ence of the fare was outbalanced by the long prayers and
hymns with which the meal was prefaced and ended. Even at lunch-time,
there was a Bible at the host's elbow, from which he read a number of
texts before pronouncing a long grace, while the visitors listened with
expressions that varied from embarrassment to impatience. Richard
Saltire always looked frankly bored, but sometimes he and Mrs. van
Cannan exchanged a smile of sympathy at having to listen to the
maledictions of Job while the roast was getting cold. Hymns for lunch
were mercifully omitted. Bernard van Cannan, though plainly a
religious fanatic, was also the owner of one of the wealthiest farms in
the colony, and no doubt he realized that the working-hours of his
employees might be more profitably engaged than by chanting hymns.

Saxby, the overseer, a dark, burly man of unusual height, was marked by
the thick lips and general fulness of countenance that suggests to
those who have lived long enough in Africa "a touch of colour." He had
the soft voice, too, and full, deep laugh of those who have a dash of
native blood in their veins. His manner was melancholy, though
charming, and he imposed his society upon no man, but attended strictly
to his business. He was the best manager the farm had ever known.
After being there for less than a year, he had so improved the stock
and the land that Bernard van Cannan looked upon him as a little god,
and his word was law on the farm. His private history, a rather sad
one, Christine had already heard from Mrs. van Cannan. It appeared
that his wife had been terribly disfigured in a fire and was not only a
semi-invalid but a victim of melancholia. She lived with him in an
isolated bungalow some way off, and he did everything for her with his
own hands as she shrank from being seen by any one, and particularly
detested natives. While her husband was away at his duties, she
remained locked in the bungalow, inaccessible to any one save Mrs. van
Cannan, who sometimes went to sit with her.

"But I can't bear to go often," Isabel van Cannan told Miss Chaine.
"She depresses me so terribly, and what good can I do her, poor soul?"

Unnecessary for her to add that she hated being depressed. It was bad
for the complexion, she laughed. Laughter was never far from her lips.
But, at the moment, there really seemed some trace of the morning's
pain on her as she looked at her husband.

"Bernard's shoulder is giving him so