“When are you going down to the church?” he asked, as he tapped his cane against the leg of his long riding-boot.
“Now,” I declared, sleepily, “if you will come with me. Sam says he has got enough flowers and greenstuff to fill two churches.” Sam, I should explain, was the Kaffir boy whose duty it was to ring the bell for service, hand the collection-bag round, and gather the flowers for the church decorations. St. John-in-the-Wilderness, as it was called, stood on my father’s land, a shining beacon of corrugated iron and wood.
Struggling to my feet, I reached for my hat and green-lined umbrella, and stood ready, waiting to accompany my brother.
“Don’t take Nellie,” I protested, as the fat old bulldog gambolled about, panting and snorting in spite of the heat, in anticipation of a walk. But Nellie proved obdurate alike to threats and entreaties, and presently scampered off down the hill, leaving us to follow.
Half-way across the Flat we came to one of those exquisite little streams that are so frequently met with on the coast of Natal. Crossing this on stepping-stones, we reached the opposite bank, whence it was but a few paces through the narrow bush path to the clearing in the jungle where stood St. John-in-the-Wilderness.
“Look, Jessie, the door is open!” exclaimed Malcolm. “I suppose that duffer Sam didn’t lock it properly this morning when he put the flowers in.”
“Probably,” I returned, gaining his side on the vestry steps. “The lock has got so stiff that I cannot turn the key myself, so I am not surprised.”
The dim, subdued light inside the church caused us to pause a moment or so before observing the extravagant profusion of flowers, palms, and ferns that Sam had gathered—truly more than enough for the decoration of two churches the size of ours.
“How glorious!” I cried, kneeling by the side of this floral wealth and picking up a bloom of the delicately-tinted waxen ginger. “What would they say to Christmas decorations like this in England?”