The Dangar tribes linger here, the Thakurs cling to Mátherán, and the Kátkaris haunt the lowlands. After a few days here, which Lady Agnes Danyell made very pleasant to us, with drives and breakfasts and dinners, we started for our return journey. We were twelve hours getting down, stopping to admire Wali, and have some tea at Soorool. There was just enough moon to show us the dark and awful parts of the Gháts, and the windings of the woods and the very sharp turns suggested tigers, jackals, and brigands (which do not exist here). We arrived at the station at two in the morning, ate from our basket, got into the train, reached Lanáuli at seven, and were at Bombay by midday. I will not insert an account of the hill races and tribes, which would overload this book, but will insert it amongst my husband's "Labours," as he taught them to me. GOA. [Sidenote: _Goa and West India_.] As soon as we arrived in Bombay we caught the "British Indian steamer" going down south, coasting along. They are middle-sized steamers, beautifully clean, good table, excellent wine, airy cabins, great civility, and fairly steady ships--which they have need to be in such a sea as is often on. The fares are extravagantly dear--£10 for a thirty-six hours' passage; but there is no opposition. Richard had always such ready, sparkling wit, and it was never offensive nor hurtful. One day, as we were on board a ship, going to a rather uncivilized place, a Catholic Archbishop, and a Bishop with a Catholic party, stepped on board. My husband whispered, "Introduce me." I did so, and they became very friendly, and sat down to chat. The Archbishop was a very clever man, but no match for Richard. My husband began to chaff, and said, "My wife is the Jesuit of the family." "What a capital thing for _you!_" answered the Archbishop. Presently some apes were jumping about the rigging, so the Archbishop looked up and said playfully, "Well, Captain Burton, there are some of your ancestors." Richard was delighted; he pulled his moustache quietly, looking very amused and a little shy and apologetic, and said with that cool drawl of his, "Well, my lord, I at least have made a little progress, but--what about your lordship, who is descended from the angels?" The Archbishop roared; he was delighted with the retort, and treasures it up as a good story till this day.[1] At nine at night we reached Vingorla; the coast is very bad and dangerous, and in the monsoon all but impossible. Vessels are often wrecked, so steamers never go near, but put boats off. We disembarked a Sister Marie (_fille de la Croix_), a young German nun, bound for some desolate spot where they are forming a convent for educating children, nursing the sick, and reclaiming the savage. This young, interesting-looking girl of about twenty had to make her own way up country; these are the true "Soldiers of Christ," and our hearts yearned to her as she calmly and smilingly bid us good-bye, and went over the ship's side.