a rustic bench, was busy with some embroidery, Hughes
lying on the grass at her feet, an open book near.

"Well, no," answered he, yawning; "but I don't see why we should wait
the reply to all that mass of papers sent to Portugal."

"I don't speak English well enough yet," said Isabel, laughing; but this
was not exactly true, for she was using that tongue, and that her three
months' residence at the Cape had not been lost in this particular, was
fully evident.

"We had trouble enough with that box of papers," said Hughes, musing;
"and as your interests are concerned, and your succession to your
father's property at stake, I suppose we must submit."

"Submit," replied Isabel, brightly; "it's no very hard task, methinks.
Suppose you tell me the rest of the tale you left unfinished that
fearful night on the raft; or shall we ride to Wynebergh?"

"Not the ride, certainly; I'm not equal to the exertion," replied the
soldier.

Isabel laughed heartily; and, as the bright silvery tone rang out
Hughes, for the life of him, could not help joining though the
missionary's parting words came back to him.

"You will tire of the water-melons, Hughes, and when you do so, think of
the `Ruined Cities of Zulu Land,' and your old comrade working alone."

The words had proved prophetic. Accustomed to a life of activity and
exercise, his present existence seemed monotonous, do what he could to
think otherwise. The pleasant life had no object.

"Well, then, finish me the tale, Enrico mio, and this time you may talk
as much as you choose of birds and trees."

"I don't exactly remember where I left off, Isabel," replied Hughes,
once more yawning heavily. "A stab in the arm, and to find oneself
suddenly knocked into an ocean peopled with sharks, in the middle of a
quiet tale, does not conduce to the general comfort of the historian;
however, I'll try. Lend me that cushion."

Placing his elbow on it, and looking up into the beautiful face bent
over the embroidery, Hughes remained silent. Truth to say, as he
watched the long black silken lashes, and traced the blue veins under
the clear olive skin, he began to think himself the most dissatisfied of
mortals.

"Well, Enrico,--and my tale?" asked Isabel, looking up.

"Let me see. The little chapel of Penrhyn was filled with the
conspirators, and Father Guy had just made his appeal to them, pointing
out Sir Roger Mostyn as their first victim. Mine is a true tale, and it
happene