pit. By just the exceptional strength of his mind and will did this
obsession become the more dangerous should his new-found hopes melt into
air, and, realising this, he realised also that it might soon be time to
"set his house in order." For the fate of his former friend he felt no
compunction whatever, for "jealousy is cruel as the grave."

CHAPTER TWENTY SIX.

WARREN'S NEWS.

"But when will the Baas be back, _Klein Missis_? Whenever will the Baas
be back?"

"Oh, how I wish I knew, Old Sanna," answered Lalante with a sad smile.
Her smile had been growing rather sad of late, since week had been
following upon week, and still bringing no word from the absent one.
Could it mean that he was on his way back? She dared not hope so.

"And these Zulu _menschen, Klein Missis_--are they more _schelm_ than
our Kafirs here? No but, that could never be. There's Sixpence, he who
_slaag-ed_ the sheep. The Baas ought to have had him flogged or taken
to the _tronk_, yet he does neither, but lets him go as if nothing had
happened _Oh goieje_!"

"And Sixpence has been a very good boy ever since, Old Sanna."

The old woman grunted, then went on:

"That was the last day you were here, Miss Lalante; with the _Baas_ I
mean."

The sadness of the smile deepened, and the wide eyes gazing forth over
the panorama of rolling plain and distant rock as seen from the stoep at
Seven Kloofs, grew misty. Did she not remember that day, the last
perfect one before the final rupture! Now Seven Kloofs was the property
of her father, his only bad bargain, as we have said elsewhere. He had
wanted to turn off old Sanna, if only that she formed a link between
Lalante and the former owner, whose memory he by no means wished kept
green; but Lalante had pleaded so hard against this that he had given
way, and the old woman remained on in charge of the unoccupied house.

Hither Lalante would sometimes ride over, even as to-day, to dwell, in
imagination, among the past again. Now she turned from the stoep and
entered the living room. The same, and yet not. Bare walls and floor,
and yet how replete with memories. Here was where the dear old untidy
table--with its litter heap shoved as much off one end as possible--had
stood--there the low chair in _his_ favourite corner--even the mark on
the wall, where her portrait had hung, showed plain. All so familiar in
the memories it brought that it almost seemed as though his tall figure
should