with the white
girl who had created such a sensation at the post, can be guessed; but,
true to her traditions, she betrayed nothing of it to the whites. After
a single glance in their direction her gaze returned to the frying-pan.

It was Stonor who was put out of countenance, "Miss Starling is going
with us," he said, with a heavy scowl.

Mary made no comment on the situation, but continued gravely frying the
flap-jacks to a delicate golden shade. Her son, aged about fourteen, who
had less command over his countenance, stood in the background staring,
with open eyes and mouth. It was a trying moment for Stonor and Clare.
They discussed the prospects of a good day for the journey in rather
strained voices.

However, it proved that Mary's silence had neither an unfriendly nor a
censorious intention. She merely required time to get her breath, so to
speak. She transferred the flap-jacks from the pan to a plate, and,
putting them in the ashes to keep hot, arose and came to Clare with
extended hand.

"How," she said, as she had been taught was manners to all.

Clare took her hand with a right good will.

It suddenly occurred to Mary that there was now no occasion for the boy
to accompany them. Mary was a woman of few words. "You go home," she
said calmly.

The boy broke into a howl of grief, proving that the delights of the
road are much the same to boys, red or white.

"Poor little fellow!" said Clare.

"Too young for travel," said Mary, impassively. "More trouble than
help."

Clare wished to intercede for him with Stonor, but the trooper shook his
head.

"No room in the dug-out," he said.

Toma Moosa departed along the shore with his arm over his eyes.

Mary was as good as a man on a trip. While Stonor and Clare ate she
packed the horses, and Stonor had only to throw the hitch and draw it
taut. Clare watched this operation with interest.

"They swell up just like babies when you're putting their bands on," she
remarked.

They were on the move shortly after sunrise, that is to say half-past
three. As they rode away over the flat, each took a last look at the
buildings of the post across the river, gilded by the horizontal rays,
each wondering privately what fortune had in store for them before they
should see the spot again.

They passed the last little shack and the last patch of grain before
anybody was astir. When they rode out into the open country everybody's
spirits rose. There is nothing like t