ropes, yellow as the pollen of a lily. She took the children one
by one into a sleepy embrace, kissed and patted their cheeks,
admonishing them to be good and obey Miss Chaine in everything.

"Be sure not to go in the sun without your hats," she adjured the two
small girls. "Roddy doesn't matter so much, but little girls'
complexions are very important."

Rita and Coral stuck out their rose-pink chins and exchanged a
sparkling glance. Christine knew that she would have trouble with them
and their hats all day.

"Good-bye," said Mrs. van Cannan, and sank back among her pillows. As
the children scampered out of the room, she called sharply, "Don't go
near the dam, Roddy!"

Christine had heard her say that before, and always with that sharp
inflection.

"I never let them go near the dam without me," she said reassuringly.
Mrs. van Cannan did not answer, but a quiver, as if of pain, passed
over her closed eyelids.

Outside in the passage, Roderick pressed close to Christine and
murmured, with a sort of elfin sadness:

"Carol was drowned in the dam."

The girl was startled.

"Carol?" she echoed. "Who was Carol?"

"My big brother--a year older than me," he whispered. "He is buried
out in the graveyard. I'll take you to see the place if you like. Let
us go now."

Christine collected herself.

"We must go to lessons now, dear. Later on, you shall show me anything
you like."

But from time to time during the morning, sitting in the
creeper-trimmed summer-house they used for a school-room, with her
charges busy round her, Christine's thoughts returned to the strange
little revelation. Roddy, with his red-gold brush of hair, bent over
his slate, was not the first-born, then! _He_ had been drowned in the
dam--that peaceful sheet of walled-in water that reflected the pink
tips of dawn and wherein, at eventide, the cattle waded happily to
drink. This old Karoo farmhouse had known tragedy, even as she had
sensed. Small wonder Bernard van Cannan's eyes wore a haunted look!
Yet his wife, with her full happy laugh and golden locks, lying among
her pillows, seemed curiously untouched by sorrow. Except for that
quiver of the eyelids, Christine had never seen her show anything but a
contented face to life.

Well--the history of Blue Aloes was a sealed book when the girl came to
it, knowing nothing of its inmates beyond their excellent references as
an old Huguenot family. Now the book, slowly opening page