a monkey. At last she
reached the top, and began to swarm up a thin branch towards the ripe
fruit. When she was near enough she shook the branch violently. There
was a crack--a crash--it broke. I shut my eyes, expecting to see her
crushed on the ground before me.

"Don't be afraid," said the lady again, laughing gently. "Look, she is
quite safe."

I looked, and so she was. She had caught a bough as she fell, clung to
it, and was now calmly dropping to another. Old Indaba-zimbi had also
watched this performance with interest, but it did not seem to astonish
him over-much. "Baboon-woman?" he said, as though such people were
common, and then turned his attention to soothing Tota, who was moaning
for more water. Meanwhile Hendrika came down the tree with extraordinary
rapidity, and swinging by one hand from a bough, dropped about eight
feet to the ground.

In another two minutes we were all three sucking the pulpy fruit. In
an ordinary way we should have found it tasteless enough: as it was I
thought it the most delicious thing I had ever tasted. After three days
spent without food or water, in the desert, one is not particular. While
we were still eating the fruit, the lady of my vision set her companion
to work to partially flay the oribe which her dogs had killed, and
busied herself in making a fire of fallen boughs. As soon as it burned
brightly she took strips of the oribe flesh, toasted them, and gave them
to us on leaves. We ate, and now were allowed a little more water. After
that she took Tota to the spring and washed her, which she sadly needed,
poor child! Next came our turn to wash, and oh, the joy of it!

I came back to the tree, walking painfully, indeed, but a changed man.
There sat the beautiful girl with Tota on her knees. She was lulling her
to sleep, and held up her finger to me enjoining silence. At last the
child went off into a sound natural slumber--an example that I should
have been glad to follow had it not been for my burning curiosity. Then
I spoke.

"May I ask what your name is?" I said.

"Stella," she answered.

"Stella what?" I said.

"Stella nothing," she answered, in some pique; "Stella is my name; it is
short and easy to remember at any rate. My father's name is Thomas, and
we live up there," and she pointed round the base of the great peak. I
looked at her astonished. "Have you lived there long?" I asked.

"Ever since I was seven years old. We came there in a waggon. Before
that