This call upon her powers seemed to take Miss Musgrave aback.

“I have never sung in public,” she pleaded, rather nervously.  “Indeed, my voice is not good enough for it; really it isn’t.  Only I thought I could teach a little perhaps, and that is why I came here.  You see, mother, is an invalid, and we were so very poor that—­”

“Miss,” broke in Jockey Bill, “call it ten bob a ‘ead, an’ just ’um to us.”

“Oh no, Mr. William, it was not the money that I thought about; indeed, five shillings would be far too much.  But if you think that I should be able to amuse you at all, I would do my very best—­believe me, I would.”

“Miss,” growled Dan, with a clumsy endeavour to chase away her diffidence, “all we asks is fer you to sit near us fer a spell.  Ef you sings or plays, we’d be proud; ef you just looks an’ talks, we’d be pleased.”

So in the end Miss Musgrave yielded to the wishes of the community, and the nightly conclave in the American Bar became so much a thing of the past that Gustav Werstein was heard to threaten another emigration.  The songs were to the diggers new, and yet not new.  There was nothing of the music-hall type about them; they were nearly all old-fashioned ditties.  She sang to them of “Barbara Allen” and “Sally in our Alley”; she gave them “Cheer, Boys, Cheer,” and called for a chorus; she sang “The Message,” “The Arrow and the Song”; and she brought back memories of other days when Africa was to them a mere geographical expression—­of days when that something had not happened which had sent them away from home.

Sunday came, the fifth day after her arrival, and it differed from the usual Sabbath of Big Stone Hole.  Sunday had been observed before by the biggest drinking bout of the week, and a summary settlement of the previous six days’ disputes.  Now, to the huge surprise of the Kaffirs, and to the still greater surprise of themselves, these diamond-diggers sang hymns at intervals during the day, and refrained from indulging in the orthodox carouse till after Miss Musgrave had retired for the night.  It was a wonderful change.

During the next week a fall of earth took place in Tommy Dartmoor’s claim.  Two Kaffirs were killed; and when the proprietor himself was extricated from the debris of blue clay which held him down, he was found to have a broken arm, besides other serious injuries.

“Don’t let on to her,” he managed to gasp out to his rescuers, wishing to spare Miss Musgrave’s nerves a shock.

But she saw the men bearing him to his hut, joined them, and insisted on being installed as sole nurse forthwith.

Twenty other men would willingly have broken an arm for such a reward; and the recklessness displayed during the next few days was something awful.  But she saw that too,—­little escaped those big blue eyes,—­and, ascribing it to drink, gave a pretty strong lecture on the bibulous habits of Big Stone Hole, at her next concert.