thither among the acacias;
gem-like bee-eaters flashed among the reeds; gaudy parrots, clad in blue
and green and yellow, darted with shrill whistle overhead; and
pearl-drab plantain-eaters uttered their loud, human-like cries at the
advent of the solitary figure. Francolins down for their evening drink
were calling to one another in scores, and doves cooed softly among the
branches. It was a beautiful picture; but Hendrika cared little for the
aesthetic aspect, the glamour of the hour, the glowing mantle of sunset.
Her heart warmed, it is true, at the sight of the noble river, flowing
with strength and volume even at this season of winter, and amid a
parched country. But hers was the true, practical Dutch mind: she
appreciated the scene only for the assurance it gave her of illimitable
watering power for flocks and herds. Two hundred yards beyond, a troop
of oxen came down to drink. A Dutchman was with them, and Hendrika bent
her steps that way to learn whose the cattle were. The man's back was
turned, and it was not till she was within thirty yards that he heard
her approach and faced her. There was a start of recognition and
hesitation on either side, and then the man, a tall, good-looking Boer,
furnished with a big straw-coloured beard and moustache, and dressed
with rather more care than the average Transvaal farmer, came forward,
and the pair shook hands in the impassive Dutch fashion. The Boer first
spoke.

"And so, Vrouw Van Staden, you have come to join the trek. I scarcely
looked to see you and your husband here. I had thought you were well
settled on your farm in Zoutpansberg."

"No; we are tired of that country. Our farm was good enough, and the
winter veldt in the low country near at hand; but there is too much
fever, and the Kaffirs are very troublesome; and as the President for
years has been fighting Sekukuni, we have no strength ourselves for
commandos in our own country. Cattle-stealing is worse than it has been
for years. And so we thought we would join the trek and try a new
country, where the game is more plentiful, and one is not to be pinched
up on a farm of three thousand morgen." [A _morgen_ is rather more than
two acres. The usual Boer farm averages three thousand _morgen_, more
than six thousand acres.]

The woman spoke stiffly, and her face had assumed a touch of pride as
she answered. But she went on: "I think it is rather I who should ask
why Schalk Oosthuysen, with all h