“Here it is,” said Philip. “Won't you read it?” said Kate. “But it's yours; surely a girl doesn't want anybody else----” “Ah! but you're different, though; you know everything--and besides--read it aloud, Philip.” With her basket of eggs on one arm, and the other hand on the outstretched arm of an apple-tree, she waited while he read: “Dearest Kitty,--How's yourself, darling, and how's Philip, and how's Grannie? I'm getting on tremendous. They're calling me Captain now--Capt'n Pete. Sort of overseer at the Diamond Mines outside Kimberley. Regular gentleman's life and no mistake. Nothing to do but sit under a monstrous big umbrella, with a paper in your fist, like a chairman, while twenty Kaffirs do the work. Just a bit of a tussle now and then to keep you from dropping off. When a Kaffir turns up a diamond, you grab it, and mark it on the time-sheet against his name. They've got their own outlandish ones, but we always christen them ourselves--Sixpence, Seven Waistcoats, Shoulder-of-Mutton, Twopenny Trotter--anything you like. When a Kaffir strikes a diamond, he gets a commission, and so does his overseer. I'm afraid I'm going to be getting terrible rich soon. Tell the old man I'll be buying that har-monia yet. They are a knowing lot, though, and if they can get up a dust to smuggle a stone when you're not looking, they will. Then they sell it to the blackleg Boers, and you've got to raise your voice like an advocate to get it back somehow. But the Boers can't do no harm to you with their fists at all--it's playing. They're a dirty lot, wonderful straight like some of the lazy Manx ones, especially Black Tom. When they see us down at the river washing, they say, 'What dirty people the English must be if they have to wash themselves three times a day--we only do it once a week.' When a Kaffir steals a stone we usually court-martial him, but I don't hold with it, as the floggers on the compound can't be trusted; so I always lick my own niggers, being more kinder, and if anybody does anything against me, they lynch him.” Kate made a little patient sigh and turned away her head, while Philip, in a halting voice, went on-- “Darling Kitty, I am longing mortal for a sight of your sweet face. When the night comes, and I'll be lying in the huts--boards on the ground, and good canvas, and everything comfortable--says I to the boys, 'Shut your faces, men, and let a poor chap sleep;' but they never twig the darkness of my meaning. I'll only be wanting a bit of quiet for thinking of.... with the stars atwinkling down.... She's looking at that one.... Shine on my angel....” “Really, Kate,” faltered Philip, “I can't----” “Give it to me, then,” said Kate. She was tugging with her trembling hand at the arm of the apple-tree, and the white blossom was raining over her from the rowels of the thin boughs overhead, like silver fish falling from the herring-net. Taking the letter, she glanced over the close--