440 little better, and 383 much better.

190; Mrs. Taljard died last night.

Deaths at 201, 312, and 460 also; and all these had never yet been visited.  Here is where the dissatisfaction comes in; and yet, how am I to know?

In 436 a child died; mother in great sorrow.

Next to 416 is Mrs. Van der Walt; very sick; not at all serene within; such cases very hard.  While at dinner suddenly called to Mrs. Van der Walt—­death’s throes; prayer; when at dinner, on return, heard the horrible whistle go.

Our wood is done, and there remains nothing wherewith to make coffins; will have to bury in blankets to-morrow I fear; this will cause extra affliction and unhappiness.  Pitiable to see husband of Mrs. Van der Walt pleading for boxes which could not be given; and he was “schatryk” (very rich) they say.  There will be a great outcry, I’m afraid.  And yet, after all, will a coffin save the soul?

After dinner, 169; baby died; mother sorely stricken.

Visited old mother in 25 again, and spoke few words of cheer; she is an old Christian; blessed me for coming.

In luck’s way to-day; felt inclined for handwash, and was taken into tent 335; Horak’s; relations of old Jaap’s[16]; nice, clean, tidy; delighted; happiness; mother; daughter; autoharp; lemon syrup; must go again if I can.

“Wie is daar?  Wat is dit?” ("Who is there?  What is it?”)

“Zal Minheer L——­ assemblief gou kom naar Mrs. Meintjes?  Zij le op sterve!” ("Will Mr. L——­ please come quickly to Mrs. Meintjes?  She is dying!”)

Just returned; delirious; called her by name after prayer, and she became conscious for a few seconds; fear her moments on earth are numbered.  How good of those girls to watch over her!  Husband rushed out of tent in tears.  Now, what could I do?

“Is there no pity sitting in the clouds can see into the bottom of our grief?”

10 p.m., walked through Camp.

Great coughs; little coughs; deep coughs; shrill coughs; hoarse coughs; long coughs; short coughs; coughs that are no coughs at all.  Wonder how many are to die to-night!

* * * * *

Wednesday, August 28.—­Now if there is anything that rubs me up the wrong way, it is to see a crowd around a tent doorway, watching the end.  Yesterday I lost my temper at 35, and gave it hot all round.  Such barefaced curiosity is revolting; I hate it.

Yes, 35 (21 years) passed away last night, and so did 415 (Mrs. Meintjes), whom I visited late last evening.

This morning the black list was laid on my table; twelve[17] in the night—­339, 415, 125, 253, 180, 526, 419, 35, 353, 450, I didn’t expect 415 to live long.

The night has been a most restless one; “Ja, minheer, ons het vannacht nie rust gehad nie” ("Yes, sir, we had no rest last night”) (morgue tents men).

I woke at 2 a.m. with the tramp of these bearers removing corpses[18].