Hansie kept that kitten and, after Carlo, loved it better than any other pet, and even Mrs. van Warmelo relented as she watched the playful creature hiding in the shadows and springing out at every passer-by. "What are you going to call her?" she asked her daughter. "Oh, I don't know. Perhaps I'll go and ask Lord ---- what _he_ called her." She stopped, observing her mother's frown, and then went on: "We must think of a name, a nice, appropriate war name." A few moments later the kitten crept into a corner, with a small mouse held firmly between her jaws. "Oh, mother, look, she has caught a mouse already. She is going to be a splendid mouser. And oh, now I have a name for her. We'll call her '_Mauser_,' mother dear!" So be it. "Mauser" is her name, and hereafter she may be seen invariably in Hansie's company, a welcome addition to the small, harmonious family. Perched on Hansie's shoulder as she sat reading under the verandah, or purring round her as she lay under the trees, with Carlo watching by her side, Mauser was ever to be found where her young mistress was; and when the latter went to town she and Carlo were invariably escorted to the gate by the faithful Mauser, who again welcomed them on their return. This kidnapping episode had taken place a few months after the British entry into Pretoria. A full year had gone by; and Mauser, the kitten, had developed into a beautiful full-grown cat and was the mother of five mischievous little ones, grey-striped and very wild, for whom she had made a home in a deep hollow in the trunk of one of the big weeping-willows, the very tree under which "Gentleman Jim" had built his small kitchen of corrugated iron. It is a stormy night in November 1901, a month remembered by all for the violence and frequency of its storms. Hansie is bending over her diary, trying to make her entries between the crashes with which the house is shaken. Her mother is lying on a couch near by; her tired eyes are closed, but she is not asleep. Who could sleep in such a storm? Perhaps we may be allowed to look over the writer's shoulder. "Nov. 8th, Friday, 10 o'clock p.m. "And this terrific storm has been raging for hours! It seems incredible. "It was the same last night and the night before. As I write, the roar of thunder never once breaks off, peal after peal, crash after crash, vivid, dazzling flashes of lightning, torrents of rain mixed with hail, and a howling wind. "Such a night is never to be forgotten. "One is thrilled and impressed by its magnificence, by its awful grandeur and its majesty, and yet I think one would go mad if it continued for any length of time. "I feel as if _I_ am going mad with the thought of our thousands and thousands of women and tender little children exposed to all this fury.... "Where is the God of pity to-night? "Surely not in our desolate land, not in our ruined homes--_not in South Africa_!