t of the day there, so I don't like suggesting your
coming along. They're the most infernal boring crowd, and you'd wish
yourself dead."

Hilary thought this would very likely be the case, but before he could
reply there came an interruption--an interruption which issued from a
side door somewhere in the neighbourhood of the kitchen, for they were
standing at the end of the stoep, an interruption wearing an ample white
"kapje," and with hands and wrists all powdery with flour, but utterly
charming for all that.

"What's that you're plotting, father? No, you're not to take Mr
Blachland over to any tiresome Dutchman's. No wonder he talks about
going away. Besides, I want to take him with me. I'm going to paint--
in Siever's Kloof, and Fred isn't enough of an escort."

"I think I'll prefer that immeasurably, Miss Bayfield," replied he most
concerned.

"I shall be ready, then, in half an hour. And--I don't like `Miss
Bayfield'--it sounds so stiff, and we are such old friends now. You
ought to say Lyn. Oughtn't he, father, now that he is quite one of
ourselves?"

"Well, _I_ should--after that," answered Bayfield, comically, blowing
out a big cloud of smoke.

But while he laughed pleasantly, promising to avail himself of the
privilege, Hilary was conscious of a kind of mournful impression that
the frank ingenuousness of the request simply meant that she placed him
on the same plane as her father, in short, regarded him as one of a
bygone generation. Well, she was right. He was no chicken after all,
he reminded himself grimly.

"I say, Lyn, I'm going with you too!" cried Fred, who was seated on a
waggon-pole a little distance off, putting the finishing touches to a
new catapult-handle.

"All right. I'll be ready in half an hour," replied the girl.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

One of the prettiest bits in Siever's Kloof was the very spot whereon
Blachland had shot the large bushbuck ram, and here the two had taken up
their position. For nearly an hour Lyn had been very busy, and her
escort seated there, lazily smoking a pipe, would every now and then
overlook her work, offering criticisms, and making suggestions, some of
which were accepted, and some were not. Fred, unable to remain still
for ten minutes at a time, was ranging afar with his air-gun--now put
right again--and, indeed, with it he was a dead shot.

"I never can get the exact shine of these red