"Home," said she. "Don't you remember I am to go Sunday morning?"

"I thought you were going to stay a month."

"I was, but I--certain things came up that made it necessary for me
to leave sooner."

"I--I'm sorry you're going," stammered Orde.

"So am I," said she. "I've had a very nice time here."

"Then I won't see you again," said Orde, still groping for
realisation. "I must go to Monrovia to-morrow. But I'll be down to
see you off."

"Do come," said she.

"It's not to be for good?" he expostulated. "You'll be coming
back."

She threw her hands palm out, with a pretty gesture of ignorance.

"That is in the lap of the gods," said she.

"Will you write me occasionally?" he begged.

"As to that--" she began--"I'm a very poor correspondent."

"But won't you write?" he insisted.