eternal friendship, especially Ernest and the member of his Excellency’s staff, who shake hands and bless each other, till the warmth of their emotions proves too much for them, and they weep in chorus there upon the table.) For the rest, Ernest had some vague recollection of helping to drive his newly found friend home in a wheelbarrow that would persist in upsetting in every “sluit” or ditch, especially if it had running water in it; and that was about all he did remember. In the morning he woke up, or rather first became conscious of pain in his head, in a little double-bedded room attached to the hotel. On the pillow of the bed opposite to him lay Jeremy’s battered face. For a while Ernest could make nothing of all this. Why was Jeremy there? Where were they? Everything turned round and seemed phantasmagorial; the only real, substantial thing was that awful pain in the head. But presently things began to come back to him, and the sight of Jeremy’s bruised face recalled the fight, and the fight recalled the dinner, and the dinner brought back a vague recollection of Jeremy’s speech and of something he had said about Eva. What could it have been? Ah, Eva! Perhaps Jeremy knew something about her; perhaps he had brought the letter that had been so long in coming. O, how his heart went out towards her! But how came Jeremy there in bed before him? how came he to be in South Africa at all? At that moment his reflections were interrupted by the entry of Mazooku, bearing the coffee which it is the national habit in South Africa to drink early in the morning. The martial-looking Zulu, who seemed curiously out of place carrying cups of coffee, seeing that his master was awake, saluted him with the customary “Koos,” lifting one of the cups of coffee to give emphasis to the word, and nearly upsetting it in the effort. “Mazooku,” said Ernest, severely, “how did we get here?”