ary."

You couldn't depress Bones or turn him from his set purpose. He scribed
away, occupying his leisure moments with his great work. His normal
correspondence suffered cruelly, but Bones was relentless. Hamilton sent
him north to collect the hut tax, and at first Bones resented this
order, believing that it was specially designed to hamper him.

"Of course, sir," he said, "I'll obey you, if you order me in accordance
with regulations an' all that sort of rot, but believe me, sir, you're
doin' an injury to literature. Unborn generations, sir, will demand an
explanation----"

"Get out!" said Hamilton crossly.

Bones found his trip a blessing that had been well disguised. There were
many points of interest on which he required first-hand information. He
carried with him to the _Zaire_ large exercise books on which he had
pasted such pregnant labels as "Native Customs," "Dances," "Ju-jus,"
"Ancient Legends," "Folk-lore," etc. They were mostly blank, and
represented projected chapters of his great work.

All might have been well with Bones. More virgin pages might easily have
been covered with his sprawling writing and the book itself, converted
into honest print, have found its way, in the course of time, into the
tuppenny boxes of the Farringdon book-mart, sharing its soiled
magnificence with the work of the best of us, but on his way Bones had a
brilliant inspiration. There was a chapter he had not thought of, a
chapter heading which had not been born to his mind until that flashing
moment of genius.

Upon yet another exercise book, he pasted the label of a chapter which
was to eclipse all others in interest. Behold then, this enticing
announcement, boldly printed and ruled about with double lines:

"THE SOUL OF THE NATIVE WOMAN."

It was a fine chapter title. It was sonorous, it had dignity, it was
full of possibilities. "The Soul of the Native Woman," repeated Bones,
in an ecstasy of self-admiration, and having chosen his subject he
proceeded to find out something about it.

Now, about this time, Bosambo of the Ochori might, had he wished and had
he the literary quality, have written many books about women, if for no
other reason than because of a certain girl named D'riti.

She was a woman of fifteen, grown to a splendid figure, with a proud
head and a chin that tilted in contempt, for she was the daughter of
Bosambo's chief counsellor, grand-daughter of an Ochori king, and
ambitious to be wife of B