would implore you to return at once. And now that you are
here--" she laid her little hand confidingly in mine--"see how foolish I
am!--I cannot dismiss you."

"Which means to say, Hilda, that, after all, you are still a woman!"

"A woman; oh, yes; very much a woman! Hubert, I love you; I half wish I
did not."

"Why, darling?" I drew her to me.

"Because--if I did not, I could send you away--so easily! As it is--I
cannot let you stop--and... I cannot dismiss you."

"Then divide it," I cried gaily; "do neither; come away with me!"

"No, no; nor that, either. I will not stultify my whole past life. I
will not dishonour my dear father's memory."

I looked around for something to which to tether my horse. A bridle
is in one's way--when one has to discuss important business. There was
really nothing about that seemed fit for the purpose. Hilda saw what
I sought, and pointed mutely to a stunted bush beside a big granite
boulder which rose abruptly from the dead level of the grass, affording
a little shade from that sweltering sunlight. I tied my mare to the
gnarled root--it was the only part big enough--and sat down by Hilda's
side, under the shadow of a great rock in a thirsty land. I realised at
that moment the force and appropriateness of the Psalmist's simile. The
sun beat fiercely on the seeding grasses. Away on the southern horizon
we could faintly perceive the floating yellow haze of the prairie fires
lit by the Mashonas.

"Then you knew I would come?" I began, as she seated herself on the
burnt-up herbage, while my hand stole into hers, to nestle there
naturally.

She pressed it in return. "Oh, yes; I knew you would come," she
answered, with that strange ring of confidence in her voice. "Of course
you got my letter at Cape Town?"

"I did, Hilda--and I wondered at you more than ever as I read it. But if
you KNEW I would come, why write to prevent me?"

Her eyes had their mysterious far-away air. She looked out upon
infinity. "Well, I wanted to do my best to turn you aside," she said,
slowly. "One must always do one's best, even when one feels and believes
it is useless. That surely is the first clause in a doctor's or a
nurse's rubric."

"But WHY didn't you want me to come?" I persisted. "Why fight against
your own heart? Hilda, I am sure--I KNOW you love me."

Her bosom rose and fell. Her eyes dilated. "Love you?" she cried,
looking away over the bushy ridges, as if afraid to trust herself. "Oh,
yes,