tained for any
time, I shall be glad to hear from you."

A vision of the gloomy-eyed man, twitching with pain and nerves, rose
up before her eyes as she folded the letter, and she resolved to write
to him at once, allaying his fears as much as possible by an assurance
of her devotion. She was sitting in the summer-house at the time, the
children beside her, bent over their morning lessons. Through the
creeper-framed doorway, she could see the walls and veranda of the old
farm, glaring white in the fierce sunlight, but with every line
expressing such harmony as only the old Dutch architects seem to have
had the secret of putting into the building of South African
homesteads. Before the front door stood three gnarled oaks, which yet
bore the marks of chains used by the early van Cannans to fasten up the
cattle at night, for fear of the hostile Kafirs who at set of sun came
creeping over the kopjes. Scores of fierce, man-eating dogs were kept
to deal with the marauders, and there were still loopholes in the white
walls from which those within had watched and defended.

But those days were long past. Nothing now in the gracious building,
with its shady stoeps and high, red roof, toned melodiously by age, to
betoken battle, murder, and sudden death. It seemed strange that
sinister forebodings should attach themselves in any mind to such
harmony of form and colour. Yet Christine held in her hand the very
proof of such thoughts, and, what was more, knew herself to be obsessed
by them when darkness took the land. For a moment even now, looking
out at the brilliant sunshine, she was conscious of a falter in her
soul, a moment of horrible loneliness, a groping-out for some human
being stronger than herself of whom to take counsel. A thought of
Saltire flashed across her. He looked strong and sane, kind and
chivalrous. But could he be trusted? Had she not already learned in
the bitter school of life that "Ye have no friend but resolution!"

A shadow fell across the doorway. It was Saxby, the manager. He gave
her his pleasant, melancholy smile.

"I wonder if Mrs. van Cannan is up yet," he said, in his full, rich
voice. "There are one or two farm matters I want to consult her about."

Christine looked at the watch on her wrist and saw that it was past
eleven.

"Oh, I should think so, Mr. Saxby. The closing of all the shutters is
usually a sign that she is up and about."

It is, in fact, a practice in all Ka