With which remark the speaker characteristically dismissed the affair from his mind altogether.
“I’ve had a letter from Renshaw,” said Mrs Selwood, as they sat down to dinner.
“A letter!” cried Violet, suddenly interested. “Why, it isn’t post-day! How did you get it?”
“Theunis Bezuidenhout brought it out from Fort Lamport. He says the drought up there is something fearful—”
“Who? Theunis Bezuidenhout?” struck in Christopher.
”—Something fearful,” went on his wife, clean ignoring this flippant remark. “There isn’t a blade of grass left on the place, and hardly a drop of water. All the sheep and goats have died except about five hundred.”
“Poor chap!” said Selwood. “What an unlucky dog he is! He’d better have cleared out of that dried-up Bushmanland place long ago, even if he had to give it away for a song. Well, he’ll have to now, anyhow. Write and ask him to come down here when he does, Hilda. He might hit on something about here to suit him.”
“Oh yes, mamma—do!” exclaimed Effie, aged twelve, with whom Renshaw was a prime favourite.
“But that isn’t all,” continued Mrs Selwood. “The poor fellow has been ill—fearfully ill—believes he would have died, but for a stranger who turned up quite unexpectedly, but just in the nick of time, and nursed him through it. It was a return of his old fever.”