Ralph and he were more to each other than any father and son that I have
known, since they were also the dearest of friends. "Do not tempt me,"
he went on; "the lad must himself be told of this, and he must judge;
he is young, but among us at nineteen a youth is a burgher grown, with a
right to take up land and marry. He must be told, I say, and at once."

"It is good," I said, "let him judge;" but in the wickedness of my heart
I made up my mind that I would find means to help his judgment, for the
thought of losing him filled me with blind terror, and all that night I
lay awake thinking out the matter.

Early in the morning I rose and went to the _stoep_, where I found
Suzanne drinking coffee and singing a little song that Ralph had taught
her. I can see her now as she stood in her pretty tight-fitting dress,
a flower wet with dew in her girdle, swinging her _kapje_ by its strings
while the first rays of the sun glistened on the waves of her brown and
silk-like hair. She was near eighteen then, and so beautiful that my
heart beat with pride at her loveliness, for never in my long life have
I seen a girl of any nation who could compare with my daughter Suzanne
in looks. Many women are sweet to behold in this way or in that; but
Suzanne was beautiful every way, yes, and at all ages of her life; as a
child, as a maiden, as a matron and as a woman drawing near to eld, she
was always beautiful if, like that of the different seasons, her beauty
varied. In shape she was straight and tall and rounded, light-footed as
a buck, delicate in limb, wide-breasted and slender-necked. Her face was
rich in hue as a kloof lily, and her eyes--ah! no antelope ever had
eyes darker, tenderer, or more appealing than were the eyes of Suzanne.
Moreover, she was sweet of nature, ready of wit and good-hearted--yes,
even for the Kaffirs she had a smile.