se, such an attempt would be terribly dangerous. Of the Matabele
nothing had been seen; but they might be about, and even if enough
cattle could be collected to draw the waggon, it belonged to Meyer as
much as to her father, and must therefore be left for him. Still, there
remained the two horses, which the Molimo had told her were well and
getting fat.

At this moment Meyer rose and began to speak to her.

"What are you thinking of, Miss Clifford?" he asked in his soft foreign
voice.

She started, but answered readily enough:

"Of the wood which is green, and the kid cutlets which are getting
smoked. Are you not tired of kid, Mr. Meyer?" she went on.

He waved the question aside. "You are so good--oh! I mean it--so really
good that you should not tell stories even about small things. The wood
is not green; I cut it myself from a dead tree; and the meat is not
smoked; nor were you thinking of either. You were thinking of me, as I
was thinking of you; but what exactly was in your mind, this time I do
not know, and that is why I ask you to tell me."

"Really, Mr. Meyer," she answered flushing; "my mind is my own
property."

"Ah! do you say so? Now I hold otherwise--that it is my property, as
mine is yours, a gift that Nature has given to each of us."

"I seek no such gift," she answered; but even then, much as she would
have wished to do so, she could not utter a falsehood, and deny this
horrible and secret intimacy.

"I am sorry for that, as I think it very precious; more precious even
than the gold which we cannot find; for Miss Clifford, it brings me
nearer you."

She turned upon him, but he held up his hand, and went on:

"Oh! do not be angry with me, and do not fear that I am going to trouble
you with soft speeches, for I shall not, unless a time should come, as
I think that perhaps it will, when you may wish to listen to them. But I
want to point out something to you, Miss Clifford. Is it not a wonderful
thing that our minds should be so in tune, and is there not an object
in all this? Did I believe as you do, I should say that it was Heaven
working in us--no: do not answer that the working comes from lower down.
I take no credit for reading that upon your lips; the retort is too
easy and obvious. I am content to say, however, that the work is that
of instinct and nature, or, if you will, of fate, pointing out a road by
which together we might travel to great ends."

"I travel my road alone, Mr. Meyer