From Boshop Methuen's force moved on in zigzag fashion, their destination being Kroonstad. From Hoopstad to Bothaville they passed over good roads, through picturesque country, followed for miles by the graceful bends of the Vaal River--a ribbon of silver fringed with willows. The weather was now growing more and more chilly, and after sundown frost began to nip and biting winds to whistle through the bones. Nights were spent in trying to gain warmth, and when dawn came the sun was welcomed with thanksgiving. The infantry in these raw mornings had the advantage of the cavalry, as they could work themselves into a glow, but there were other occasions in which the mounted men had their revenge, and could forge on ahead and secure, before the arrival of the lagging pedestrians, all manner of tempting edibles--chickens, ducks, sucking pigs, and the like, which happened to be at the farms. These luxuries were greedily coveted, for, coming along from Boshop some 220 miles, diet had been limited to biscuits--hard, dry, and irresponsive--and any variety in the monotonous fare was received with unqualified rejoicing. Near Bothaville, as dawn broke, a curious episode took place. In the distance was spied a tent--a species of farmyard in the centre of the open veldt. Chickens and cattle and a trek waggon fringed the strange mushroom-shaped domain. It being necessary to discover the nature of the occupant of this shanty, one of the military party approached and hallooed. No answer. He roared louder. Then from the inner recess of the tent a burly voice bellowed--"You can't commandeer me; I'm an Englishman. The first Dutchman that pokes his head around here will look like a sieve when I've done with him." To this warlike challenge the British soldier meekly replied--described himself and his business--whereupon a change rapid as amusing came over the scene. Out from the tent, "like a cork from a bottle," burst the inmate, glad past speech, excited past effervescence--wife, children, came rushing forth from their hiding-places, rapture writ in smiling letters over every feature. The British were come--at last--at last! The valiant couple were taken in charge, removed to Bothaville and protected, and their long days of loyal suspense and tribulation were at an end. Then on went the goodly multitude, through streets whose houses fluttered with white, taking with them as they went their Boer prisoners, who, sitting in their own carts, alternately shivered and snarled. At Kroonstad--reached on the 27th of May--they pitched their camps, not in the town itself but discreetly removed from the awful reminiscences of dead horse and beast left by Boer and British armies in their last tussle, and here they thought to take a brief rest before marching away from rail and civilisation. But man proposed and the exigencies of the situation disposed, and by the 1st of June we find Lord Methuen's troops hastening off to the assistance of the 13th Battalion of Imperial