or some time, but continued to ply her
needle busily, while Mrs Scholtz, who by some piece of unusual good
fortune had got Junkie to sleep, plied her scissors in cutting out and
shaping raw material.

The two dames, with the nurse and Gertie, had agreed to unite their
powers that day in a resolute effort to overtake the household repairs.
They were in a cottage now, of the style familiarly known as "wattle and
dab," which was rather picturesque than permanent, and suggestive of
simplicity. They sat on rude chairs, made by Scholtz, round a rough
table by the same artist. Mrs Brook was busy with the rends in a blue
pilot-cloth jacket, a dilapidated remnant of the "old England" wardrobe.
The nurse was forming a sheep skin into a pair of those unmentionables
which were known among the Cape-colonists of that period by the name of
"crackers." Mrs Merton was busy with a pair of the same, the knees of
which had passed into a state of nonentity, while other parts were
approaching the same condition. Gertie was engaged on a pair of socks,
whose original formation was overlaid by and nearly lost in subsequent
deposits.

"Why do you like this sort of life, Mrs Brook?" asked Mrs Merton
suddenly.

"Because it is so new, so busy, so healthy, so thoroughly practical.
Such a constant necessity for doing something useful, and a constant
supply of something useful to do, and then such a pleasant feeling of
rest when at last you do get your head on a pillow."

"Oh! it's delightful!" interpolated Gertie in a low voice.

"Well, now, that is strange. Everything depends on how one looks at
things.--What do _you_ think, Mrs Scholtz?" asked Mrs Merton.

"I've got no time to think, ma'am," replied the nurse, giving the embryo
crackers a slice that bespoke the bold fearless touch of a thorough
artist. "When Junkie's not asleep he keeps body and brain fully
employed, and when he is asleep I'm glad to let body and brain alone."

"What is your objection to this life, Mrs Merton?" asked Mrs Brook,
with a smile.

"Oh! I've no special objection, only I hate it altogether. How is it
possible to like living in a wilderness, with no conveniences around
one, no society to chat with, no books to read, and, above all, no shops
to go to, where one is obliged to drudge at menial work from morning
till night, and one's boys and girls get into rags and tatters, and
one's husband becomes little better than a navvy, to say nothing of
snakes and sc