Presently the landlady came back.

“Left the door open,” she said, bustling to shut it; “but a darkey will be a darkey, and never carries a head on its shoulders like other folks. Not ill, I hope, sir?” she said looking at Gregory when she had shut the bedroom door.

“No,” said Gregory, “no.”

The landlady began putting the things together.

“Who,” asked Gregory, “is in that room?”

Glad to have a little innocent piece of gossip to relate, and some one willing to hear it, the landlady made the most of a little story as she cleared the table. Six months before a lady had come alone to the hotel in a wagon, with only a colored leader and driver. Eight days after a little baby had been born. If Gregory stood up and looked out at the window he would see a blue gum-tree in the graveyard; close by it was a little grave. The baby was buried there. A tiny thing, only lived two hours, and the mother herself almost went with it. After awhile she was better but one day she got up out of bed, dressed herself without saying a word to any one, and went out. It was a drizzly day; a little time after some one saw her sitting on the wet ground under the blue gum-tree, with the rain dripping from her hat and shawl. They went to fetch her, but she would not come until she chose. When she did she had gone to bed, and had not risen again from it; never would, the doctor said.

She was very patient, poor thing. When you went in to ask her how she was she said always, “Better,” or “Nearly well!” and lay still in the darkened room, and never troubled any one. The Mozambiquer took care of her, and she would not allow any one else to touch her: would not so much as allow any one else to see her foot uncovered. She was strange in many ways, but she paid well, poor thing; and now the Mozambiquer was going, and she would have to take up with some one else.

The landlady prattled on pleasantly and now carried away the tray with the breakfast things. When she was gone, Gregory leaned his head on his hands, but he did not think long.

Before dinner he had ridden out of the town to where on a rise a number of transport-wagons were outspanned. The Dutchman driver of one wondered at the stranger’s eagerness to free himself of his horses. Stolen perhaps; but it was worth his while to buy them at so low a price. So the horses changed masters, and Gregory walked off with his saddle-bags slung across his arms. Once out of sight of the wagons he struck out of the road and walked across the “veld,” the dry, flowering grasses waving everywhere about him; half way across the plain he came to a deep gully which the rain torrents had washed out, but which was now dry. Gregory sprang down into its red bed. It was a safe place, and quiet. When he had looked about him he sat down under the shade of an overhanging bank and fanned himself with his hat, for the afternoon was hot, and he had walked fast. At his feet the dusty ants ran about, and the high red bank before him was covered by a network of roots and fibres washed bare by the rains. Above his head rose the clear blue African sky; at his side were the saddle-bags full of women’s clothing. Gregory looked up half plaintively into the blue sky.