ent to supper, and recognised familiar objects at every turn. These
recognitions hurt him so much that he could hardly keep from crying
out. He feared to lift his eyes lest he should see some old
acquaintance in the shape of a fly-blown picture grinning at him. The
proprietor of the hotel and his family were all absent at church, and
for this small mercy Kellson was devoutly thankful. Supper over, he
strolled out into the silent village street. He could not, however,
endure the sensations which he experienced, so he hurried back to his
room. The transfiguring moonlight had conjured up the ghost of his
youth, and it mocked and gibed at him cruelly.

Kellson was a bad sleeper, but he went to bed early so as to rest his
weary limbs. He lit his pipe, and then tried to read, but the mists of
nineteen years gathered between his eyes and the page, so he blew out
the candle and lay still with his eyes wide open and no thought of
sleep. The whole weight of the past seemed to press on and crush him,
whilst the stress of the present prevented his dropping the load and
resting. Moreover, numbers of those wretched cur dogs that swarm in
most South African villages were now barking in all directions, the
full moon and the warm night drawing out more than the usual
contingent.

Kellson's official residence was on a hill just beyond the other end of
the village, and he determined, without waiting for the arrival of the
waggons with his effects, to buy next day enough furniture for one
small bedroom which he would occupy, still taking his meals at the
hotel. He would thus be away from the horrible dogs. He meant to board
at the hotel until the arrival of his wife. His wife t why must he
think of her with such bitterness? Why must he look forward to her
return from her trip to Europe with uneasiness and dissatisfaction? It
was the old story--incompatibility of temper, or rather of temperament.
He had married at the age of thirty-eight, nine years ago. His wife was
now twenty-eight. She was one of those women who can be got at only
through their feelings--never through their reason. In her a passionate
longing for motherhood had absorbed every other wish. She had money of
her own and had gone to spend a year in Europe. When she left, Kellson
experienced a deep sense of relief; a whole year's freedom seemed
endless at the beginning, but now two-thirds of the time had gone by
swiftly, and in about four months she would be back. How he drea