ht of him and
the withered poppies in the place where never a flower of memory
blossomed, hot tears surged to the girl's eyes. It was wistful to
think of a child remembering when all others forgot.

"No one ever comes here but me," he said, at last.

Christine got rid of her tears by turning her back on him and pressing
them away with her fingers, for she knew that emotion embarrasses and
pains children, and she wanted to help this small, brave man, not hurt
him.

"You and I will come here often, Roddy. We will turn it into a garden,
and make it blossom like the rose--shall we?"

"Yes, yes!" he cried eagerly. "'Blossom like the rose'--that comes out
of the Bible! I have heard daddy read it. But we must not talk about
it to mamma. It makes her too sad to come here, or even talk about it.
Mamma doesn't like sad things."

Suddenly, the strange quietude of the place was invaded by the sound of
voices. They were far-off voices, but both the girl and the child
started as though caught in some forbidden act, and instinctively took
hands. A moment later they were hurrying away from the lonely spot,
back by the way they had come. Half-way home they came upon Richard
Saltire and the squad of Kafirs who carried his implements and liquids.
Theirs were the voices that had been heard. Work had begun on the
territory so thickly sewn with prickly-pears that lay between farm and
cemetery.

Saltire, with sleeves rolled up, was operating with a syringe upon the
trunk of a giant bush, but he turned round to throw a smile to Roddy.

"Hello, Rod!"

"Hello, Dick!" was the blithe response. "Gr-r-r! You giving it to
that old bush?"

"Rather! He's getting it where the chicken got the ax. Like to have a
go at him?"

"Oh--oh--yes!"

Roddy delightedly grasped the syringe, and was instructed how to fill
and plunge it into the green, dropsical flesh of the plant. The Kafirs
stood looking on with grave, imperturbable faces. Christine sat down
on a rock and, from the rosy shadow of her parasol, observed the pair.
She was astonished at this revelation of intimacy. Saltire's satirical
blue eyes were full of warm affection as he looked at the boy, and
Roddy's manner toward him contained a loving familiarity and trust she
had never seen him exhibit to any one. It was interesting, too, to
watch the man's fine, capable hands manipulating his instruments and
his quick eye searching each bush to select a vulnerable spot for the