for the
thought of losing him filled me with blind terror, and all that night I
lay awake thinking out the matter.

Early in the morning I rose and went to the _stoep_, where I found
Suzanne drinking coffee and singing a little song that Ralph had taught
her. I can see her now as she stood in her pretty tight-fitting dress,
a flower wet with dew in her girdle, swinging her _kapje_ by its strings
while the first rays of the sun glistened on the waves of her brown and
silk-like hair. She was near eighteen then, and so beautiful that my
heart beat with pride at her loveliness, for never in my long life have
I seen a girl of any nation who could compare with my daughter Suzanne
in looks. Many women are sweet to behold in this way or in that; but
Suzanne was beautiful every way, yes, and at all ages of her life; as a
child, as a maiden, as a matron and as a woman drawing near to eld, she
was always beautiful if, like that of the different seasons, her beauty
varied. In shape she was straight and tall and rounded, light-footed as
a buck, delicate in limb, wide-breasted and slender-necked. Her face was
rich in hue as a kloof lily, and her eyes--ah! no antelope ever had
eyes darker, tenderer, or more appealing than were the eyes of Suzanne.
Moreover, she was sweet of nature, ready of wit and good-hearted--yes,
even for the Kaffirs she had a smile.

"You are up betimes, Suzanne," I said when I had looked at her a little.

"Yes, mother; I rose to make Ralph his coffee, he does not like that the
Kaffir women should boil it for him."

"You mean that you do not like it," I answered, for I knew that Ralph
thought little of who made the coffee that he drank, or if he did it was
mine that he held to be the best, and not Suzanne's, who in those days
was a careless girl, thinking less of household matters than she should
have done.

"Did Swart Piet come here yesterday?" I asked. "I thought that I saw his
horse as I walked back from the sea."

"Yes, he came."

"What for?"

She shrugged her shoulders. "Oh! mother, why do you ask me? You know
well that he is always troubling me, bringing me presents of flowers,
and asking me to _opsit_ with him and what not."

"Then you don't want to _opsit_ with him?"

"The candle would be short that I should burn with Swart Piet," answered
Suzanne, stamping her foot; "he is an evil man, full of dark words and
ways, and I fear him, for I think that since his father's death he has
become worse