Ernest read selected portions of this exalted composition to Mr. Alston and Jeremy. Both listened in solemn silence, and at the conclusion Jeremy scratched his head and remarked that it was deep enough to “fetch” any girl, though for his part he did not quite understand it. Mr. Alston relit his pipe, and for awhile said nothing; but to himself he thought that it was a remarkable letter for so young a man to have written, and revealed a curious turn of mind. One remark he did make, however, and that was rather a rude one: “The girl won’t understand what you are driving at. Master Ernest; she will think that you have gone off your head in these savage parts. All you say may or may not be true—on that point I express no opinion; but to write such things to a woman is to throw your pearls before swine. You should ask her about her bonnets, my boy, and tell her what sort of dresses she should bring out, and that the air is good for the complexion. She would come then.” Here Ernest fired up. “You are beastly cynical, Alston, and you should not speak of Miss Ceswick like that to me. Bonnets, indeed!” “All light, my lad—all right. Time will show. Ah, you boys! you go building up your ideals of ivory and gold and fine linen, only to find them one day turned into the commonest of clay, draped in the dirtiest of rags. Well, well, it is the way of the world; but you take my advice, Ernest: burn that letter, and go in for an Intombi. It is not too late yet, and there is no mistake about the sort of clay a Kafir girl is made of.” Here Ernest stamped out of the room in a passion. “Too cock-sure, wanted cooling down a little,” remarked Mr. Alston to Jeremy; “should never be cock-sure where a woman is concerned; women are fond of playing dirty tricks, and saying they could not help it. I know them; for, though you mightn’t think it, I was once young myself. Come on; let us go and find him, and go for a walk.” They found Ernest sitting on the box of the waggon, which was outspanned together with Jeremy’s, just outside the town, and looking rather sulky. “Come on, Ernest,” said Mr. Alston, apologetically; “I will throw no more mud at your ideal. In the course of the last thirty years I have seen so many fall to pieces of their own accord that I could not help warning you. But perhaps they make them of better stuff in England than we do in these parts.”