that quaint, childish song of the people, that has a world of sweetness,
and sad, vague yearning when sung over and over dreamily by a woman's voice
as she sits alone at her work.

But Gregory heard neither that nor yet the loud laughter of the Kaffer
maids, that every now and again broke through from the kitchen, where they
joked and worked. Of late Gregory had grown strangely impervious to the
sounds and sights about him. His lease had run out, but Em had said, "Do
not renew it; I need one to help me; just stay on." And, she had added,
"You must not remain in your own little house; live with me; you can look
after my ostriches better so."

And Gregory did not thank her. What difference did it make to him, paying
rent or not, living there or not; it was all one. But yet he came. Em
wished that he would still sometimes talk of the strength of the master-
right of man; but Gregory was as one smitten on the cheek-bone.

She might do what she pleased, he would find no fault, had no word to say.
He had forgotten that it is man's right to rule. On that rainy morning he
had lighted his pipe at the kitchen fire, and when breakfast was over stood
in the front door watching the water rush down the road till the pipe died
out in his mouth. Em saw she must do something for him, and found him a
large calico duster. He had sometimes talked of putting the loft neat, and
today she could find nothing else for him to do. So she had the ladder put
to the trap-door that he need not go out in the wet, and Gregory with the
broom and duster mounted to the loft. Once at work he worked hard. He
dusted down the very rafters, and cleaned the broken candle-moulds and bent
forks that had stuck in the thatch for twenty years. He placed the black
bottles neatly in rows on an old box in the corner, and piled the skins on
one another, and sorted the rubbish in all the boxes; and at eleven o'clock