Happily, there is now an extra house, or rather quite a group of half-a-dozen small semi-Fijian houses, which severally act as feeding-room, sitting-room, sleeping-rooms, kitchen, store-room, and silk-worm house. These are all clustered beneath the cool shadow of a couple of old trees, one of which spreads its great boughs towards the kitchen, and acts as larder,—for from these branches hang such pieces of kid or goat’s flesh as may be in stock. Here are the rough-and-ready essentials of an open-air carpenter’s shop; and beneath a central tree a small matted enclosure acts as the family bath-room, to which the labour-boys bring buckets of fresh water to fill a great wooden tub. But infinitely more pleasant is the delicious sea-bathing, in which we can here indulge most freely, without any dread of sharks. Imagine the charm of walking straight out of your bedroom on to the purest white sand, and plunging just as deep as you please in the very clearest water, warm enough to make it delightful to lie and bask there at early morning and at sunset! Sometimes two brown maidens come to disport themselves with us in the water, and they and Ethel swim and dive like fishes—swimming long distances under the water, and coming up, when least expected, to seize me, in hopes of startling me with an impression of sharks. Ethel, the tiny baby of ten years ago, is now a picturesque tall girl of eleven, a winsome wide-awake child, and a real little lady, but a thorough bushwoman, versed in all arts of foraging and bush-cooking, and her mother’s helper in many a care.