He folded his arms and began to cry--not aloud; he sobbed without making any sound, and his tears left scorched marks where they fell.

He could not pray; he had prayed night and day for so many months; and tonight he could not pray.

When he left off crying, he held his aching head with his brown hands.

If one might have gone up to him and touched him kindly; poor, ugly little thing! Perhaps his heart was almost broken.
With his swollen eyes he sat there on a flat stone at the very top of the kopje; and the tree, with every one of its wicked leaves, blinked, and blinked, and blinked at him.

Presently he began to cry again, and then stopped his crying to look at it.