all over; she is very cold, cold as a stone I sometimes think, but when
she does care for anybody it is enough to frighten one. I don't know a
great number of women, but somehow I do not think that there can be many
in the world like Jess. She is too good for this place; she ought to go
away to England and write books and become a famous woman, only----"
she added reflectively, "I am afraid that Jess's books would all be sad
ones."

Just then Bessie stopped talking and suddenly changed colour, the bunch
of lank wet feathers she held in her hand dropping from it with a little
splash back into the bath. Following her glance, John looked down the
avenue of blue-gum trees and perceived a big man with a broad hat and
mounted on a splendid black horse, cantering leisurely towards the
house.

"Who is that, Miss Croft?" he asked.

"It is a man I don't like," she said with a little stamp of her foot.
"His name is Frank Muller, and he is half a Boer and half an Englishman.
He is very rich, and very clever, and owns all the land round this
place, so uncle has to be civil to him, though he does not like him
either. I wonder what he wants now."

On came the horse, and John thought that its rider was going to pass
without seeing them, when suddenly the movement of Bessie's dress
between the _naatche_ trees caught his eye, and he pulled up and looked
round. He was a large and exceedingly handsome man, apparently about
forty years old, with clear-cut features, cold, light-blue eyes, and a
remarkable golden beard that hung down over his chest. For a Boer he
was rather smartly dressed in English-made tweed clothes, and tall