At last the little shutter of the post-office was thrown up, and Ernest got his own letters, together with those belonging to Mr. Alston and Jeremy. He turned into the shade of a neighbouring verandah, and rapidly sorted the pile. There was no letter in Eva’s handwriting. But there was one in that of her sister Florence. Ernest knew the writing well; there was no mistaking its peculiar upright, powerful-looking characters. This he opened hurriedly. Enclosed in the letter was a note, which was in the writing he had expected to see. He rapidly unfolded it, and, as he did so, a flash of fear passed through his brain. “Why did she write in this way?” The note could not have been a long one, for in another minute it was lying on the ground, and Ernest, pale-faced and with catching breath, was clinging to the verandah post with both hands to save himself from falling. In a few seconds he recovered, and, picking up the note, walked quickly across the square towards his house. Halfway across he was overtaken by his friend on the Staff cantering gaily along on a particularly wooden-looking pony, from the sides of which his legs projected widely, and waving in one hand the Colonial Office bag addressed to the administrator of the Government. “Hullo, my abstemious friend!” he hallooed, as he pulled up the wooden pony with a jerk that sent each of its stiff legs sprawling in a different direction. “Was patience rewarded? Is Chloe over the water kind? If not, take my advice, and don’t trouble your head about her. _Quant on n’a pas ce qu’on aime,_ the wise man _aimes ce qu’il a._ Kershaw, I have conceived a great affection for you, and I will let you into a secret. Come with me this afternoon, and I will introduce you to two charming specimens of indigenous beauty. Like roses they bloom upon the veldt, and waste their sweetness on the desert air. ‘Mater pulchra, puella pulcherrima,’ as Virgil says. I, as befits my years, will attach myself to the mater, for you sweet youth shall be reserved the puella. Ha! ha! ha! “And he brought the despatch-bag down with a sounding whack between the ears of the wooden pony, with the result that he was nearly sent flying into the sluit, being landed by a sudden plunge well on to the animal’s crupper. “Woho, Bucephalus, woho! or your mealies shall be cut off.” Just then he for the first time caught sight of the face of his companion, who was plodding along in silence by his side. “Hullo! what’s up, Kershaw?” he said, in an altered tone; “you don’t look well. Nothing wrong, I hope?” “Nothing, nothing,” answered Ernest, quietly; “that is, I have got some bad news, that is all. Nothing to speak of, nothing.” “My dear fellow, I am so sorry, and I have been troubling you with my nonsense. Forgive me. There, you wish to be alone. Good-bye.”