d seen nothing save that
first glance when the sun had touched her face with fire. A strong man
at all times, and more than commonly self-masterful, he felt himself
now as helpless as a child. A sudden pallor had whitened his face to
the lips, there were strange singings in his ears, and a mist before his
eyes. It was she! There was no possibility of any mistake. It was the
girl for whose picture he had gambled in the hut at Bekwando--Monty's
baby-girl, of whom he had babbled even in death. He leaned against a
tree, stricken dumb, and she was frightened. "You are ill," she cried.
"I'm so sorry. Let me run to the house and fetch some one!"

He had strength enough to stop her. A few deep breaths and he was
himself again, shaken and with a heart beating like a steam-engine, but
able at least to talk intelligently.

"I'm sorry--didn't mean to frighten you," he said. "It's the heat. I
get an attack like this sometimes. Yes, I'm Mr. Trent. I don't know what
you're doing here, but you're welcome."

"How nice of you to say so!" she answered brightly. "But then perhaps
you'll change your mind when you know what I have been doing."

He laughed shortly.

"Nothing terrible, I should say. Looks as though you've been making a
picture of my house; I don't mind that."

She dived in her pocket and produced a card-case.

"I'll make full confession," she said frankly. "I'm a journalist."

"A what!" he repeated feebly.

"A journalist. I'm on the Hour. This isn't my work as a rule; but the
man who should have come is ill, and his junior can't sketch, so they
sent me! Don't look as though I were a ghost, please. Haven't you ever
heard of a girl journalist before?"

"Never," he answered emphatically. "I didn't know that ladies did such
things!"

She laughed gaily but softly; and Trent understood then what was meant
by the music of a woman's voice.

"Oh, it's not at all an uncommon thing," she answered him. "You won't
mind my interviewing you, will you?"

"Doing what?" he asked blankly.

"Interviewing you! That's what I've come for, you know; and we want a
little sketch of your house for the paper. I know you don't like it. I
hear you've been awfully rude to poor little Morrison of the Post; but
I'll be very careful what I say, and very quick."

He stood looking at her, a dazed and bewildered man. From the trim
little hat, with its white band and jaunty bunch of cornflowers, to
the well-shaped patent shoes, she was neatly an