when his thoughts reverted to the young man
he had seen working with his sleeves rolled up he decided it would be
safer to let Miss Proctor tell of the broken engagement in her own way.

Charles would not consent to drive his fair guest back to New York
until she had first honored him with her presence at luncheon. It was
served for two, on his veranda, under the climbing honeysuckles.
During the luncheon he told her all.

Miss Proctor, in the light of his five years of devotion, magnanimously
forgave him.

"Such a pretty house!" she exclaimed as they drove away from it. "When
Griswold selected it for our honeymoon he showed his first appreciation
of what I really like."

"It is still at your service!" said Charles.

Miss Proctor's eyes smiled with a strange light, but she did not speak.
It was a happy ride; but when Charles left her at the door of her
apartment-house he regarded sadly and with regret the bundle of
retrieved photographs that she carried away.

"What is it?" she asked kindly.

"I'm thinking of going back to those empty frames," said Charles, and
blushed deeply. Miss Proctor blushed also. With delighted and guilty
eyes she hastily scanned the photographs. Snatching one from the
collection, she gave it to him and then ran up the steps.

In the light of the spring sunset the eyes of Charles devoured the
photograph of which, at last, he was the rightful owner. On it was
written: "As long as this rock lasts!"

As Charles walked to his car his expression was distinctly thoughtful.

THE MEN OF ZANZIBAR

When his hunting trip in Uganda was over, Hemingway shipped his
specimens and weapons direct from Mombasa to New York, but he himself
journeyed south over the few miles that stretched to Zanzibar.

On the outward trip the steamer had touched there, and the little he
saw of the place had so charmed him that all the time he was on safari
he promised himself he would not return home without revisiting it. On
the morning he arrived he had called upon Harris, his consul, to
inquire about the hotel; and that evening Harris had returned his call
and introduced him at the club.

One of the men there asked Hemingway what brought him to Africa, and
when he answered simply and truthfully that he had come to shoot big
game, it was as though he had said something clever, and every one
smiled. On the way back to the hotel, as they felt their way through
the narrow slits in the wall that served