Aunt Emily represented what Diana was pleased to call "the family skeleton in the flesh." She was Henry Pym's only sister, and there had been a time when she shared a pound a week with him in a tiny cottage in Cornwall, while he worked as a miner in order to teach himself all he could about mining. After that she had taken a situation as housekeeper, while he went out to South Africa to make his fortune. Later she had spent a year or two with him, sharing his struggles in the new country, and then he had married, and she was once more left to take care of herself; for at that stage Henry's finances would barely keep himself and his wife. Three years afterwards, when his genius for finance was bearing fruit, his wife died, and at twenty-seven he found himself a childless widower just becoming prosperous. He again offered his sister a home, but her recollections of Africa were none to draw her back thither, and she chose to continue life in the comfortable situation she had procured as companion to an invalid lady. So Henry devoted himself entirely to the science of money-making, and at thirty-five he was a rich man. He married a second time, choosing for his wife among the gentlest-born Johannesburg could offer, and winning the sweet woman who was Meryl's mother. About the same time his brother came out from England and joined him, and in fifteen years they were two of Johannesburg's wealthiest millionaires. A few years later both were widowers, and very shortly afterwards John Pym died, leaving his only daughter and all the wealth that would be hers to his brother's care. Thus the household became as we have seen it, for Henry, remembering gratefully how his sister had stood by him in his days of struggle, now insisted upon her sharing his luxurious homes and acting as chaperon to the two girls. That she was a little trying he knew perfectly, but his sense of fair play and kinship resolutely turned a deaf ear to the half-spoken pleas of the girls, that he would give her instead a cosy home of her own, and procure a younger and brighter chaperon for them; and she had now become a fixture.

But what irritated Diana so was the fact that had the good lady consulted her own taste, she would infinitely have preferred the cosy, independent home; but just as Henry's sense of fair play offered her a place in his, so her sense of duty to the two motherless girls made her accept it in spite of her inclination.

"If people would but consult their comfort instead of their duty," quoth poor Diana, "how much nicer it would be all round! Uncle doesn't really want her here, and she doesn't really want to come, and we'd give our heads to be rid of her; but just because Old Man Duty loves to make people supremely uncomfortable, here we all are!" and her expressive gesture made further comment unnecessary.

But, as a matter of fact, she made a very easy and good-natured chaperon, and it was only some of her irritating little ways that troubled them. Without being really deaf, she usually failed to hear any opening speech, and this Diana coped with very summarily. "Aunt Emily," she would begin. "Eh ... eh ... eh ... eh ... ah," and when Aunt Emily had duly enquired, "What did you say, my dear?" she would speak her sentence for the first time. Or, again, with reference to her propensity to get exceedingly worked up upon a subject of very little general interest, she would say, "The great point is, not to start her off, and not to give her a chance to start herself off. A little perspicacity will soon tell you what subject to nip in the bud, or when to talk as hard and fast as you can about something else."

"And as for her mournfulness," declared the matter-of-fact young heiress, "well, that's genuinely funny. If I've got a bit of a hump myself, and I hear Aunt Emily, with a face of heroic resignation, say, 'I can bear it,' I begin to feel quite chirpy at once."

But when the Rhodesian project came seriously under discussion, they were all a good deal surprised to hear Aunt Emily take part in it as one who must inevitably be of the party. Henry Pym was a reserved, undemonstrative man, and when Meryl begged him to let them accompany him on his travels, though he said very little, he was secretly a good deal gratified and pleased. His own early hardships had taught him the inestimable value of learning self-dependence and plucky endurance, and it was not without some regret he viewed a future for the girls entirely of rose leaves. Yet how could it very well be otherwise? When, however, Meryl pleadingly asked him to take them to Rhodesia with him, he perceived that the trip might be beneficial in more ways than one.

"You probably don't understand," he told her quietly, "that I am going on a business, prospecting trip. I am going right away from hotels and railways to see mines, and I don't intend to be bothered with anything elaborate in the way of an outfit. I suppose I shall take a tent, and travel in a travelling ambulance, but certainly nothing out of the way in food or equipment. You would have to do the same, and as you know absolutely nothing in the world about 'roughing it,' you probably wouldn't like it at all."

"But that is just what we should like," Meryl urged. "That is one reason why we want to come."

They were sitting in the smoke-room with him, as was often their habit in the evening, preferring it, as he did, to the stately drawing-room.

Meryl sat on a footstool near him, watching his face anxiously, while Diana, with an open book on her knee, listened from the depths of an enormous arm-chair in which she had curled herself.

"Shouldn't we ever need to wash?" she asked suddenly, in a sprightly voice that set them all laughing.

"Well, it's a hot country, you know," said her uncle, "but it might be more or less optional."

"Scrumptious!" and Diana snoozled lower into her chair.

"Uncouth," remarked Aunt Emily, disapprovingly.

"Or do you mean unclean?" enquired the sinner.

"It is quite the maddest idea I ever heard of." Ignoring her, and growing more and more mournful, the poor lady heaved a deep sigh.

"But need you be bothered with us?" enquired Meryl, diplomatically. "Wouldn't you rather have a nice quiet summer in England?"

"And let you go alone?... How could I?... Your father will be much engaged with his business, and it would be most unseemly for two girls of your age to be left so much alone. I believe it is a dreadful country, but if you can face it, I think I can find the courage to come with you."

"Think you can bear it, aunty?..." chirped the voice from the arm-chair, and Meryl frowned in a little aside at the snoozler.

"If they decide to come at all, they would be all right with me out on the veldt," put in Mr. Pym. "If they are prepared to eat 'bully beef' and probably do their own washing-up."

"How horrible!..." from the arm-chair. "It sounds worse than chewing mule harness."

"What do you mean, Diana?" her aunt asked, nervously.

"Oh, didn't you know there was nourishment in mule harness?... It's simply splendid stuff when you've had nothing else for days."

The poor lady shuddered, and her brother chuckled, but Meryl interposed with, "Don't listen to her, Aunt Emily. It isn't likely we shall ever have had nothing for days."

"I once heard of a man ..." began the spinster, putting down her work, and raising her head with the air they all knew so well, denoting a long rigmarole about some exceedingly uninteresting person, and Diana immediately chimed in with, "Shall you wear a knickerbocker suit, aunty, or just a commonplace divided skirt?"

"Neither will be in the least necessary," was the decided answer. "I have met people from Rhodesia, and they dress quite ordinarily."

"Oh, that's when they're in another country," insisted the incorrigible. "Up there you simply must wear knickers, or a divided skirt; it's ... it's ... such a high altitude ... and so ... windy!..."

"Diana, be quiet," interrupted Meryl, now sitting on the arm of her father's chair. "If you don't mind we shall leave you behind."

"Well, I don't know that I particularly want to go. It doesn't sound very inviting except about the washing."

"I think you had all better take a week to decide in," said Henry Pym, finally. "I won't say anything about the yacht at present, and you can change your minds and have it if you like. And if your aunt chooses to stay quietly in England, I'll take a house for her anywhere she likes, and I'll look after you both myself. You can take care of each other when I have to be absent for a day."

"Would you like us to go?" asked Diana, screwing her head round impishly. "Or are we going to be a ... a ... frightful nuisance?"

"I'd like you to come, if you can make up your minds thoroughly to take the rough and the smooth together, and make the best of it. I think it will be an experience for you, and a wholesome change from too much luxury. But mind"—and his strong, dark face looked very determined—"I want no grumbling and no fretfulness. If you think you've any real, genuine pioneer spirit in you, come. If you're in doubt about it, stay behind, and go to Norway and have your gaiety."

"I don't think I've very much," said Diana, "but Meryl has enough for two, I'm sure; and for the rest, I never grumble, and I'm only peevish with very young men. That, of course, I might work off on the niggers."

"Has Meryl a lot of pioneer spirit?" asked her father, watching her with quiet, affectionate eyes.

"Stacks of it. She wants to become an Empire-builder. I don't. I'm bored with the Empire. But I don't mind sampling just one dive into the wilderness, to see how I like primitive conditions. I don't know what Aunt Emily wants with the wilderness though, unless she has a secret fancy for niggers!..."

"I think that is a little coarse of you, Diana. I have no fancy either for a wilderness or niggers; but if either you or Meryl were ill, or anything happened to you, I should never forgive myself had I remained comfortably at home."

"Nothing will happen to us, aunty. I think you are rather unwise to think of coming," said Meryl.

"If you go, I shall come as far as Bulawayo anyhow. Then I shall at least be within reach."

"Well, think it over for a week," said Henry Pym again, getting up and moving towards his writing-table. "I don't like hurried decisions at any time. If you like to come and take pot-luck with me I shall be glad to have your company, but do not let that influence you. Come for your own sakes, and prepared for anything, or remain behind."

They understood that he wished to be left to do some reading or writing, and after kissing him good night, went upstairs to their room.

But Meryl's eyes had already a new glow of hopeful anticipation, and it was easy to see she did not intend to waste much time in making up a mind already entirely decided.

Diana found her a little irritating.

"Really, Meryl!" she said, "you look as ridiculously pleased as a cat with kittens. You are quite the most unaccountable creature in the world. What, in the name of fortune, is the good of going to Rhodesia? Frankly, I'd rather stay in England."

But Meryl only smiled happily, and made no comment.

"Oh, put the light out," snapped Diana. "I really can't stand that superior, complacent air of yours any longer."

For answer the elder girl crossed the room and gave her a hug.

"Don't be cross, Di. You know you'll love the atmosphere of adventure when you are fairly started. Anyone can go to Norway."

"Adventure! Stuff! Heat and flies and sand, that's all we're in for; and uncle in a prosaic, 'I told you so' mood."

"We may see lions when we are trekking."

Diana put her head on one side, like a small, bright-eyed bird. "We can see those in the Zoo, beloved."

"Well, and you can see Norway on a cinematograph."

Diana turned away with a low laugh.

"Clean bowled. Good for you, O wise Hypatia! Well, we'll go to this heathen land and be horribly uncomfortable for a time, and then we'll come back and make things hum in London as they never hummed before. Where is Jeanne, I wonder? If I've got to do my own hair for two solid months I'll never touch a wisp of it until we go," and she rang the bell peremptorily.

Later, for a few moments, Meryl again stood out on the balcony, enjoying the June night, and as she looked at the stars she smiled softly. She was going back to Africa, after all—her Africa, and perhaps Life would give her something big to do yet.

And half unconsciously, though with a sense of pleasurable possession, she stood with her eyes to the south.

And away in a distant land, on a high hill, strewn with ruins of an ancient, mysterious race, a man stood with his eyes to the north.

A taciturn, difficult, unaccountable man, who baffled the people that would fain be friendly with him, and chilled any who showed him warmth, and yet was invariably liked and trusted by all who had the perspicacity to see beyond the rigid exterior.

Even to-day, though he was mourning his sovereign, he had shown no softening of grief to those who beheld him. Rather, if anything, he had been more silent, more taciturn, more aloof than ever.

Yet the enfolding night and the quiet stars saw what none others saw. They saw the ache in the steady eyes, the compression as of pain on the resolute lips, the swift, unusual hunger, sternly suppressed, for something that had once been in some old life and was now for ever ended.