had rebuilt the church for the second
time, and numbered all the "Menzi-herd" among his congregation, which he
did now that "the bull of the herd" was dead, as Menzi had foretold that
he would, if Tabitha, whom he had "wrapped with his blanket," decreed
it, Thomas took the sage advice of his departed enemy.

Now, in the after years, he is the must respected if somewhat feared
bishop of white settlers in a remote Dominion of the Crown.

Thomas to-day knows more than he used to know, but one thing he has
never learned, namely that it was the hand of a maid, yes, the little
hidden hand of Tabitha, that drove all "Menzi's herd" into the gates of
the "Heavenly Kraal," as some of them named his church.

For Tabitha knew when to be silent. Perhaps the Kaffirs, whose minds she
could read as an open book, taught her this; or perhaps it was one of
the best gifts to her of old Menzi's "Spirit," into whose care he passed
her with so much formality.

This is the story of the great fight between Thomas Bull the missionary
and Menzi the witch-doctor, who was led by his love of a little child
whither he never wished to go; not for his own soul's sake, but just
because of that little child.

Menzi did not care about his soul, but, being so strange a man, for some
reason that he never explained, for Tabitha, his "Little Flower," he
cared very much indeed. That was why he became a Christian at the last,
since in his darkened, spell-bound heart he believed that if he did not,
when she too "went down" he would never find her again.

ONLY A DREAM

Footprints--footprints--the footprints of one dead. How ghastly they
look as they fall before me! Up and down the long hall they go, and I
follow them. _Pit, pat_ they fall, those unearthly steps, and beneath
them starts up that awful impress. I can see it grow upon the marble, a
damp and dreadful thing.

Tread them down; tread them out; follow after them with muddy shoes,
and cover them up. In vain. See how they rise through the mire! Who can
tread out the footprints of the dead?

And so on, up and down the dim vista of the past, following the sound of
the dead feet that wander so restlessly, stamping upon the impress that
will not be stamped out. Rave on, wild wind, eternal voice of human
misery; fall, dead footsteps, eternal echo of human memory; stamp, miry
feet; stamp into forgetfulness that which will not be forgotten.

And so on, on to the end.

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