"Goodness only knows what he's reserved for," rejoined the widow in a desponding tone; "but if Mynheer Van Galgebrok, whom I met last night at the Cross Shovels, spoke the truth, little Jack will never die in his bed. But she made a pretence of struggling a little, for it would be out of character for her not to do so and she did not want to arouse his suspicions. I want to make my own selection. He wore a battered sunhelmet, a loin-cloth and a pair of dilapidated canvas shoes. He won’t be in uniform. ‘Here, miss,’ came faintly from somewhere close at hand. We've ridden post all the way, and I'm horribly tired, or you wouldn't have mastered me so easily. “MY DEAR GIRL,— “I am so sorry if we made asses of ourselves to-night. You have shown an almost feverish anxiety to eliminate from your personal appearance all that reminded me of you —when we first met.
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