knocked it down
easily, and Jan, sitting indoors with his coat off, heard
them laughing.

"At supper that night he looked up to Dia.

"'This coffee has a sour taste,' he said.

"'Mine hasn't,' said the Irishman.

"'Try mine, then,' said Jan, and passed Dia his cup to hand
to him. She fumbled in taking it and dropped it on the
floor. The new cup that she poured out for him had no sour
taste.

"For several days after that there was a sour taste in many
things that he ate and drank, and he complained of it each
time.

"'You must be getting ill,' Dia said.

"'It is possible,' he answered, watching her. 'I have felt
very strange of late days.'

"He saw the color leave her cheeks, and a light come into
her eyes.

"'What can it be?' he said. 'Should I have a doctor, do you
think?'

"'I am afraid of doctors,' she answered. 'Let me give you
some of my herb medicine.'

"He drank what she brought him and put the cup down.

"'I was hard to you once. Dia,' he said, 'I have been sorry
since.'

"That night he sent a mounted Kafir for his brother, and
when, at noon next day, that brother came, Dia and her
Irishman were already gone. But Jan would not have them
hunted.

"'I whipped her once,' he said, 'and I am paid for it.'

"His brother, a great simple soul, was dumbfounded.

"'Do you mean that she has poisoned you?' he demanded.

"The dying man shook his head.

"'They used to count the colors,' he said. 'There was much
of love in the colors, but there was nothing of me. Let
them go!'

"And so," concluded the Vrouw Grobelaar impressively, "he
died, and it all came of counting the colors in the sunset,
which is a warning to you, Katje--"

"To count colors," interrupted that maiden hotly. "I think
the old wretch got just what he deserved."

THE KING OF THE BABOONS

The old yellow-fanged dog-baboon that was chained to a post
in the yard had a dangerous trick of throwing stones. He
would seize a piece of rock in two hands, stand erect and
whirl round on his heels till momentum was obtained, and
then--let go. The missile would fly like a bullet, and woe
betide any one who stood in its way. The performance
precluded any kind of aim; the stone was hurled off at any
chance tangent: and it was bad luck rather than any kind of
malice that guided one three-pound boulder through the
window, across the kitchen, and into a portrait of Judas de
Beer which hung on the wall not half a dozen feet from the
slumberi