ed some extra harness and inspanned Denham's
horse as "unicorn," so that the extra weight didn't count so much, and
he was conscious of having thoroughly enjoyed the journey. Nor would he
try to disguise to himself the fact that this result was largely due to
the presence of Ben Halse's daughter.

It had taken all of three days; two nights being got through in such
scanty accommodation as could be obtained at lonely wayside stores
similar to that of Ben himself, though infinitely rougher, and the third
night camping in the veldt; during which, by the bye, Denham had started
out of his sleep declaring that a whacking big spider had just run over
his face, which was more than likely the case. But through heat and
dust and discomfort Verna's spirits never flagged, and her cheerfulness
remained unruffled. Now a three days' journey under such circumstances
is a pretty good test of character, and her attitude throughout was
thoroughly appreciated by her fellow-traveller and guest. She was
unique, he decided, unique and splendid.

He found her now engaged upon exactly the same homely occupation as that
on which she was engaged on the occasion of our first making her
acquaintance--bread-making, to wit.

"Useful as always, Miss Halse," he remarked. "Why, I don't know how we
should have got on coming along but for you."

She flashed a smile up at him.

"How did you get on without me when you came along through the Makanya
bush?" she said mischievously.

If there was that in the allusion that brought a change into Denham's
face it was only momentary.

"I had to then, worse luck," he laughed. "But I managed it somehow."
Then they both laughed--easily, happily.

Denham, looking down at her as she sat there, came to the conclusion
that she was more charming than ever. The sheen of her abundant brown
hair, carelessly but becomingly coiled, the dark semicircle of the
eyelashes on the cheek, the strong, supple figure so splendidly
outlined, the movement of the shapely arms as she kneaded the dough--
why, this homely performance was a poem in itself. Then the staging--
the fall of wooded slope to a deep down vista of plain below--dim in the
noontide haze where on the right a darker line in contrast to the open
green showed part of the great mysterious forest tract. Even the
utterly unaesthetic dwelling-house hardly seemed to spoil the picture.

"Well, and what is the subject of all this profound thought?" she asked
su