“The searchers on the coast opposite the scene of the shipwreck report that they met a Kaffir who was travelling along the seashore, who produced a gold watch which he said he had taken from the body of a white man that he found lying on the sand at the mouth of the Umvoli River.  Inside the watch is engraved, ’To Seymour Robert Seymour, from his uncle, on his twenty-first birthday.’  The name of Mr. Seymour appears as a first-class passenger to Durban by the Zanzibar.  He was a member of an old English family in Lincolnshire.  This was his second journey to South Africa, which he visited some years ago with his brother on a big-game shooting expedition.  All who knew him then will join with us in deploring his loss.  Mr. Seymour was a noted shot and an English gentleman of the best stamp.  He was last seen by one of the survivors of the catastrophe, carrying Miss Clifford, the daughter of the well-known Natal pioneer of that name, into a boat, but as this young lady is reported to have been saved, and as he entered the boat with her, no explanation is yet forthcoming as to how he came to his sad end.”

“I fear that is clear enough,” said Mr. Clifford, as he folded up his paper.

“Yes, clear enough,” she repeated in a strained voice.  “And yet—­yet—­oh!  Father, he had just asked me to marry him, and I can’t believe that he is dead before I had time to answer.”

“Good Heavens!” said the old man, “they never told me that.  It is dreadfully sad.  God help you, my poor child!  There is nothing more to say except that he was only one among three hundred who have gone with him.  Be brave now, before all these people.  Look—­here comes the tug.”

The following week was very much of a blank to Benita.  When they reached shore some old friends of her father’s took her and him to their house, a quiet place upon the Berea.  Here, now that the first excitement of rescue and grief was over, the inevitable reaction set in, bringing with it weakness so distressing that the doctor insisted upon her going to bed, where she remained for the next five days.  With the healing up of the wound in her head her strength came back to her at last, but it was a very sad Benita who crept from her room one afternoon on to the verandah and looked out at the cruel sea, peaceful now as the sky above.

Her father, who had nursed her tenderly during these dark days, came and sat by her, taking her hand in his.

“This is capital,” he said, glancing at her anxiously.  “You are getting quite yourself again.”

“I shall never be myself again,” she answered.  “My old self is dead, although the outside of me has recovered.  Father, I suppose that it is wrong, but I wish that I were dead too.  I wish that he had taken me with him when he jumped into the sea to lighten the boat.”

“Don’t speak like that,” he broke in hastily.  “Of course I know that I am not much to you—­how can I be after all that is past?  But I love you, dear, and if I were left quite alone again——­” And he broke off.