was a fine woman, a half-caste, who had inherited calculating power and presence of mind from her Scotch father. Under her roof half a hundred scared neighbours came crowding, trusting that the strong supporting poles would prevent the rain of death from battering it down. When it showed signs of giving way, Sophia, who kept cool, set the refugees to work to shore it up with any props that could be found; and in the end the plucky old woman could boast that no one of those who sought shelter with her lost their lives. * * * * * The township of Roto-rua, with its side-shows Ohinemutu and Whaka-rewa-rewa, escaped in the great eruption scot free, or at any rate with a light powdering of dust. The place survived to become the social centre of the thermal country, and now offers no suggestion of ruin or devastation. It has been taken in hand by the Government, and is bright, pleasant, and, if anything, too thoroughly comfortable and modern. It is scientifically drained and lighted with electric light. Hotels and tidy lodging-houses look out upon avenues planted with exotic trees. The public gardens cover a peninsula jutting out into the lake, and their flowery winding paths lead to lawns and tennis-courts. Tea is served there by Maori waitresses whose caps and white aprons might befit Kensington Gardens; and a band plays. If the visitors to Roto-rua do not exactly “dance on the slopes of a volcano,” at least they chat and listen to music within sight of the vapour of fumaroles and the steam of hot springs. A steam launch will carry them from one lake to another, or coaches convey them to watch geysers made to spout for their diversion. They may picnic and eat sandwiches in spots where they can listen to muddy cauldrons of what looks like boiling porridge, sucking and gurgling in disagreeable fashion. Or they may watch gouts of dun-coloured mud fitfully issuing from cones like ant-hills--mud volcanoes, to wit.