The next morning, if we were to catch our train (and there was only the one train a day), we knew we must be away by 7.30 A.M.; but still no sign of our baggage; and then, at last, we heard that it was safe, but the crossbar of the harness had broken, and they had had to spend the night on the top of the mountain; a trooper had ridden in and gone back with new harness; so, after sitting at our gate with the Commandant, with a fresh supply of carts, and a fresh escort, until it was too late for it to be _possible_ for us to catch our train, we had to decide to wait till the next day, and various wires had to be despatched about the railway carriage, &c. About two hours later the missing baggage-cart arrived all well, with a very weary driver and troopers in attendance. We had a pleasant day at Prince Albert, and the next day (having sent the baggage on at an early hour) we had an easy drive of twenty-eight miles with some excellent horses (most kindly lent to us by the Commandant), to the rail at Prince Albert Road. We outspanned only once, at Boter's Kraal, where the final escort met us, the sergeant coming up to salute and to tell us that he and his men "had searched the kopjes thoroughly since 4 A.M., and had seen no Boers to-day!" but at Boter's Kraal they told us of a recent visit from Pyper's commando. Thus ended our 150 (odd) miles of driving across the Colony in this "sort of a war," without once having had the excitement of seeing any armed or hostile Boers. About thirty hours in a hot and dusty train brought us into Kimberley. The dull old Karroo country looked much the same as when I saw it ten years ago, except that every few hundred yards on the line a blockhouse is standing, and a sentry in his shirtsleeves marches up and down with his rifle, while the rest of the garrison (some half-dozen men) come to look at the train, and to sing out "Papers." They have a terribly monotonous life, and one throws them every scrap of literature one possesses. XLIX KIMBERLEY, SOUTH AFRICA, _January 1902_. I think it is just about ten years since I was here last; and _how_ the place has changed! Many of my old friends have left, and so many have died that I am beginning to be almost afraid to ask after any one in case I should hear of his death. Of course they have been through all the horrors of a four months' siege, and there are still many marks of the Boer shells to be seen; one of them had made a hole through our backyard wall and buried itself in the kitchen wall: Peter (the cat) found this hole very convenient when going out to visit his friends. Many people still preserved the bombproof shelters or "dug-outs" in their gardens, where they used to take refuge when the shelling was going on, and then go back into their houses at night to cook the food, &c.