When the sun rose they found themselves in a tract somewhat less arid and inhuman; and, at last, at the rise of a gentle slope, they saw, half a mile before them, a large farmhouse partly clad with creepers, and a little plot of turf, the fruit of eternal watering; item, a flower-bed; item, snow-white palings; item, an air of cleanliness and neatness scarcely known to those dirty descendants of clean ancestors, the Boers. At some distance a very large dam glittered in the sun, and a troop of snow-white sheep were watering at it. “ENGLAND!” cried Christopher. “Ay, sir,” said Phoebe; “as nigh as man can make it.” But soon she began to fret: “Oh, dear! where are they all? If it was me, I'd be at the door looking out. Ah, there goes Yuke to rouse them up.” “Come, Pheeb, don't you fidget,” said Dick kindly. “Why, the lazy lot are scarce out of their beds by this time.” “More shame for 'em. If they were away from me, and coming home, I should be at the door day AND night, I know. Ah!” She uttered a scream of delight, for just then, out came Ucatella, with little Tommy on her shoulder, and danced along to meet her. As she came close, she raised the chubby child high in the air, and he crowed; and then she lowered him to his mother, who rushed at him, seized, and devoured him with a hundred inarticulate cries of joy and love unspeakable. “NATURE!” said Christopher dogmatically, recognizing an old acquaintance, and booking it as one more conquest gained over the past. But there was too much excitement over the cherub to attend to him. So he watched the woman gravely, and began to moralize with all his might. “This,” said he, “is what we used to call maternal love; and all animals had it, and that is why the noble savage went for him. It was very good of you, Miss Savage,” said the poor soul sententiously. “Good of her!” cried Phoebe. “She is all goodness. Savage, find me a Dutchwoman like her! I'll give her a good cuddle for it;” and she took the Kafir round the neck, and gave her a hearty kiss, and made the little boy kiss her too. At this moment out came a collie dog, hunting Ucatella by scent alone, which process landed him headlong in the group; he gave loud barks of recognition, fawned on Phoebe and Dick, smelt poor Christopher, gave a growl of suspicion, and lurked about squinting, dissatisfied, and lowering his tail. “Thou art wrong, lad, for once,” said Dick; “for he's an old friend, and a good one.” “After the dog, perhaps some Christian will come to welcome us,” said poor Phoebe.