“Now,” I declared, sleepily, “if you will come with me. Sam says he has got enough flowers and greenstuff to fill two churches.” Sam, I should explain, was the Kaffir boy whose duty it was to ring the bell for service, hand the collection-bag round, and gather the flowers for the church decorations. St. John-in-the-Wilderness, as it was called, stood on my father’s land, a shining beacon of corrugated iron and wood. Struggling to my feet, I reached for my hat and green-lined umbrella, and stood ready, waiting to accompany my brother. “Don’t take Nellie,” I protested, as the fat old bulldog gambolled about, panting and snorting in spite of the heat, in anticipation of a walk. But Nellie proved obdurate alike to threats and entreaties, and presently scampered off down the hill, leaving us to follow. Half-way across the Flat we came to one of those exquisite little streams that are so frequently met with on the coast of Natal. Crossing this on stepping-stones, we reached the opposite bank, whence it was but a few paces through the narrow bush path to the clearing in the jungle where stood St. John-in-the-Wilderness. “Look, Jessie, the door is open!” exclaimed Malcolm. “I suppose that duffer Sam didn’t lock it properly this morning when he put the flowers in.” “Probably,” I returned, gaining his side on the vestry steps. “The lock has got so stiff that I cannot turn the key myself, so I am not surprised.” The dim, subdued light inside the church caused us to pause a moment or so before observing the extravagant profusion of flowers, palms, and ferns that Sam had gathered--truly more than enough for the decoration of two churches the size of ours. “How glorious!” I cried, kneeling by the side of this floral wealth and picking up a bloom of the delicately-tinted waxen ginger. “What would they say to Christmas decorations like this in England?” “I think,” announced my brother, ignoring my ecstasies, “that I will just run over and inspect a gang at work at the other end of the Flat, and then I’ll join you and we can work undisturbed.” [Illustration: THE AUTHORESS, MRS. K. COMPTON, WHO HERE RELATES HER TERRIFYING ADVENTURE WITH A HUGE PYTHON. _From a Photo. by W. J. Hawker._] I willingly agreed to this arrangement, as I wanted to practise some hymns for the morrow. To astonish our scanty congregation I thought I would put my musical genius to the test and attempt a voluntary. Picking up his sun helmet and cane, Malcolm prepared to go. “Don’t be long, there’s a dear,” I said. “And I think you had better lock the door and take the key, because the door won’t keep shut unless it is locked, and I do not care to have it open.” “What are you afraid of?” laughed Malcolm, as he went out once more into the sunshine. “Oh, I don’t know, I’m sure, but when I am alone I prefer to have the door shut.” Still laughing, he turned the key in the lock and went off.