“But I do trouble about you, my dear, although it is true I don’t believe that you will be killed; you know I have always said so. Still I do trouble, and John—John,” she added in a kind of pitiful cry, “can’t you see that you have worn me out? Can’t you understand that I am getting old and weak? Is there nobody to whom you have a duty as well as to the heathen? Are there not enough heathen here?” she went on with gathering passion. “If you must mix with them, do what this gentleman says, and stop here, that is, if you won’t go back. Build a house and let us have a little peace before we die, for death will come soon enough, and terribly enough, I am sure,” and she burst into a fit of weeping. “My dear,” said Mr. Dove, “you are upset; the unhappy occurrences of to-day, which—did we but know it—are doubtless all for the best, and your anxiety for Rachel have been too much for you. I think that you had better go to bed, and you too, Rachel. I will talk the matter over further with Mr. Ishmael, who, perhaps, has been sent to guide me. I am not unreasonable, as you think, and if he can convince me that there is any risk to your lives—for my own I care nothing—I will consider the suggestion of building a mission-station outside Zululand, at any rate for a few years. It may be that it is not intended that we should enter that country at present.” So Mrs. Dove and her daughter went, but for two hours or more Rachel heard her father and the hunter talking earnestly, and wondered in a sleepy fashion to what conclusion he had come. Personally she did not mind much on which side of the Tugela they were to live, if they must bide at all in the region of that river. Still, for her mother’s sake she determined that if she could bring it about, they should stay where they were. Indeed there was no choice between this and returning to England, as her father had quarrelled too bitterly with the white men at Durban to allow of his taking up his residence among them again.