Alas! Within the last dozen years chance took me past Maraisfontein once more. The house had long been rebuilt, but this particular wall yet stood. I rode to it and looked, and there faintly could still be seen the name Marie, against the little line, and by it the mark that I had made. My own name and with it subsequent measurements were gone, for in the intervening forty years or so the sandstone had flaked away in places. Only her autograph remained, and when I saw it I think that I felt even worse than I did on finding whose was the old Bible that I had bought upon the market square at Maritzburg. I know that I rode away hurriedly without even stopping to inquire into whose hands the farm had passed. Through the peach orchard I rode, where the trees—perhaps the same, perhaps others—were once more in bloom, for the season of the year was that when Marie and I first met, nor did I draw rein for half a score of miles. But here I may state that Marie always stayed just half an inch the taller in body, and how much taller in mind and spirit I cannot tell. When we had finished our measuring match Marie turned to lead me to the house, and, pretending to observe for the first time the beautiful bustard and the two _koran_ hanging from my saddle, also the _klipspringer_ buck that Hans the Hottentot carried behind him on his horse, asked: “Did you shoot all these, Allan Quatermain?” “Yes,” I answered proudly; “I killed them in four shots, and the _pauw_ and _koran_ were flying, not sitting, which is more than you could have done, although you are taller, Miss Marie.” “I do not know,” she answered reflectively. “I can shoot very well with a rifle, for my father has taught me, but I never would shoot at living things unless I must because I was hungry, for I think that to kill is cruel. But, of course, it is different with men,” she added hastily, “and no doubt you will be a great hunter one day, Allan Quatermain, since you can already aim so well.” “I hope so,” I answered, blushing at the compliment, “for I love hunting, and when there are so many wild things it does not matter if we kill a few. I shot these for you and your father to eat.” “Come, then, and give them to him. He will thank you,” and she led the way through the gate in the sandstone wall into the yard, where the outbuildings stood in which the riding horses and the best of the breeding cattle were kept at night, and so past the end of the long, one-storied house, that was stone-built and whitewashed, to the stoep or veranda in front of it. On the broad stoep, which commanded a pleasant view over rolling, park-like country, where mimosa and other trees grew in clumps, two men were seated, drinking strong coffee, although it was not yet ten o’clock in the morning.