th his left
hand he held a long stick, cleft at one end, and in the cleft was a
letter.

"Come here, Stomp," said Bessie, and as she spoke a wild hope shot
across her heart like a meteor across the night: perhaps the letter was
from John.

The dog obeyed her unwillingly enough, for evidently he did not like
that Kafir; and when he saw that Stomp was well out of the way the
Kafir himself followed. He was an insolent fellow, and took no notice of
Bessie before squatting himself down upon the drive in front of her.

"What is it?" said Bessie in Dutch, her lips trembling as she spoke.

"A letter," answered the man.

"Give it to me."

"No, missie, not till I have looked at you to see if it is right. Light
yellow hair that curls--_one_," checking it on his fingers, "yes, that
is right; large blue eyes--_two_, that is right; big and tall, and fair
as a star--yes, the letter is for you, take it," and he poked the long
stick almost into her face.

"Where is it from?" asked Bessie, with sudden suspicion and recoiling a
step.

"Wakkerstroom last."

"Who is it from?"

"Read it, and you will see."

Bessie took the letter, which was wrapped in a piece of old newspaper,
from the cleft of the stick and turned it over and over doubtfully. Most
of us have a mistrust of strange-looking letters, and this letter was
unusually strange. To begin it, with had no address whatever on the
dirty envelope, which seemed curious. In the second place, that envelope
was sealed, apparently with a threepenny bit.

"Are you sure it is for me?" asked Bessie.

"Yah, yah--sure, sure," answered the native, with a rude laugh. "There
are not many such white girls in the Transvaal. I have made no
mistake. I have 'smelt you out.'" And he began to go through his
catalogue--"Yellow hair that curls," &c.--again.

Then Bessie opened the letter. Inside was an ordinary sheet of paper
written over in a bold, firm, yet slightly unpractised writing that she
knew well enough, and the sight of which filled her with a presentiment
of evil. It was Frank Muller's.

She turned sick and cold, but could not choose but read as follows:

"Camp, near Pretoria. 15 February.

"Dear Miss Bessie,--I am sorry to have to write to you, but though we
have quarrelled lately, and also your good uncle, I think it my duty to
do so, and send this to your hand by a special runner. Yesterday was
a sortie made by the poor folk in Pretoria, who are now as thin with
hunger a