the red bluffs marking the horizon, clean
cut against the cloudless sky.

Habitable? Such a country as this habitable? It had given him bread for
the last three years, but--but--he felt burning in his pocket the letter
summoning him home--telling of the death, the unexpected death, of his
young cousin, that made him master of that pleasant home, that filled
his empty pockets. What did anyone ever dream of living in such a
country for--driving the unlucky niggers back and back? What need
for it? What need? Far better leave it to the niggers, and clear out
altogether.

Had Gladys forgotten? He wondered. The little white mouse of a cousin,
as Turner called her, who had cried so bitterly when he left, and even
now answered his letters so regularly, those letters that had come to
be written at longer and longer intervals as home ties weakened,
and the prospect of seeing her again slowly died away. Had she
forgotten--had she? She looked like the sort of woman that would be
faithful--faithful--well, as faithful as any one in this world could
be expected to be, as faithful as women always are to their lovers in
distant lands. Turner had been sweet there once too, curious he should
meet him just now; he had forgotten her surely, or he would never have
referred to her so casually. Yes, Turner had forgotten, and yet he had
been very bad too--strange how completely a thing like that passes out
of a man's life. Could he take up the broken threads just where he left
off--could he? So sweet and tender as she was, so quiet and restful.
There was that other one, who loved him after her fashion too, but--pah,
it was an insult to Gladys to name her in the same breath--she--she--The
country was not habitable--a doghole unfit for a European; what was
Turner making such a song over the niggers for?

"Old man," said Turner, he had been telling to unlistening ears the tale
of how the blacks had speared, in wanton mischief, a mob of two hundred
cattle on Jinfalla, not fifteen miles from the home station, "old man,
you see it would be just ruination to let this go on. Either they or we
must clear out. We can't both live here, that's certain."

"Always the same old yarn wherever the Englishman goes, always the same
old yarn. Poor niggers!"

"Well, what'd you have?" said the other warmly; "something's got to be
done."

"I 'm going to cut it all."

"What?" Turner stopped his horse and looked his companion full in the
face. "Cut it all?"