o his prayers was
somewhat too swift and thorough. There is a story of an enormously fat
old Boer who was seated on the veld with his horse at his side, when
suddenly a band of armed natives rushed to attack him. "Oh, God, help!"
he cried in his native _taal_, as he prepared to heave his huge form
into the saddle. Having thus invoked divine assistance, this Dutch
Falstaff went at the task with such a will that in a trice he found
himself not on the horse, but over it, lying upon his back,
indeed, among the grasses. "O God!" that deluded burgher exclaimed,
reproachfully, as the Kaffirs came up and speared him, "Thou hast helped
a great deal too much!"

At this moment Morris felt very much like this stout but simple dweller
in the wilderness. He would have preferred to coquet with the enemy
for a while from the safety of his saddle. But Providence willed it
otherwise.

"Won't you come out, Mary?" he said, with the courage which inspires
men in desperate situations. He felt that it would be impossible to say
those words with the electric lights looking at him like so many eyes.
The thought of it, even, made him warm all over.

"I don't know; it depends. Is there anything comfortable to sit on?"

"The deck chair," he suggested.

"That sounds nice. I have slumbered for hours in deck chairs. Look,
there's a fur rug on that sofa, and here's my white cape; now you get
your coat, and I'll come."

"Thank you, no; I don't want any coat; I am hot enough already."

Mary turned and looked him up and down with her wondering blue eyes.

"Do you really think it safe," she said, "to expose yourself to all
sorts of unknown dangers in this unprotected condition?"

"Of course," he answered. "I am not afraid of the night air even in
October."

"Very well, very well, Morris," she went on, and there was meaning in
her voice; "then whatever happens don't blame me. It's so easy to be
rash and thoughtless and catch a chill, and then you may become an
invalid for life, or die, you know. One can't get rid of it again--at
least, not often."

Morris looked at her with a puzzled air, and stepped through the window
which he had opened, on to the lawn, whither, with a quaint little shrug
of her shoulders, Mary followed him, muttering to herself:

"Now if he takes cold, it won't be _my_ fault." Then she stopped,
clasped her hands, and said, "Oh! what a lovely night. I am glad that we
came out here."

She was right, it was indeed lovely.