great, though secret anxiety. That one was Marian Selwood.

With growing concern she noticed an unwonted dejection settling over
him--a kind of physical and mental languor and loss of appetite totally
unlike his former self. Sometimes she ascribed it to the baleful
witcheries of Violet Avory, at others to the consciousness of his hard,
uphill struggle to make headway at all; sometimes, again, to both causes
combined. Still there was no getting over the fact that he did not gain
in convalescent strength, notwithstanding that his surroundings were in
every way favourable and congenial to that end.

They had ever been great allies, these two. It is strange that they had
not become greater--even for life; it is possible that this might
eventually have come about but for two obstacles--Renshaw's poverty
and--Violet.

We do not commit ourselves to the assertion that Marian was in love with
Renshaw. But that, in her opinion, he was absolutely faultless, we do
freely admit, and her remarks upon him to Violet Avory earlier in this
narrative lifted merely a corner of the curtain which veiled her
predilection. Wherefore now she was mightily exercised on his account.

He did too much. For instance, what earthly necessity was there for him
to have turned out so early that morning and gone right away up the
mountain to look for half a dozen wretched sheep left out overnight,
riding back by the vij-kraal to count Umsapu's flock? Or what business
had he toiling hard all day yesterday in the broiling sun, helping to
pack a stone wall for a new "land" which was to be laid under
cultivation, and he just through a return of a deadly malarial fever?
It was too bad of Chris to allow it.

All this and more she took the opportunity of putting before Renshaw
himself one hot morning as the two sat together in a delightfully cool
and shady corner of the _stoep_.

"It won't kill me yet, Marian," he replied to her expostulations. "But
do you seriously think I should get back my old form the sooner by just
loafing around all day doing nothing?"

"Yes, I do," she rejoined decisively. "Yes, I do--even though you put
it that way. You do far too much."

"Pooh! Not a bit of it. Why, it's quite a treat to be able to do
something. Bless my life, on my dried-up old place it's a case of
vegetating day after day--counting out--looking around--counting in.
I'm like the jolly nomad moving around with his flocks, except that,
mine being s