“8.30 a.m.--We breakfast splendidly. Even the fossil loaf yields sustenance, after it is cut up and dissolved in hot tea. Between whiles, Tim informs me that the settlement down yonder is, in his opinion, a poor sort of a place. There are several white-washed cottages, and a large roofless house for all the world like a church. Devil the cow or pig did he see at all, barrin’ a few hens. Any boats? I ask. Yes, one with the bottom knocked out, belonging to William Jones. “Tim has got this name so pat, that my curiosity begins to be aroused. ‘Who the deuce _is_ William Jones?’ ‘Sure, thin,’ says Tim, ‘he’s the man that lives down beyant, by the sea.’ I demand, somewhat irritably, if the place contains only one inhabitant. Devil another did Tim see, he explains,--barrin’ William Jones. “2.30 a.m. (s.c.)--Start painting in the open air, under the shade of a large white cotton umbrella. Paint on till 1 p.m. “1 p.m.--Take a long walk among the sand-hills, avoiding the settlement beyond the lake. Don’t want to meet any of the aboriginals, more particularly William Jones. Walking here is like running up and down Atlantic billows, assuming said billows to be solid; now I am lost in the trough of the sand, now I re-emerge on the crest of the solid wave. Amusing, but fatiguing. I soon lose myself, every hillock being exactly like another. Suddenly, a hare starts from under my feet, and goes leisurely away. I remember an old amusement of mine in the west of Ireland, and I track puss by her footprints--now clearly and beautifully printed in the soft sand of the hollows, now more faintly marked on the harder sides of the ridges. The sun blazes down, the refraction of the heat from the sand is overpowering, the air is quivering, sparkling, and pulsating, as if full of innumerable sand-crystals. A horrible croak from overhead startles me, and looking up, I see an enormous raven, wheeling along in circles, and searching the ground for mice or other prey. “Looking at my watch, I find that I have been toiling in this sandy wilderness for quite two hours. Time to get back and dine. Climb the nearest hillock, and look round to discover where I am. Can see nothing but the sandy billows on every side, and am entirely at a loss which way to go. At last, after half an hour’s blind wandering, stumble by accident on the road by the lakeside, and see the caravan in the distance. “4 p.m.--Dinner. Boiled potatoes, boiled eggs, fried bacon. Tim’s cooking is primitive, but I could devour anything--even William Jones’s fossil bread. I asked if any human being has visited the camp. ‘Sorra one,’ Tim says, looking rather disappointed. He has got to feel himself a public character, and misses the homage of the vulgar. “Paint again till 6 p.m.