He wanted to put Jess out of his mind just now.
"My dear Bessie," he broke in, "why do you suppose such things?
I can assure you that, if you appeared in a London drawing-room, you would put most of the women into the shade.

Not that there is much chance of my frequenting London drawing-rooms again," he added.
"Oh, yes! I may be good-looking; I don't say that I am not; but can't you understand, I do not want you to marry me just because I am a pretty woman, as the Kafirs marry their wives?
If you marry me at all I want you to marry me because you care for _me_, the real _me_, not my eyes and my hair.

Oh, I don't know what to answer you! I don't indeed!" and she began to cry softly.
"Bessie, dear Bessie!" said John, who was pretty well beside himself by this time, "just tell me honestly--do you care about me?
I am not worth much, I know, but if you do all this goes for nothing," and he took her hand and drew her towards him, so that she half slipped, half rose from the sod wall and stood face to face with him, for she was a tall woman, and they were very nearly of a height.
Twice she raised her beautiful eyes to his to answer and twice her courage failed her; then at last the truth broke from her almost with a cry: "Oh, John, I love you with all my heart!" And now it will be well to drop a veil over the rest of these proceedings, for there are some things that should be sacred, even from the pen of the historian, and the first transport of the love of a good woman is one of them.
Suffice it to say that they sat there side by side on the sod wall, and were happy as people ought to be under such circumstances, till the glory departed from the western sky and the world grew cold and pale, till the night came down and hid the mountains, and only the stars and they were left to look out across the dusky distances of the wilderness of plain.
Meanwhile a very different scene was being enacted up at the house half a mile away.
Not more than ten minutes after John and his lady-love had departed on that fateful walk to look at the young trees, Frank Muller's stalwart form, mounted on his great black horse, was to be seen leisurely advancing towards the blue-gum avenue.

Jantje was lurking about between the stems of the trees in the peculiar fashion that is characteristic of the Hottentot, and which doubtless is bred into him after tens of centuries of tracking animals and hiding from enemies.

There he was, slipping from trunk to trunk, and gazing round him as though he expected each instant to discover the assegai of an ambushed foe or to hear the footfall of some savage beast of prey.