e went striding away to the farther side of the camp where a
hollow between the hills had been converted into a monstrous kraal.
Involuntarily he smiled, as he walked off to his duty. Carew had
been an edifying spectacle, as he had sacrificed himself upon the
altar of cleanliness. He had been neither deft, dignified nor
devout; and, in all truth, Alice Mellen would have found it hard to
recognize her finical patient in the dusty, unshaven man whose hair
bore unmistakable signs of having been pruned with a pair of pocket
scissors. Little of Carew's past month had been spent in the base
camp at Springfontein. With hundreds of other men, he had gone
galloping up and down the Free State on the slippery heels of De
Wet, now being shot at by prowling Boers, now engaged in a lively
skirmish from which he never made his exit totally unscathed, now
riding for weary, dusty miles upon a scent which ultimately proved
to be a false one. And, meanwhile, not a postbag came into camp
without a letter for Carew, bearing the mark of Johannesburg. It was
not altogether resultless that Carew's foot had been obstinately
slow in its healing.

To Weldon, a fixture in camp, fell the care of receiving Carew's
mail. At last, when one day the bag brought in two letters addressed
in the same dashing, angular handwriting, he forsook his principles
and made open comment.

"There is a slight monotony about your mail, in these latter days,
Carew," he observed dispassionately. And Carew had answered, with
perfect composure,--

"Yes, in view of my chronic trick of being potted at, I find it wise
to keep on good terms with my nurse. It may prove handy in case of
accident, like an insurance policy, you know. Is that all?" And,
cramming the letters into his pocket, he walked away to his tent.

And Weldon, as he watched him, nodded contentedly to himself. He
liked Carew; he also liked Alice Mellen. Beyond that, he made no
effort to go. Just now, he cared to penetrate the thoughts of but
one woman. The others he was willing to take on trust. Nevertheless,
it would have caused him some surprise, could he have reviewed all
the mental processes of Alice Mellen, during the past ten months.
For Weldon, the days at Springfontein differed not one whit, one
from another, yet each day was full of an excitement which sent his
blood stinging through his veins. Every man in the regiment could
ride a broken horse; but, for many of them their attainments stopped
the