But there the matter had to end. He could not bid her break her word, nor would he allow himself to yield to a tempting sophistry that women’s ante-nuptial promises were annulled by marriage. To regain his good graces, however, Yvonne pledged herself never to intercede with him on Joyce’s behalf in the future--in fact to preserve an absolute silence concerning the black sheep and his doings. This settled, she drove him over to Bickerton in her pony carriage. And the even tenor of her life went on. ***** It was many weeks before the letters arrived at the farm in South Africa. The monthly ox-waggons that came from the nearest post-town brought them, together with the usual load of farm and household requisites, tinned provisions, and liquors. Day after day, Joyce had stood by the prickly-pear hedge on the rise behind the house, looking over the dreary plain, in wistful watch for the specks on the horizon that alone connected him with civilisation. They arrived at night--a blustering August night, with frost in the air, and a cloudless sky in which the Southern Cross gleamed. Before waiting to help unload and outspan the teams, he rushed into the house with the meagre post-bundle. It contained a few colonial newspapers, some letters for Wilson, the farmer who was away, and the two letters from Fulminster. The rough table, on which he sorted them by the light of a flaring chimneyless lamp, was drawn up to the bedside of Noakes. “One for you, old man,” said Joyce. “For me?” Noakes stretched out his thin arm eagerly, and clutched the undreamed of prize. “From Yvonne. It’s to cheer you up, old chap, I expect. It’s just like her, you know.”. Joyce ran through his letter rapidly and went out to superintend the unloading. But Noakes, who was past work, remained in bed and pored over Yvonne’s simple lines till the tears came into his eyes.