wet. This was
not the boy master to whom Kruger Bobs had sworn allegiance. This
was an older man, and weak withal. But the weaker grew the master,
the stronger grew the loyal, loving allegiance of the man.

After the wide, deserted stretches of open veldt, the roar of
Adderley Street seemed to Weldon like the maddening tumult of
Piccadilly. The noise stunned him; the hurrying crowd filled him
with terror. Even inside the cab, he still clung to the arm of the
faithful Kruger Bobs. Still clinging to that faithful arm, he came
out from the citadel, no longer Trooper Weldon, but Mr. Harvard
Weldon once more, honorably discharged from the South African Light
Horse. Kruger Bobs was invisible behind the spreading limits of his
smile; but Weldon had scarcely heeded the words which had been
addressed to him. All at once, like a watch about to run down, the
wheels of his brain were moving slowly and ever more slowly. His
whole resolution now centered in keeping them in motion long enough
to go to his banker and to the office of the steamship company. Once
on the steamer and sliding out across Table Bay, he could leave the
rest to the ship's doctor and to Fate.

Even in the multitude of strangers who had passed through Cape Town,
in those latter months, he was remembered at the bank and greeted
with a word of congratulation on his record in the field. At the
word, a man beside him, hearing, turned to look, looked again, and
then held out his hand. It was the father of Ethel Dent.

That night, the Dents dined alone. Over the roast, Mr. Dent looked
up suddenly.

"Whom do you think I saw, to-day, Ethel?"

"Who now?" she asked, smiling. "You can't expect me to guess, when
you are constantly running up against the most impossible people."
"Not this time. It was quite possible; but it gave me a shock. It
was Mr. Weldon."

The smile died from her lips. Nevertheless, she asked, with a forced
lightness,--

"What shocked you?"

"His looks. He was ghastly, thin to a shadow and burning up with
fever. I was in the bank, and I heard some one speak his name; but I
had to look at him for a second time, before I could recognize him.
The man is a wreck. He looked sixty years old, as he went crawling
off, on the arm of his Kaffir boy. I'm sorry. I always liked
Weldon."

A bit of bread lay by Ethel's plate. For an instant, her finger tips
vanished inside its yielding surface. Then she looked up.

"Too bad! He was a good fellow," she s