Before the door sat Gregory Rose in his shirt-sleeves, on a camp-stool, and
ever and anon he sighed deeply. There was that in his countenance for
which even his depressing circumstances failed to account. Again and again
he looked at the little kopje, at the milk-pail at his side, and at the
brown pony, who a short way off cropped the dry bushes--and sighed.

Presently he rose and went into his house. It was one tiny room, the
whitewashed walls profusely covered with prints cut from the "Illustrated
London News", and in which there was a noticeable preponderance of female
faces and figures. A stretcher filled one end of the hut, and a rack for a
gun and a little hanging looking-glass diversified the gable opposite,
while in the centre stood a chair and table. All was scrupulously neat and
clean, for Gregory kept a little duster folded in the corner of his table-
drawer, just as he had seen his mother do, and every morning before he went
out he said his prayers, and made his bed, and dusted the table and the
legs of the chairs, and even the pictures on the wall and the gun-rack.

On this hot afternoon he took from beneath his pillow a watch-bag made by
his sister Jemima, and took out the watch. Only half past four! With a
suppressed groan he dropped it back and sat down beside the table. Half-
past four! Presently he roused himself. He would write to his sister
Jemima. He always wrote to her when he was miserable. She was his safety-
valve. He forgot her when he was happy; but he used her when he was
wretched.

He took out ink and paper. There was a family crest and motto on the
latter, for the Roses since coming to the colony had discovered that they
were of distinguished lineage. Old Rose himself, an honest English farmer,
knew nothing of his noble descent; but his wife and daughter knew--
especially his daughter. There were Roses in England who kept a park and