a moment’s hesitation he insisted on our all getting into it and making the best of our way to our hotel.  It is too good an offer to be refused, for the sun is hot and the babies are tired to death; so we start, slowly enough, to plough our way through heavy sand up to the axles.  If the tide had been out we could have driven quickly along the hard, dry sand; but we comfort ourselves by remembering that there had been water enough on the bar, and make the best of our way through clouds of impalpable dust to a better road, of which a couple of hundred yards land us at our hotel.  It looks bare and unfurnished enough, in all conscience, but it is a new place, and must be furnished by degrees.  At all events, it is tolerably clean and quiet, and we can wash our sunburned faces and hands, and, as nurse says, “turn ourselves round.”

Coolies swarm in every direction, picturesque fish- and fruit-sellers throng the verandah of the kitchen a little way off, and everything looks bright and green and fresh, having been well washed by the recent rains.  There are still, however, several feet of dust in the streets, for they are made of dust; and my own private impression is, that all the water in the harbor would not suffice to lay the dust of D’Urban for more than half an hour.  With the restlessness of people who have been cooped up on board ship for a month, we insist, the moment it is cool enough, on being taken out for a walk.  Fortunately, the public gardens are close at hand, and we amuse ourselves very well in them for an hour or two, but we are all thoroughly tired and worn out, and glad to get to bed, even in gaunt, narrow rooms on hard pallets.

The two following days were spent in looking after and collecting our cumbrous array of boxes and baskets.  Tin baths, wicker chairs and baskets, all had to be counted and recounted, until one got weary of the word “luggage;” but that is the penalty of drafting babies about the world.  In the intervals of the serious business of tracing No. 5 or running No. 10 to earth in the corner of a warehouse, I made many pleasant acquaintances and received kindest words and notes of welcome from unknown friends.  All this warm-hearted, unconventional kindness goes far to make the stranger forget his “own people and his father’s house,” and feel at once at home amid strange and unfamiliar scenes.  After all, “home” is portable, luckily, and a welcoming smile and hand-clasp act as a spell to create it in any place.  We also managed, after business-hours, when it was of no use making expeditions to wharf or custom-house after recusant carpet-bags, to drive to the Botanic Gardens.  They are extensive and well kept, but seem principally devoted to shrubs.  I was assured that this is the worst time of year for flowers, as the plants have not yet recovered from the winter drought.  A dry winter and wet summer is the correct atmospheric fashion here:  in winter everything is brown and dusty and dried