Inside was an ordinary sheet of paper written over in a bold, firm, yet slightly unpractised writing that she knew well enough, and the sight of which filled her with a presentiment of evil.

It was Frank Muller's.
She turned sick and cold, but could not choose but read as follows: "Camp, near Pretoria.

15 February.
"Dear Miss Bessie,--I am sorry to have to write to you, but though we have quarrelled lately, and also your good uncle, I think it my duty to do so, and send this to your hand by a special runner.

Yesterday was a sortie made by the poor folk in Pretoria, who are now as thin with hunger as the high veldt oxen just before spring.

Our arms were again victorious; the redcoats ran away and left their ambulance in our hands, carrying with them many dead and wounded.