A confused, disordered story--the little made large and the large small,
and nothing showing its inward meaning. It is not till the past has
receded many steps that before the clearest eyes it falls into co-ordinate
pictures. It is not till the I we tell of has ceased to exist that it
takes its place among other objective realities, and finds its true niche
in the picture. The present and the near past is a confusion, whose
meaning flashes on us as it slinks away into the distance.

The stranger lit one cigar from the end of another, and puffed and listened
with half-closed eyes.

"I will remember more to tell you if you like," said the boy.

He spoke with that extreme gravity common to all very young things who feel
deeply. It is not till twenty that we learn to be in deadly earnest and to
laugh. The stranger nodded, while the fellow sought for something more to
relate. He would tell all to this man of his--all that he knew, all that
he had felt, his inmost sorest thought. Suddenly the stranger turned upon
him.

"Boy," he said, "you are happy to be here."

Waldo looked at him. Was his delightful one ridiculing him? Here, with
this brown earth and these low hills, while the rare wonderful world lay
all beyond. Fortunate to be here?

The stranger read his glance.

"Yes," he said; "here with the karoo-bushes and red sand. Do you wonder
what I mean? To all who have been born in the old faith there comes a time