ll think of and pray for you. No; I will remain here!"

It was a touching picture--the solitary man there praying for them. The
German cleared his hands from the meal, and went to the chest from which
he had taken the black hat. After a little careful feeling about, he
produced a black cloth coat, trousers, and waistcoat, which he laid on
the table, smiling knowingly. They were of new shining cloth, worn twice
a year, when he went to the town to nachtmaal. He looked with great
pride at the coat as he unfolded it and held it up.

"It's not the latest fashion, perhaps, not a West End cut, not exactly;
but it might do; it might serve at a push. Try it on, try it on!" he
said, his old grey eyes twinkling with pride.

Bonaparte stood up and tried on the coat. It fitted admirably; the
waistcoat could be made to button by ripping up the back, and the
trousers were perfect; but below were the ragged boots. The German was
not disconcerted. Going to the beam where a pair of top-boots hung,
he took them off, dusted them carefully, and put them down before
Bonaparte. The old eyes now fairly brimmed over with sparkling
enjoyment.

"I have only worn them once. They might serve; they might be endured."

Bonaparte drew them on and stood upright, his head almost touching
the beams. The German looked at him with profound admiration. It was
wonderful what a difference feathers made in the bird.

Chapter 1.V. Sunday Services.

Service No. I.

The boy Waldo kissed the pages of his book and looked up. Far over the
flat lay the kopje, a mere speck; the sheep wandered quietly from bush
to bush; the stillness of the early Sunday rested everywhere, and the
air was fresh.

He looked down at his book. On its page a black insect crept. He lifted
it off with his finger. Then he leaned on his elbow, watching its
quivering antennae and strange movements, smiling.

"Even you," he whispered, "shall not die. Even you He loves. Even you He
will fold in His arms when He takes everything and makes it perfect and
happy."

When the thing had gone he smoothed the leaves of his Bible somewhat
caressingly. The leaves of that book had dropped blood for him once;
they had taken the brightness out of his childhood; from between them
had sprung the visions that had clung about him and made night horrible.
Adder-like thoughts had lifted their heads, had shot out forked tongues
at him, asking mockingly strange, trivial questions that he could not
a