Somewhere there,
in the green-ringed town in the mountain's shelter, was a tall girl
with yellow hair and eyes which matched the zenith when it darkens
after the dropping of the sun. His fancy painted her in every
conceivable situation: walking, riding, resting at noonday in the
shaded western end of the veranda, or pouring tea for relays of
thirsty guests. As a rule, the Captain's figure was in the
background of these pictures, and Weldon was content to have it so.
In all South Africa, these were his two best friends; it was good
that they could be together. And the Captain was an older man, much
older. When one lives in the open air during twenty-four hours of
every day, jealousy has scant place in his mind. The smaller vices
are for the cramped town, not for the limitless, unbroken veldt.
And now and then a day brought with it a letter, frank, friendly and
full of news. Those days Weldon marked with a white stone; but his
sleep, on those nights, was as quiet and dreamless as ever. Facts
were facts. Theories and hopes were for the future; and no man looks
much to the future in a time of war.
Besides the letters, there were minor events, too, events which went
to fill up the letters of reply.
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