There was nothing for it then but to keep Lucy well-nourished with broth made from tinned foods and beef-extract. The porter who had let drop the case of cider and had conceived an attachment for his mistress out of pity and remorse, set a snare one day and caught a guinea-fowl. This made an excellent nourishing soup. Another porter found a clutch of guinea-fowl’s eggs. There was one remaining milch goat which yielded about a pint of milk daily. With such resources as these John strove to prepare an invalid diet which could be administered by spoonfuls to a patient with no appetite and poor vitality. He had a small medicine-case of drugs, but knew not what to prescribe for nervous exhaustion. He scarcely left the vicinity of the tent during the day-time, and slept fully-dressed at night in a deck-chair close to Lucy’s camp bedstead. At the end of the fifth day the medical missionary arrived on a riding donkey with John’s messengers, and six porters of his own carrying a comfortable travelling hammock. He diagnosed the case and took a cheerful view of it, but advised their setting out next day with him and attempting by forced marches to reach his station—fifty miles away—in two days. At Mpwapwa Lucy would be nursed back to health by his wife, and when she was fit for more African travel she should be sent on to Hangodi. * * * * * Six weeks afterwards she reached her husband’s station in Ulunga, completely restored to health. The cool dry season had set in; the country she traversed was elevated, much wooded, picturesque hill-and-dale threaded with numerous small streams, and her travelling escort, the medical missionary, was an interesting man with a well-stored mind who could explain much that she wanted to know. On her arrival at Hangodi she found Ann Jamblin installed as a potent force in several departments of the station economy, the real mistress of the community. She had come up from the coast in the _safari_ of Mrs. Ewart Stott. The marches had been well regulated the camping places well chosen, the wild beasts had not annoyed them, and they had avoided the waterless tract. Ann was prompt to infer that Lucy had made far too much fuss over the petty discomforts of African travel, and Lucy began to take refuge in a proud silence—which one’s persecutors call "sulks"—under Ann’s gibes and obliquely slighting remarks. *CHAPTER VIII* *LETTERS TO AND FRO* _From Lady Silchester to Captain Brentham._ Englefield House, _July_ 12, 1887. DEAR ROGER,— The great event took place three weeks ago and I am just allowed to leave my bed and lie on a couch for a few hours every day—in my boudoir. Here I can wile away the time by writing letters.