Burke did not come over to see them again, nor did he write.  Evidently he was too busy to do either.  But one evening Merston announced his intention of riding over to Blue Hill Farm, and asked Sylvia if she would like to send a note by him.

“You’ve got ten minutes to do it in,” he gaily told her.  “So you’d better leave all the fond adjectives till the end and put them in if you have time.”

She thanked him carelessly enough for his advice, but when she reached her own room she found herself confronted with a problem that baffled her.  How was she to write to Burke?  What could she say to him?  She felt strangely confounded and unsure of herself.

Eight of the allotted ten minutes had flown before she set pencil to paper.  Then, hurriedly, with trembling fingers, she scribbled a few sentences.  “I hope all is well with you.  We are very busy here.  Matilda is better, and I am quite fit and enjoying the work.  Is Mary Ann looking after you properly?” She paused there.  Somehow the thought of Burke with only the Kaffir servants to minister to him sent an odd little pang through her.  She had begun to accustom him to better things.  She wondered if he were lonely—­if he wanted her.  Ought she to offer to go back?

Something cried out sharply within her at the thought.  Her whole being shrank as the old nightmare horror swept back upon her.  No—­no!  She could not face it—­not yet.  The memory of his implacability, his ruthlessness, arose like a menacing wave, shaking her to the soul.

Then, suddenly, the vision changed.  She saw him as she had seen him on that last night, when she had awaked to find him kneeling by her bed.  And again that swift pang went through her.  She did not ask herself again if he wanted her.

The door of her room opened on to the yard.  She heard Merston lead his horse up to the front of the bungalow and stand talking to his wife who was just inside.  She knew that in a moment or two his cheery shout would come to her, calling for the note.

Hastily she resumed her task.  “If there is any mending to be done, send it back by Bill.”

Again she paused.  Matilda was laughing at something her husband had said.  It was only lately that she had begun to laugh.

Almost immediately came an answering shout of laughter from Merston, and then his boyish yell to her.

“Hi, Sylvia!  How much longer are you going to keep me waiting for that precious love-letter?”

She called an answer to him, dashing off final words as she did so.  “I feel I am doing some good here, but if you should specially wish it, of course I will come back at any time.”  For a second more she hesitated, then simply wrote her name.

Folding up the hurried scrawl, she was conscious of a strong sense of dissatisfaction, but she would not reopen it.  There was nothing more to be said.

She went out with it to Bill Merston, and met his chaff with careless laughter.