asked.

'Indeed I will,' was the hearty response.

The trip was a wearisome one. The weather was hot, and there was much
dust. Little Jack was the leaven of our heavy days, and a sweet
letter, tucked away in a safe place, from the boy in England, wrung
and cheered my aching heart. It bade us to 'brace up.' He had heard
all about the troubles, and was glad his father was not idle when men
were needed. His house had won the football match. There were only a
few more weeks to wait, and we would all be together again! Fate
carried a smile in her pocket for me so long as that boy kept well!

At night we reached Vereenigen, on the border of the Transvaal. We
were delayed there two hours (120 minutes, 7,200 seconds) while the
Custom House officials examined the luggage. Faint and exhausted, my
husband lay on the seat before me. I sat at the open window
waiting--waiting with every nerve strained and a fearful rushing sound
in my ears, for the possible attack of excited Boers or a stray shot
from some fanatic's rifle. Jacky, trying to clamber over my lap, would
whimper under the fierce clutch of my fingers as I dragged him down
from the window.

As is usual, the passengers' names had been telegraphed ahead, and a
crowd of Boers had gathered at the station to see the man who had come
back to get his sentence. They were a wild, uncouth-looking crowd
from the adjacent farms. I could hear them ask, 'Where is he?' 'In
there,' another would answer, pointing with his thumb over his
shoulder to our compartment. In threes and fours they would shuffle
into our car and gaze with dull, stupid curiosity upon the prostrate