or, for the
matter of that, has it ever been. In fact, it is about as heterodox an
utterance as though some rash wight were to pronounce the former realm
of Lo Bengula a non-gold-producing country. But it was impossible to be
angry with the owner of the voice that now made it.

"I don't know that we have, Miss Commerell," replied Hollingworth.
"Indeed, I think, on the whole, we haven't. Now, I can always get boys
enough--so can my neighbours--and that's the best test. A nigger won't
stop a week with anybody who treats him badly."

"Oh, I didn't mean that way, Mr Hollingworth. I meant as a nation."

"Even there, Lo Bengula and the old chiefs didn't rule them with sugar
and honey, let me tell you. But, squarely, I believe they did prefer
the kicks of Lo Ben to the halfpence of the Chartered Company; and I
suppose it's natural. A nigger's ways are not a white man's ways, and
never will be."

And then as the shrill yells and other vociferations raised by the
Hollingworth posterity in fierce debate over the limit of its jam
allowance rendered further conversation impossible, an adjournment was
made outside.

"Were you all the time at the Cape before coming up here, Miss
Commerell?" began Moseley, as they found seats beneath the shade of a
large fig-tree.

"Yes. We remained on at Cogill's. It was rather fun. I think there
was hardly a corner of the whole neighbourhood we didn't explore."

"--With John Ames."

The tone, slightly bantering, was thoroughly good-natured. Even one
more touchy than Nidia Commerell could hardly have taken offence. But
nothing was further from her thoughts.

"You know him, then?" And the expressive face lighted up with genuine
pleasure.

"Not personally; only by name."

"Then, how did you know--"

"--About the explorations? The Cape Peninsula is a very gossipy place."

"I suppose so. Most places are," said Nidia, tranquilly; "but that sort
of thing never troubles me one little bit. Mr Ames lives somewhere up
here, doesn't he? I wonder where he is now?"

Cool and at ease they sat there chatting. Had she been a clairvoyante a
vision might have been vouchsafed to Nidia--the vision of a man,
crouching in a thicket of "wacht-een-bietje" thorns, his face and hands
lacerated, his clothes torn--a hunted man, with the look of some recent
horror stamped upon his pale, set face; the last degree of desperation,
of despair, yet of resolution, shining from his eyes; his hand gra