At the foot of this jagged and cleft rock the farmhouse nestled--four square walls of wattle-and-daub, sheltered by its mass from the sweeping winds of the South African plateau.

A stream brought water from a spring close by: in front of the house--rare sight in that thirsty land--spread a garden of flowers.

It was an oasis in the desert.

But the desert itself stretched grimly all round.

I could never quite decide how far the oasis was caused by the water from the spring, and how far by Hilda's presence.
"Then you live here ?" I cried, gazing round--my voice, I suppose, betraying my latent sense of the unworthiness of the position.
"For the present," Hilda answered, smiling.