“I’m glad the fighting is over, my boys,” father said to Denham, who was sharing our new temporary home.
“Oh, Mr Moray,” he replied, “how can you talk like that?”
“Because I am a man of the ploughshare and not of the sword. I want to get back to my quiet farming life again, and that is impossible while war devastates the land.”
“But you’ll never start a home again in the old place?”
“Never,” said my father—“never.”
“No,” I said; “the Boers ruined you. They ought to be made to pay.”
“Not ruined, Val,” said my father, “though the burning and destruction meant a serious loss; but I had not been idle all the years I was there, and I dare say we can soon raise a home in Natal, where we can be at peace. Nature is very kind out here in this sunny, fruitful land; and I dare say when Mr Denham comes to see us, as I hope he will often do in the future, we can make him as comfortable as in the past days when the farm was younger, and perhaps find him a little hunting and shooting within reach.”
“You’ll come, Denham?” I said.
“Come? Too much, I’m afraid. I’m to have no more soldiering, I hear. I’ve been corresponding with my people, and asking my father if it is possible for me to get into the regulars. He wrote back ‘No,’ with three lines underneath, and said I must go back to stock-raising till my country wants me again to unsheath the sword.”
“Well,” said my father, smiling, “what do you say to that?”