We are getting tolerably cosy at last; but it has been a slow process,—and it is little more than a month since we were able to take possession of the three new rooms which Sir Arthur has added to the old house—namely, a large drawing-room, a nursery, and bedroom, which last was built for Lady Gordon; but as she prefers remaining in the old house, it falls to my share. It is a simple wooden house; but so expensive is every detail of work here, that I believe it has cost Sir Arthur upwards of £1000; and as he refunds more than a third of his nominal salary as Governor to this wellnigh empty treasury, it follows that the post is by no means a lucrative one. Our new rooms are very nice; but in the wish to make the building less hideous than other houses here, Sir Arthur indulged in gable-ends, which, we are told, will probably result in our being left roofless the night of the first hurricane,—for which the weather prophets look about three weeks hence. They tell us that this intense heat will last about six weeks longer, when, the rainy season being over, we may expect a long spell of beautiful weather. Meanwhile we only have occasional rain—very heavy when it does fall. It was suddenly discovered that the roof of this old house (only four years old) was quite rotten—the thatch, I mean. So one hundred men were collected to repair it; and they are now crawling all over the roof like a swarm of ants, or else passing down the hill in long lines, bearing huge burdens of tall grass, ten feet high, with great white plumes of silky blossom. It is a very picturesque scene; but as they have been at it for about three weeks (and indeed there are always a tribe of workmen at some corner of the place, if not everywhere), we begin to wish they had finished, especially as many of them are unhappy-looking prisoners. One is a murderer, working in heavy chains; and though he looks very happy, generally climbing nimbly about the roof, notwithstanding this heavy weight, it makes me hot and miserable to see him. He was found guilty of the murder of a planter of the name of Burns, and his wife. It was a frightful story. I do not know why he was not hanged. He is working in chains because he has already escaped once and been recaptured; but from his extreme activity, I should think his fetters might prove a very slight impediment should he resolve to try his luck again. Another large body of men are working at the rough ground behind the house, turning it into a little garden. Already it is taking shape, and will doubtless be very nice by the time the capital is moved to another island, when it will probably be left to its fate. Sir Arthur is very anxious to effect this move, which undoubtedly will, in the long-run, prove a wise step; but in the meantime it will, of course, entail various hardships on many of these already hard-struggling people. But I daresay it will be a good while before anything is done about it. Everything here is very slow