Part 44 (1/2)

She stared and stared, and the more she stared, the bigger a lump in her throat seemed to become. The room was so quiet and he sat so still, and something in his face brought that of her mother to her mind.

At last she walked right up to him, and, feeling if she did not get out the words quickly she never would, Hepsie stretched out her hand and said: ”When I stopped you in the lane to-day, I didn't know how much mother still loved you, and I forgot all about honouring parents, however unkind they seem, or I shouldn't have told you what I did, however true it was, for I hurt mother shockingly, as any one could see, and I've promised to look after my tongue much better, and so I just rushed up here to say--what I have said--and--and--please that's all, except----”

She gulped and choked, her small quivering and scarlet face with the pitiful eyes gazing down into his--and the years rolled away in the old man's sight, and his daughter was back at his side again. What was she saying in that pleading voice, as she knelt and clasped his shaking hand?

”Except--except--I'm sorry, I am! Oh--I didn't think how sad you were, and can't you love me just a bit?”

And what were Hepsie's feelings then when the old man rose, and seizing her in his arms, cried brokenly:

”Oh, child, if only your mother had said the same--only just once in the midst of my anger--but she pa.s.sed her father by, she pa.s.sed him by! And never a word in all these years of my loneliness and pain! My heart is breaking, for all its pride!”

”She wrote again and again,” declared Hepsie, and he started, and such a frown came then, that she was quite frightened, though she repeated, ”Indeed she did, and she loves you still.”

”Then,” said he, ”they never reached me! Some one has come between us.

But never mind that now. I must go to your mother. Come,” he added, ”I must fetch my girl back to her home again, until her husband claims her from me.”

[Sidenote: A Surprise]

But when the two reached the little house in the lane a surprise awaited them. They found Mrs. Erldon in her husband's arms. He had returned unexpectedly, having, as a successful prospector for gold, done well enough to return home at once to fetch his wife and child.

No words could describe the joy in his wife's heart when her father took their hands and asked their forgiveness for years of estrangement, and told the tale of the intercepted letters, which he might never have discovered had it not been for little Hepsie's Christmas visit of peace and goodwill.

Hepsie is learning to control that little tongue of hers now, and she has, framed in her room, a verse that mother wrote for Hepsie especially:

Take heed of the words that hastily fly, Lest sorrow should weep for them by and by, And the lips that have spoken vainly yearn, Sighing for words that can never return!

[Sidenote: A glimpse of South African travel, with some of the humours of the road.]

Our African Driver

BY

J. H. SPETTIGUE

”Here comes the wagon to be packed!” called the children, as with a creak and groan of wheels, and shouts from the Kafirs, it was brought lumbering to the door.

”The vor-chiest is ready, Lang-Jan,” said Mrs. Gilbert, coming to the door. ”Everything that can, had better be put in place to-night.”

”Ja, Meeses,” agreed Jan. ”It's a long trek from this here place to the town in one day, and I will start early, while the stars are still out.”

Lang-Jan was our driver, so called to distinguish him from the numerous other Jans about the place.

The distinction was appropriate, for he looked very tall and slim, though it might be the contrast with his wife's ma.s.sive build that gave him a false presentment. He was more proud of her bulk than of his own height, and used to jeer at his Hottentot leader for the scraggy appearance of _his_ weaker half, possibly with the kindly intention of reducing the number, or severity, of the poor creature's beatings.

I do not believe Jan ever beat his wife, though I think she was as lazy a woman as could be found. Perhaps he got most of his rations provided from the house, and was not dependent on her for his comfort.

However, he seemed to me to have a Mark Tapley temper; the more unendurable the weather got, the cheerier he grew with his guttural and yet limpid cries to the oxen, and his brisk steps by their side.