I am so happy in the thought of sailing now so very soon and seeing you all again, that I can settle to nothing for five minutes. I now feel how anxious and uneasy I have been, and how I shall rejoice to get home. I shall leave a letter for A—, to go in April, and tell him and you what ship I am in. I shall choose the _slowest_, so as not to reach England and face the Channel before June, if possible. So don’t be alarmed if I do not arrive till late in June. Till then good-bye, and God bless you, dearest mother—_Auf frohes Wiedersehn_. LETTER XII Capetown, Sunday, March 23d. IT has been a _real_ hot day, and threatened an earthquake and a thunderstorm; but nothing has come of it beyond sheet lightning to-night, which is splendid over the bay, and looks as if repeated in a grand bush-fire on the hills opposite. The sunset was glorious. That rarest of insects, the praying mantis, has just dropped upon my paper. I am thankful that, not being an entomologist, I am dispensed from the sacred duty of impaling the lovely green creature who sits there, looking quite wise and human. Fussy little brown beetles, as big as two lady-birds, keep flying into my eyes, and the musquitoes are rejoicing loudly in the prospect of a feast. You will understand by this that both windows are wide open into the great verandah,—very unusual in this land of cold nights. _April_ 4_th_.—I have been trying in vain to get a passage home. The _Camperdown_ has not come. In short, I am waiting for a chance vessel, and shall pack up now and be ready to go on board at a day’s notice.