The house is like a cosy old English home—every room wood-panelled, and full of strange treasures from many lands. Good old engravings and pictures; wonderful specimens of old Maori carving; weapons and robes of all sorts, including rare feather-cloaks; precious objects from the Summer Palace, including a jade-tablet, which was a page in the Emperor of China’s genealogy; priceless ancient gold jewels from Mexico; the stone-axe of the greatest monarch of the Sandwich Isles; and, strangest of all, some beautiful old china, which for the last two centuries has lain at the bottom of the sea, and has now been rescued from a vessel which was sunk off the Cape two hundred years ago. In the delightful library of carefully selected and valuable works are many old manuscripts of the greatest interest, including about fifteen bound volumes in Arabic character, but written in some dialect of Central Africa which is as yet unknown. These are an Ancient African history. Sir George knew of its existence, and advertised for it when he was Governor of the Cape. Many years afterwards, a case containing the volumes was brought to him by a man-of-war, whose captain stated that a fine old Arab gentleman at Zanzibar had brought it on board, and made him understand that it contained manuscripts which he had succeeded in rescuing from the interior. Only think what strange historical mysteries may one day be solved, when some Arabic scholar shall take to dialect-hunting in Central Africa, and return competent to read these now sealed books! The children are in Paradise, racing about and finding pets of every sort, all at large,—gold and silver pheasants, and multitudes of common ones. As to skylarks, the whole air seems musical with their lovely warble. I can hardly realise that they, like the too abundant thistles on the mainland, are all imported from Scotland. Last night we strolled up to the dairy—a nice clean English dairy. The path lay over swelling pasture-land—just like Sussex downs—with sheep and cattle feeding. After so long a spell in Fiji, where grass generally means tall reeds, meeting far above your head, the mere fact of walking over short meadow-grass is charming; and then to sit on it, watching the sun set over the sea, and listening to the “Busy crowd Of larks in purest air.” carried me right back to Gordonstown, and our own green hills overlooking the Moray Firth. This is the purest air you can imagine. It is just warm enough to be pleasant, and slightly bracing, but not too sudden a change from the tropics.