The kingdom of Bunyoro is one of the most ancient now existing in inland Africa. Formerly it was the pre-eminent power of all the districts round and including Uganda, but for many years its strength has been on the wane through internal disaffections and external warfare. Toro, which was once ruled over by Bunyoro, broke away from its rule, and the Baganda gradually ascended north, appropriating to themselves large districts of Southern Bunyoro. Kabarega, then King of Bunyoro, was for years the terror of the surrounding weaker tribes. He was quite a remarkable character. Realizing the gradual decadence of his kingdom, with persistent effort and despotism he rallied his people together for one mighty struggle to regain their lost power. Marching on the surrounding weaker tribes, he raided, plundered, and burnt their villages, and King Kasagama (of Toro) and his people fled to the mountains for shelter. But in 1899 the British Government sent up a force of Baganda under Colonel Evett, who succeeded in taking prisoner Kabarega. The latter has since remained a prisoner in the Seychelles Islands. His son Andereya, an earnest Christian and an able man, is now reigning in his stead. The Bunyoro have always had a most elaborate priesthood and abundant ritual connected with their belief; hence it will be a long time before heathen customs and degrading forms of superstition will be effectually up-rooted. [Illustration: OUR HOME IN TORO.] After the discomforts of the road it was delightfully restful to revel in the refreshing luxury of easy chairs, sipping cups of tea, surrounded with a hundred and one reminders of dear old England, while a pink-cheeked, chubby baby grabbed at the flat nose of his black boy nurse and cooed with satisfaction at having two, new, civilized admirers. A week spent with Mr. and Mrs. Lloyd, during which time we were enabled to visit the people and hold some meetings with them, brought us to the final stage of our circular trip—a seven days’ march home. The anticipation of once more seeing Ruwenzori, our mud bungalow house, and all the Batoro folk, made one forget to write notes and comments of those few days. But no written records were necessary to keep at least one day green in the memory. The wet season had begun in real earnest, which did not improve the many unbridged swamps that lay across our path at constant intervals. One day we were plunging through grass, often twelve feet high, for nearly three hours right off. Emerging from that, we had to pass through a succession of nine swamps. The only possible means of getting across was to sit on the shoulder of a thoroughly sturdy and sure-footed porter, holding on with all one’s might to his woolly head. At the ninth swamp I had maintained that position for ten minutes, with feet held straight out in front, as my noble carrier stumbled among a broken down bridge, sometimes to his armpits in black mud. Actually