least they are not hypocrites, and they are not vulgar; that is the
privilege of civilised nations.

Well, with these folk Rachel was intimate. She could talk to the warrior
of his wars, to the woman of her garden and her children to the children
of that wonder world which surrounds childhood throughout the universe.
And yet there was never a one of these but lifted the hand to her in
salute when her shadow fell upon them. To them all she was the Inkosazana,
the Great Lady. They would laugh at her father and mimic him behind his
back, but Rachel they never laughed at or mimicked. Of her mother also,
although she kept herself apart from them, much the same may be said. For
her they had a curious name which they would not, or were unable to
explain. They called her "Flower-that-grows-on-a-grave." For Mr. Dove
their appellation was less poetical. It was
"Shouter-about-Things-he-does-not-understand," or, more briefly, "The
Shouter," a name that he had acquired from his habit of raising his voice
when he grew moved in speaking to them. The things that he did not
understand, it may be explained, were not to their minds his religious
views, which, although they considered them remarkable, were evidently his
own affair, but their private customs. Especially their family customs
that he was never weary of denouncing to the bewilderment of these poor
heathens, who for their part were not greatly impressed by those of the
few white people with whom they came in contact. Therefore, with native
politeness, they concluded that he spoke thus rudely because he did not
understand. Hence his name.

But Rachel had other friends. In truth she was Nature's child, if in a
better and a purer sense than Byron uses that description. The sea, the
veld, the sky, the forest and the river, these were her companions, for
among them she dwelt solitary. Their denizens, too, knew her well, for