After this state of unrest and terror had continued for three or four days without an appearance of the British, the excitement wore off, confidence was restored, and many of the burghers of General Botha’s command who had retreated now returned to the city. The last Sunday before the British came dawned quiet and peaceful as a New England Sabbath; not a sign of war was to be seen; the streets were thronged with men, women, and children on their way to church to pray for their cause and their dead. The soldier laid aside his rifle and bandolier for the day, and not one was to be seen throughout the crowds which were moving towards their respective places of worship, while the bells rang summons and welcome. The day was warm enough for the women to wear white gowns, which served to make the many black ones the more noticeable. The children were stiff and starched in their Sunday cleanliness, and half the church-going crowd was composed of these little ones. In many a pew there was no father or brother, but only a sad-faced woman in sombre black. The churches were crowded to the doors, and I tried two or three places before I finally gained admittance to the church opposite President Krüger’s house, where he had himself often occupied the pulpit. It was a typical country church, such as may be seen in hundreds of our smaller towns; the windows were open, and a soft breeze blew gently through the room. The people entered deeply into their worship, and the sadness that prevailed made it appear like a service over the dead who had fallen in battle. Many families were worshiping together for the last time, for on the morrow a battle was to be fought, and all who were going to continue the fight were to be separated that night from their loved ones. [Illustration: Boers under heavy shell fire, awaiting British advance behind their defenses.] [Illustration: Burghers’ horses during battle of Pretoria.] There was not one in the whole church who was not weeping. Near me sat a young girl of about twenty, who sobbed aloud during the entire service, as though her heart was broken beyond all comfort; and I afterwards learned that her father and four brothers were all dead, and that her one remaining brother was at St. Helena with Cronje. In the pew in front of me sat an old grizzled burgher with a heavy gray beard; he needed no rifle to show that he had been for months on command, for his face was burned by wind and sun. His arm was around his wife, whose head rested on his shoulder. She did not weep, but at frequent intervals she huddled closer to him and grasped his arm more firmly, as if afraid he would leave her. On his other side sat a little girl, who looked around with big, frightened eyes, wondering at the scene.