From Khoulah I returned to Cuttack for Christmas. Early on Christmas morning Mr. G., the collector and magistrate of Pooree, came in to spend the day with us. Poor man! he and a cousin of his were almost brought up together, and they became much attached even in childhood. When he obtained an appointment in India, it was agreed that he should return to England and marry her as soon as he should have attained sufficient rank in the service to give him an adequate income. After about five years' residence in this country he went home and was married. This was ten years ago, and from that time his life seems to have been as happy as a human life can be. Latterly they became anxious to go home on furlough, in order that they might see their children settled in England, but they had not saved money enough; so, in April, Mr. G. applied for a better appointment, and was consequently nominated to Pooree. On their way down, as they passed through Calcutta, both were seized with cholera; he recovered, but she died; he sent his children home, but arrived at Pooree a solitary man. He is still in a very desponding state, but I do all I can to arouse him, both by bodily amusement and religious converse. At about one o'clock of the night of Christmas-day, or rather of the following morning, my wife, Mr. G., and myself got into our palanquins, and started for Khoordagurree, which we visited last year. We arrived at our tent by about ten o'clock on Thursday morning, bathed, dressed, breakfasted, and prepared to start for the caves; but, alas! it began to rain, and the water continued to fall in torrents for upwards of eighteen hours. We might have expected this, for in India it is almost invariably the case in Christmas week. The seasons are very regular; it generally rains every day from the 15th of June to the 15th of October, that is, in this part of India; the next showers are in Christmas-week, and then rarely any more till June. Now, this thorough drenching was both unpleasant and dangerous: for, although the tents kept out the water very effectually, yet everything was so thoroughly damp that we began to be afraid of the deadly jungle-fevers. Just outside one of the doors of each tent we lighted a large wood fire, and allowed as much of the smoke to come in as we could possibly bear; this warmed us, and dried up the damp and purified the air; and we retired to bed and put out the fires: we closed the doors of the tents, and found ourselves in a comparatively dry healthy atmosphere. Tanghi, 56 miles south of Cuttack, January 5, 1845. [Sidenote: MODE OF TRAVELLING.]