“Oh, what is that frightful yelling and howling?” exclaimed Alicia in alarm. “I hope, I trust, that this jungly place is not infested by wolves!”
“Merely jackals,” said Harold quietly.
“But don’t jackals hunt in packs? might they not attack one?” asked Alicia anxiously, as the wild yells came nearer and nearer.
“Jackals are the most cowardly brutes in the world,” exclaimed Robin; “they have none of the boldness of the dimak. I doubt whether jackals would attack any human being, except, of course, a baby. Even you, Alicia, might face a jackal.”
“I should rather not meet one in the dark, to say nothing of a pack!” cried the lady. “I never before heard such a horrible sound as their yells.”
“You will grow accustomed to it,” observed Harold.
On the following morning Robin started off with his spade, and did not return for hours. Harold went to his work, and Alicia was left with her father-in-law, who was too poorly to leave the house. Mr. Hartley was for some time occupied with translating, whilst Alicia, seated near him, removed from some of her choice books, as far as she could, traces of the ravages of damp and of white ants. The two were making a study of the veranda, the single sitting-room in the mission bungalow being uncomfortably crowded by Alicia’s luggage, which had been removed for the present from her damp house.
After writing for some time, Mr. Hartley glanced up from his desk, and his eyes met those of Alicia, who had also paused in her occupation, after laying down a sadly marred volume of poems.
“I wonder why white ants were created?” she murmured; “they do nothing but mischief in the world.”
“They are probably, like briers and thorns, a part of the curse,” observed Mr. Hartley, putting away his pen. “But as all things work for good to the servants of the Lord, even white ants may have their mission.”