Many years have now passed since that event, and to
some extent time has softened the old grief, though Heaven knows it
is still keen enough. On two or three occasions I have even begun the
record. Once I gave it up because the writing of it depressed me beyond
bearing, once because I was suddenly called away upon a journey, and
the third time because a Kaffir boy found my manuscript convenient for
lighting the kitchen fire.
But now that I am at leisure here in England, I will make a fourth
attempt. If I succeed, the story may serve to interest some one in after
years when I am dead and gone; before that I should not wish it to
be published. It is a wild tale enough, and suggests some curious
reflections.
I am the son of a missionary. My father was originally curate in charge
of a small parish in Oxfordshire. He had already been some ten years
married to my dear mother when he went there, and he had four children,
of whom I was the youngest. I remember faintly the place where we lived.
It was an ancient long grey house, facing the road. There was a very
large tree of some sort in the garden.
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