“'Respected Sir,'” read Jonaique, “'with pain and sorrow I write these few lines, to tell you of poor Peter Quilliam----'” “Aw boy veen, boy veen!” broke in Grannie. “'Knowing you were his friend in the old island, and the one he talked of mostly, except the girl----'” “Boy ve----” “Hush, woman.” “'He made good money out here, at the diamond mines----'” “Never a yellow sovereign he sent to me, then,” said Black Tom, “nor the full of your fist of ha'pence either. What's the use of getting grand-childers?” Cæsar waved his hand. “Go on, Jonaique. It's bad when the deceitfulness of riches is getting the better of a man.” “Where was I? Oh, 'good money ------' 'Yet he was never for taking joy in it----'” “More money, more cares,” muttered Cæsar. “'But talking and talking, and scheming for ever, for coming home.'” “Ah! home is a full cup,” moaned Grannie. “It was a show the way that lad was fond of it. 'Give me a plate of mate, bolstered with cabbage, and what do I care for their buns and sarves, Grannie,' says he. Aw, boy veen, boy bogh!” “What does the nightingale care for a golden cage when he can get a twig?” said Cæsar. “Is the boy's chest home yet?” asked John the Clerk. “There's something about it here,” said Jonaique, “if people would only let a man get on.” “It's mine,” said Black Tom. “We'll think of that by-and-bye,” said Cæsar, waving his hand to Jonaique. “'He had packed his chest for going, when four blacklegs, who had been hanging round the compound, tempting and plaguing the Kaffirs, made off with a bag of stones. Desperate gang, too; so nobody was running to be sent after them. But poor Peter, being always a bit bull-necked, was up to the office in a jiffy, and Might he go? And off in chase in the everin' with the twenty Kaffirs of his own company to help him--not much of a lot neither, and suspected of dealing diamonds with the blacklegs times; but Peter always swore their love for him was getting thicker and stronger every day like sour cream. “The captain's love has been their theme, and shall be till they die,” said Peter.'” “He drank up the Word like a thirsty land the rain,” said Cæsar. “Peter Quilliam and I had mortal joy of each other. 'Good-bye, father,' says he, and he was shaking me by the hand ter'ble. But go on, Jonaique.” “'That was four months ago, and a fortnight since eight of his Kaffirs came back.'” “Aw dear!” “Well, well!” “Lord-a-massy!” “Hush!”