terious and exquisitely
peaceful moonlight nights were a never-ending source of joy to our
young writer, thrilling her being with emotions not to be described.

Each morning at 5 o'clock, while the rest of the idiotic world lay
asleep within its cramped boundary of brick and stone, Hansie revelled
in the beauties of Nature, abandoning herself to at least one hour of
perfect bliss before the toil and trouble of another day could occupy
her mind.

The garden being so situated that its most secluded spots were far
removed from any sights and sounds which could remind one of the war,
Hansie had no difficulty in turning her thoughts into more uplifting
channels during the peaceful morning hour, spent, when the weather
permitted, in her favourite corner under the six gigantic willows
below the orange avenue.

And the weather in those days nearly always permitted!

Most of the entries in her diary she made in this fair spot, alone,
but for the sympathetic presence of her big black dog. The morning
solitude was amply atoned for by the dozens of young friends who
joined the "fruit parties" every afternoon, filling the air with their
gay voices and wholesome, happy laughter.

[Illustration: THE SIX WILLOWS, HARMONY.]

Four or five young men and a bevy of beautiful young girls were
amongst the most constant visitors at Harmony. The girls, often
referred to in Hansie's diary as the "Four Graces," were certainly the
most exquisite specimens of budding womanhood in Pretoria.

There was Consuelo, tall and slender, our languid "Spanish beauty,"
with her rich brown hair and slumbrous dark-brown eyes; there was our
little Marguerite, fresh and fair as the flower after which she was
named, an opening marguerite in the dewy daintiness of life's first
summer morning; there was Annie, spoilt and wilful but undoubtedly the
fairest of them all; and then there was her sister Sara, Hansie's
favourite, with a girlish charm impossible to describe. Her creamy
white complexion, her lovely soft brown eyes, her winning smile and
tender voice--what could be more delightful than to sit and watch her
as she moved and spoke with rare, unconscious grace, clad in a snowy
dress of fine white muslin!

One sweet summer morn, a Sabbath, if I remember correctly, when the
air was filled with the fragrance of innumerable buds and blossoms,
Hansie sat in the accustomed spot, with her diary on her lap. She was
not writing then, but, with a slip of pape