Then another idea struck her. Was it indeed human--one who had escaped, like themselves, only to discover, or perhaps to witness the slaughter of those dear to him, whose brain had been turned thereby, and who, in a state of maniacal fury, was wandering at large? This solution, however, was hardly more palatable than the first. Had it seen her? She thought not; for she had remained perfectly still, true to an oft repeated injunction of her companion's, as to the fatal attraction exercised towards oneself by any sudden movement, however slight. The sun had sunk altogether now, and already the very brief twilight was descending upon the surrounding waste. Would he never return? Nidia's heart was well-nigh bursting with mingled terror and anxiety. Then it leapt for joy. A low whistle, a bar or two of a favourite song, a home-coming signal agreed upon between them, was borne to her ears. She could have laughed aloud in her delight. She composed both her face and manner to hide from him her terrors, for she had been careful never to let him suspect the half of what she went through during these protracted absences. Then his figure appeared striding out from the darkness. "I've been in luck to-day, Miss Commerell!" he exclaimed gaily, flinging down a brace of full grown guinea-fowl, "Got them both at one throw, too." Nidia did not for a moment reply. She was looking up at him with a very soft and entrancing flush upon her face, and a light in her wide-opened eyes which he never quite remembered ever having seen there before. Then she said slowly, and with the air of one repeating a lesson-- "We have been through a good deal together during the last four days, including one of the narrowest shaves for our lives we can ever possibly again experience, and Heaven knows how long we are destined to roam the wilds together; but why not keep the conventional until our return to conventionality? Have I got a good memory, John?" "Excellent," he answered. "I must try to imitate it." His tone was even; but Nidia was not deceived. She was as well aware as he of the thrill that went through his heart on hearing his own words so exactly repeated, and all that they involved, and being so, she admired his self-restraint, and appreciated it in proportion to its rarity. If he had begun "to hang out the signals" at one time, he was careful to avoid doing so now. Yet--she knew. "I'm afraid I'm late," he went on. "I hope you did not begin to get frightened. The fact is, I had a very long hard scramble after those wretched birds." "Yes. Oblige me by putting down that bundle of sticks, and going and sitting over there. _I_ am going to build this fire, not you. Don't you hear? Do as you're told," she went on, with a little stamp of her foot, as he made no movement towards obeying. "You do the outdoor work, I the in. That's fair division of labour." "I won't hear of any `division of labour,' falling to you," he objected.