was scarcely concerned for his own welfare,
she was filled with a thousand vague alarms as to the disasters which
might perhaps overtake him. Not so long since, in speaking of the vast
lumber region in a northern state where his aunt possessed important
holdings, he had told her of the troubles that frequently ensued by
reason of lawless timber thieves. Then, too, the camp for which he was
bound was large and comprised a rough element of men. From Tom himself
she had learned that the Scotch superintendent, Alec Mackenzie, was
obliged to rule them with an iron hand. During his enforced absence from
them, discipline was sure to grow lax. She wondered whether even
resolute Tom Gray could ably contend with the difficult situation.

Yet she kept all this to herself. It was her place to encourage, not
discourage. If unbounded faith in Tom could help work the wonder of
carrying him safely through his mission and home again to her, then she
would bestow that faith ungrudgingly. Hers was too fine and steadfast a
nature to quail at the first obstacle that rose to impede her highway of
happiness. "Loyalheart" she had been christened and "Loyalheart" she
would remain to the end of her days.

"When must you go, Tom?" she questioned at last. Both had thus far been
sedulously side-stepping direct reference to their moment of parting.

"I ought to go this aft