After remaining in Durban several weeks we prepared to visit the capital, Pieter Maritzberg, a town forty miles distant. It is connected with Durban by a railroad, which is being extended to the Transvaal border, and thence into the interior. The region on the right of the road from Durban to Maritzberg, after Pinetown, a town midway between them, has been passed, is remarkable for its fantastic assemblage of sugar-loaf hills. CHAPTER THIRTY THREE. The first glimpse we had of Pieter Maritzberg was very pleasing. A spirit of freedom and sociability pervaded the very air. Several banks, newspaper and Government offices had fine, imposing buildings. The town is surrounded by beautiful hills and lovely drives. Here the camellia trees grew to the height of twenty feet, bearing their crimson and white, scentless flowers. Flowers grew in profusion without any coaxing, and the winter days were like those of our early spring. Owners of the handsome houses had some satisfaction in beautifying the grounds surrounding them, as everything planted tried to bloom at its best. The cactus plant, with its brilliant flower and rugged leaves, formed hedges, whilst vines clambered over lovely little villas that smilingly looked out at the passer-by. The hotel was pleasanter than any we had been in. Soon after our arrival we were fortunate in finding several large rooms comfortably furnished, where we lived in health and happiness. The restaurant near by supplied our table in our own dining-room, and Coolie boys waited on us. The service of the boys in a warm climate like Natal was a great relief. Our young Coolie, David, who attended to the household duties, was the prettiest boy in Maritzberg, but this was not to be wondered at after seeing his mother. Unlike the usual small, childlike Coolie woman, she was tall, with beautiful dark eyes, waving raven black hair, and dimpled cheeks; over her head and shoulders hung carelessly and in graceful folds the yellow handkerchief. How I wished I had the talent to sketch her as she stood, for "our special artist" was not there at that moment. Another characteristic thing we had to accustom ourselves to was our _washerman_. A black man would come and get the bundle of soiled clothes, and take it down to the river; he and his wife would stand in the water by a big flat rock, and with a stone proceed to pound the dirt out of our linen. We had a few dozen or so of garments returned, with laces bedraggled and holes knocked through the delicate fabrics. It was necessary to call in a sewing woman to make up a bolt of linen for new garments; but our experience was gained and paid for.