up all her time, and she never felt lonely. She could
shoot, too, and sometimes, when out with her father, would turn over a
big bushbuck ram streaking across a small open space, as neatly as he
could himself. This was only when they were alone together. If there
was a regular hunt she never took part in it.

Her ambition Was to become an art student, at one of the great centres.
She firmly believed in her own capabilities in that line. Her father
had taken her to Europe on purpose to show her all that was best of the
kind, and she had come back more dissatisfied than ever. She wanted to
join the regular ranks--to start at the bottom of the ladder. But
Michael Thornhill had a will of his own.

"Patience, dear," he would say. "You have plenty of time before you,
and I don't see the fun of raising children to have them desert me just
when I want them most."

Edala had not taken the remark in good part. She had flashed forth that
it was no good having anything in one, if one was to be stuck away on a
Natal farm all one's life with no opportunity of bringing it out. Her
father shook his head sadly.

"There may come a day when you will be glad to find yourself back on
that same Natal farm," he said. Then he went out.

Of this he was thinking as he sat in his library a few mornings after
Elvesdon's timely appearance. Why now should he not let her have her
way? Why should he not send her to Europe as she wished? He himself
could sell or let the farm, and trek far up country on a protracted
hunting expedition; for the idea of life here without Edala was not to
be thought of for a moment.

There was more than a sense of thwarted ambition which came between
himself and the child he idolised. The dark cloud that separated them
took the form of a dead hand. Black and bitter suspicion corroded the
girl's mind, and when the consciousness of it was more especially
brought home to Thornhill from time to time, the whirlwind of vengeful
hate that stormed through his heart was simply inconceivable. But not
towards her. It was retrospective.

Just such a paroxysm was on him now. He could not read. He gazed
listlessly around at his well filled book-shelves--with their
miscellaneous stock of literature--in which he took such pleasure and
pride, but made no move towards disturbing their contents. A
restlessness came upon him. He could not remain still. Jumping up, he
put his head through the window and shouted o