He waves his hat, he has recognised the figure of the girl who stands on deck and waves her handkerchief in response to his greeting. His strong hand clasps hers; and now the discreet reader need not avert his eyes--no need here to "draw the veil"--for Hansie had written from London to this tall, broad-shouldered man: "What is left of me is coming to you now, but we must meet as _friendly acquaintances_, until we are both certain of ourselves." How long this "friendly acquaintance" lasted it is difficult to say, for there is a difference of opinion on the point. _She_ says, not less than sixty minutes. _He_ asserts, not more than thirty-five! * * * * * The exquisite serenity of her father's native land, especially on such a perfect day in midsummer, had never seemed to her so sweet. Here, indeed, she felt that peace _could_ come to her at last. * * * * * But not yet--not yet. Strong emotions of a different kind awaited her, the meeting of beloved friends and relatives, after seemingly endless years of pain, proving no less trying than the introduction to a large circle of _future_ relatives and friends. Hansie had to be "lionised" as heroine of the war, and this was done in a whole-hearted, generous way which was a constant source of wonder to her. She was "carried on the hands," as the Dutch saying goes, by all who had the remotest claim on her. Functions were arranged for her, receptions held, to which white-haired women and stately venerable men came from far to shake her hand, because she was a daughter of the Transvaal, nothing more--not because of what she had done and endured, for this was known to only one or two. Old friends from South Africa there were in scores, and for the time the State of Holland was transformed into a colony of Boers, which seemed complete when the Boer leaders, Botha, de Wet, and de la Rey, arrived with their staffs. Then it seemed as if the people of Holland lost their heads entirely, and scenes such as those which took place daily in the streets are never to be forgotten by those who witnessed them. All this, though wonderful, was not the best thing for our heroine, who was "living on her nerves," though in a different way, as surely as she did during those cruel years of war. Added to this she was frequently tried beyond endurance by the questions: "Why did the Boers give in? How _could_ the Boers give in and lose their independence?" One conversation in particular was burnt into her brain. "Was it the Concentration Camps?" "No," the answer came slowly, "no, it was not the Concentration Camps. The high mortality was past, the weakest had been taken, and there was no cause for anxiety for those remaining in the Camps. Their rations had been increased and improved--there was no more of that first awful suffering." "What was it, then? The arming of the natives?" The answer came more slowly: