bearing, once because I was suddenly called away upon a journey, and
the third time because a Kaffir boy found my manuscript convenient for
lighting the kitchen fire.

But now that I am at leisure here in England, I will make a fourth
attempt. If I succeed, the story may serve to interest some one in after
years when I am dead and gone; before that I should not wish it to
be published. It is a wild tale enough, and suggests some curious
reflections.

I am the son of a missionary. My father was originally curate in charge
of a small parish in Oxfordshire. He had already been some ten years
married to my dear mother when he went there, and he had four children,
of whom I was the youngest. I remember faintly the place where we lived.
It was an ancient long grey house, facing the road. There was a very
large tree of some sort in the garden. It was hollow, and we children
used to play about inside of it, and knock knots of wood from the rough
bark. We all slept in a kind of attic, and my mother always came and
kissed us when we were in bed. I used to wake up and see her bending
over me, a candle in her hand. There was a curious kind of pole
projecting from the wall over my bed. Once I was dreadfully frightened
because my eldest brother made me hang to it by my hands. That is all
I remember about our old home. It has been pulled down long ago, or I
would journey there to see it.

A little further down the road was a large house with big iron gates to
it, and on the top of the gate pillars sat two stone lions, which
were so hideous that I was afraid of them. Perhaps this sentiment was
prophetic. One could see the house by peeping through the bars of the
gates. It was a gloomy-looking place, with a tall yew hedge round it;