When I returned there two years later: the dust was flying in clouds, the sun was blinding, and accentuated the absence of any shade.
Six hours spent there were more than sufficient, and it was astounding to think of the many months that it had been our home.

It has often been said, I reflected, that it is the people you consort with, not the place you live at, that constitute an agreeable existence; and of the former all I could find to say was, "Where are they gone, the old familiar faces ?" Beyond the Mayor of the town, who called to reiterate warm thanks for the Mafeking Fund, and a nigger coachman who used to take me out for Sunday drives, I failed to perceive one face I knew in the town during the siege; but at the convent we received the warmest welcome from the Mother Superior and the nuns.

This community appeared to be in quite affluent circumstances: the building was restored, the chapel rebuilt and plentifully decorated with new images; there was a full complement of day-boarders, who were energetically practising on several pianos, and many new Sisters had made their appearance; upstairs, the room where was located the Maxim gun was filled by thirty snowwhite beds.

It was quite refreshing to find one circle who had recovered from their hardships, and who, if anything, were rather more prosperous than before the war.

We paid a flying visit to the little cemetery, which was beautifully kept, and where many fairly recent graves were in evidence, chiefly due to enteric fever after the siege.