n, like everything else, he held prudently in
reserve.

CHAPTER FOUR.

CARTE AND TIERCE!

"I wonder what the new magistrate's clerk is like!"

And the speaker who had been staring meditatively skyward, her hands
locked together behind the coiled masses of her brown hair, raises her
magnificent form from the hammock in which it has been luxuriously
resting, and, sitting upright, stretches her arms and yawns. The
hammock is slung beneath a group of green willows whose drooping boughs
afford a cool and pleasant shade. Beyond, bordered by a low sod wall
and a ditch, is a large garden planted with fruit trees soon to be
weighed down with golden apricots and ripening peaches, albeit these are
at present green. Over the tree-tops shimmers the corrugated iron roof
of a house.

"It's awfully hot still, but not so hot as it was," continues the
speaker. "Why, Grace, I do believe you're asleep!"

The other occupant of this cool retreat starts violently, nearly falling
from her chair with the awakening. She is a tall, slightly built woman,
some years older than the first speaker; good-looking, albeit with
rather a faded and `washed-out' air.

"Yes, I was; nodding, at any rate. What were you trying to say, Mona?"

"I was saying, `I wonder what the new magistrate's clerk is like!'"

"Why didn't you go into Doppersdorp with Charlie this morning? Then you
could have seen for yourself."

"Charlie would insist on starting at each an unholy hour. Charlie
delights in turning me out at four o'clock if he can, and I am
constitutionally lazy. Charlie is a barbarian."

"I wonder what Gonjana will get? A year, I hope. Mr Van Stolz has
been heavily down upon sheep-stealing of late."

"Grace Suffield, I'm surprised at you! That's a most unchristian
sentiment. You ought to be more merciful to the poor benighted heathen,
who doesn't know any better."

"He's the worst `boy' we have ever had on the place, and I for one shall
be heartily glad to get rid of him."

"Bother Gonjana! I was talking of the new magistrate's clerk, `Roden
Musgrave!' It has quite a romantic sound, hasn't it?"

"Romantic fiddlestick!" laughs Mrs Suffield. "You're not in luck's way
this time, Mona. They say he isn't young, and is awfully reserved and
stiff; quite a middle-aged fogey, in fact."

"Not young, eh! That makes him the more interesting, if only for a
change. I believe I'm beginning to have enough of boys."

"Oh, poor Mr Watki