Here the German sat down on one side of the table, Bonaparte on the other; each one with a couple of flat stones before him, and the plate between them.

“Do not be afraid,” said the German, “do not be afraid. I do not forget the boy at the fire; I crack for him. The bag is full. Why, this is strange,” he said, suddenly, cracking open a large nut; “three kernels! I have not observed that before. This must be retained. This is valuable.” He wrapped the nut gravely in paper, and put it carefully in his waistcoat pocket. “Valuable, very valuable!” he said, shaking his head.

“Ah, my friend,” said Bonaparte, “what joy it is to be once more in your society.”

The German’s eye glistened, and Bonaparte seized his hand and squeezed it warmly. They then proceeded to crack and eat. After awhile Bonaparte said, stuffing a handful of raisins into his mouth, —

“I was so deeply grieved, my dear friend, that you and Tant’ Sannie had some slight unpleasantness this evening.”

“Oh, no, no,” said the German; “it is all right now. A few sheep missing; but I made it good myself. I give my twelve sheep, and work in the other eight.”

“It is rather hard that you should have to make good the lost sheep,” said Bonaparte; “it is no fault of yours.”

“Well,” said the German, “this is the case: Last evening I count the sheep at the kraal — twenty are missing. I ask the herd; he tells me they are with the other flock; he tells me so distinctly; how can I think he lies? This afternoon I count the other flock. The sheep are not there. I come back here: the herd is gone; the sheep are gone. But I cannot — no, I will not — believe he stole them,” said the German, growing suddenly excited. “Some one else, but not he. I know that boy; I knew him three years. He is a good boy. I have seen him deeply affected on account of his soul. And she would send the police after him! I say I would rather make the loss good myself I will not have it; he has fled in fear. I know his heart. It was,” said the German, with a little gentle hesitation, “under my words that he first felt his need of a Saviour.”

Bonaparte cracked some more almonds, then said, yawning, and more as though he asked for the sake of having something to converse about than from any interest he felt in the subject —

“And what has become of the herd’s wife?”

The German was alight again in a moment.

“Yes; his wife. She has a child six days old, and Tant’ Sannie would turn her out into the fields this night. That,” said the German, rising, “that is what I call cruelty — diabolical cruelty. My soul abhors that deed. The man that could do such a thing I could run him through with a knife!” said the German, his gray eyes flashing, and his bushy black beard adding to the murderous fury of his aspect. Then suddenly subsiding, he said, — “But all is now well; Tant’ Sannie gives her word that the maid shall remain for some days. I go to Oom Muller’s to-morrow to learn if the sheep may not be there. If they are not, then I return. They are gone; that is all. I make it good.”