“Do not forget, my son,” he gasped as he lay there on the ground with the broken rope about his neck, nor did Jan ever forget.

It was after this that the Botmars trekked into the Transkei, and with them some other families, amongst whom were the Naudes, my parents.  Here in the Transkei the widow Botmar and my father were near neighbours, their steads being at a distance from each other of about three hours upon horseback, or something over twenty miles.  In those days, I may say it without shame now, I was the prettiest girl in the Transkei, a great deal prettier than my granddaughter Suzanne there, although some think well of her looks, but not so well as she thinks of them herself, for that would be impossible.  I have been told that I have noble French blood in my veins, though I care little for this, being quite content to be one of the Boers, who are all of noble blood.  At least I believe that my great-grandfather was a French Huguenot Count who fled from his country to escape massacre because of his religion.  From him and his wife Suzanne, so it is said, we women of the Naudes get our beauty, for we have always been beautiful; but the loveliest of the race by far was my daughter Suzanne who married the Englishman, Ralph Kenzie, from which time our good looks have begun to fall off, though it is true that he was no ill-favoured man.

Whatever the cause, in my youth, I was not like the other Boer girls, who for the most part are stout, heavy, and slow of speech, even before they are married, nor did I need to wear a kapje to keep a pink and white face from burning in the sun.  I was not tall, but my figure was rounded and my movements were as quick as my tongue.  Also I had brown hair that curled and brown eyes beneath it, and full red lips, which all the young men of that district—­and there were six of them who can be counted—­would have given their best horse to kiss, with the saddle and bridle thrown in.  But remember this, Suzanne, I never suffered them to do so, for in my time girls knew better what was right.

Well, among all these suitors I favoured Jan Botmar, the old cripple who sits yonder, though in those days he was no cripple but the properest man a girl could wish to see.  My father was against such a match, for he had the old French pride of race in him, and thought little of the Botmar family, as though we were not all the children of one God—­except the black Kaffirs, who are the children of the devil.  But in the end he gave way, for Jan was well-to-do; so after we had “opsitted” together several times according to our customs, and burnt many very long candles,[*] we were married and went to live on a farm of our own at a distance.  For my part I have never regretted it, although doubtless I might have done much better for myself; and if Jan did, he has been wise enough not to say so to me.  In this country most of us women must choose a man to look after—­it is a burden that Heaven lays