the minutes for the last week--in my
head, I mean." She smiled, a rather wan little smile. Her companion
slipped his arm inside hers, and together they walked towards the train.

"Come and look at my cabin, Betty, and--let's see everything's there."

He helped her into the corridor, and, following, encountered the
uniformed attendant. The man held a notebook in his hand.

"Are you Mr. Standish, sir?" he inquired, consulting his notebook.

"That's my name as a rule," was the reply. "At the moment though, it's
Mud--spelt M-U-D. Which is my abode?"

"This way, sir." The attendant led the way along the corridor and pushed
open the door of the narrow sleeping compartment. "Here you are, sir."
He eyed the officer's companion with a professionally reassuring air, as
much as to say, "He'll be all right in there, don't you worry." It
certainly looked very snug and comfortable with the shaded light above
the neat bunk and dark upholstery.

"Ah," said the traveller, "we just wanted to--er--see everything was all
right."

"Quite so, sir. Plenty of time--lady not travelling, I presume? I'll
come along when we're due to start and let you know." He closed the door
with unobtrusive tact.

The lady in question surveyed the apartment with the tender scrutiny of a
mother about to relinquish her offspring to the rough usage of an
unfamiliar world.

"Bunje, darling," she said, and bent and brushed the pillow with her
lips. "That's so that you'll sleep tight and not let the bogies bite."
She smiled into her husband's eyes rather tremulously. "And take care of
yourself as hard as ever you can. Remember your leg and your poor old
head." His cap lay on the bunk, and she raised a slender forefinger to
trace the outline of the shiny scar above his temple. "I've mended you
so nicely."

"I'll take care of myself all right, and you won't cry, will you, Betty,
when I've gone? Promise--say: 'Sure-as-I'm-standing-here-I-won't-cry,'
or I'll call the guard!"

"I--I can't promise not to cry a tiny bit," faltered Betty, "but I
promise to try not to cry much. And you will write and let me know when
I can come North and be near you, won't you?" A sudden thought struck
her. "Bunje, will they censor your letters? How awful! And mine too?
Because I don't think I could bear it if anybody but you read my letters."

"No, they won't read 'em," reassured her husband. "At least, not yours.
And if mine have to be read, the fellow