dure a little discomfort; better exercise
a further stretch of self-control. And then as he thought how sudden
had been the change from the former happy circumstances of life, to this
wherein his hand was against every man and every man's hand against him,
and life was passed in a state of on the defensive, a cold, grey
presentiment shot across his heart. What if it were but the precursor
of another change? Nothing lasts; least of all, love.

Thus musing, and not looking where he was going, he ran right into
somebody. A hearty laugh drowned his apologies. Looking up he found he
had collided with Father O'Driscoll.

"You're the very man I wanted to meet," said the old priest, the first
greetings over. "See now, Mr Musgrave. D'ye mind stepping round to my
place for a moment. I'm in want of a stable-boy, and a fellow has just
come to be taken on, but he seems rather lame in one leg. He says you
know him, and will recommend him."

"I?" echoed Roden in some astonishment. "Does he know me?"

"He does. And--well, here we are."

A sturdy, thick-set Kaffir was squatting against the gate-post of the
priest's house. He rose rather stiffly as they entered, uttering a
half-shy and wholly humorous greeting as his eyes met Roden's, his dark
face and shining white teeth all ablaze with mirth, which indeed the
other fully shared, remembering how and where they had seen each other
last. For in the aspirant for stable duty in the ecclesiastical
establishment, he recognised no less a personage than Tom, _alias_
Geunkwe.

"Hallo, Tom! Where have you dropped from? Damaged leg, eh?"

"Been away to see my father, _Baas_," answered the Kaffir, grinning all
over his face. "An ox kicked me on the leg, but it will soon be well."

"An ox kicked you, did it?" said Roden, with a half laugh; for he
shrewdly suspected the hoof of that ox to have been of very small size,
and made of lead. And the Kaffir laughed again, for he knew that Roden
was not deceived.

"You know him? Is he honest now?" said Father O'Driscoll.

"Thoroughly, I believe. What's more, he's a man of his word. I am
telling Father O'Driscoll you are a man of your word, Tom," said Roden,
translating into Dutch, and speaking with a meaning not lost upon the
Kaffir.

"I am your child, chief," replied the native. "_Au_, I would like to
serve the old _Baas_. He looks kind."

"Well, Tom, I'll take you on so," said the priest. "Go round now, and
see after t