We passed the night in Garrison with Captain and Mrs. Phillimore, and set off in the cart next morning for Green Mountain, following a road which winds round Cross Hill at the same elevation above Garrison as the Captain's Cottage.

We were even now not much nearer our destination than when we left Mars Bay, but there is no choice of routes to perplex the tourist in Ascension, and we took perforce this dreaiy way—round the side of Cross Hill, then four miles across a barren plain, diversified by the familiar piles of clinker. Black, brown, and reddish brick-dust-coloured cinder was gathered into heaps around us, and ground into dust along our path.

Here and there the road would run for a short distance parallel to the iron pipe which conveys the water from Green Mountain to Garrison, and on passing a small square block of mason-work about half-way, we read thereon in neatly painted letters, “Lady Hill Tank.” Tanks are placed at intervals along the whole line of pipe to hold the reserve water, and, if possible, to gather any that may be collected in their neighbourhood. The next one we passed had the additional attractions of a pump and a trough, and bore the inscription, “God be Thanked Tank.” The next was called “Travellers' Tank,” and so on. Altogether I think we passed six of these tanks before reaching the bottom of the “Ramps.”

At daybreak on the 1st of August, David was hard at work with the men, dismantling the snug little Observatory. Again the sound of tools was heard outside Commodore's Cottage, but not, it seemed to me, with the same pleasant ring, and I longed to run away somewhere beyond the noise. However, I had fortunately little time to indulge in fancies. Camp gear, stores, earthenware, glass, kitchen utensils, everything must be packed before 3 p.m., and stowed on board the steam-launch in readiness to sail at 6 o'clock the following morning.

I often wonder how we got it done. I think it must have been, not only by the zealous assistance of officers and men, but by the stimulus we ourselves received from the invigorating atmosphere of sympathy and good will which surrounded us. At all events, before sunset, Commodore's Cottage was ruthlessly plundered of such of its contents as would fit our camp, and the croquet ground again stood empty as we had found it. I felt “rooted up” and miserable; but without a doubt that we were on the right way. So, to cover my nervousness and restlessness, I went to bed.

Next morning, as the sun rose, a rare procession passed down the coast. A steam-launch, with Captain Phillimore and David on board, towed along two wellladen lighters and a sailing pinnace, and carried, moreover, quite a tail of little surf-boats, or “dingeys.”

The day after Christmas was also a holiday in Garrison, and we had a visit during the morning from our old friend Sam the first, in Sunday suit, along with another Krooman whom he introduced as his “chum.”

“We come wish you merry Christmas-time,” said Sam; and we thanked them, hoping in turn that they had had a happy Christmas.

“No, ma, me no happy Christmas, other man drink it all,” said Sam.

I didn't quite understand him at first, but it gradually dawned upon me that, to poor Sam's thinking, Christmas happiness was in proportion to the amount of bubbly-water he could consume.

How I wish we could show our good will to these poor fellows in some other way than by giving them “something to drink!” But there are so few things that they appreciate. Some of them, indeed, accept money eagerly, but for the most part they “no care.” And it is no wonder, for all the money they earn has to be given up to the Big Brother.

Although it is an undoubted fact that the Krooman cannot live as a slave, and has been known in slavery to starve himself to death, yet this Big Brother system almost amounts to bondage.

I remember a story once told me by a learned friend. He had been explaining to a lady, with much care and minuteness, the reasons why the axis of the earth is slowly though constantly changing its direction in the heavens, and why, therefore, the star, which is the Pole star now, was not the Pole star 4000 years ago.

The lady had encouraged our friend to proceed with his explanation by the most marked attention, and by such appreciative interjections as “Really!” “Indeed!” “How beautiful!” In this way he was led to more than usually minute description, and with much unction proceeded to crown his argument as follows.

“Now you see, by this change of the direction of the earth's axis, if we have any permanent record of an observation of the angular distance of a star from the Pole, we can calculate how long ago that record was made.” “Of course!” “And in the Great Pyramid we have such a record.” “Indeed! how wonderful!” “The entrance passage points to the north, and its angle of inclination corresponds with the lower culmination of the Pole star of 4000 years ago.”

Here a little hand was laid on our friend's arm, and his feelings may be better imagined than described, when, in an anxious voice, the question was put, “And pray, Professor, what is an angle?”

TheBoxer remained with us until the 17th of November.

Some days before she left, David and I set out to Garrison one afternoon, on pleasure bent, and found the croquet ground, the aforetime site of our Observatory, converted into a lawn-tennis ground. Generally speaking, at 4 p.m. Garrison is dead, to all outward appearance—the sail-cloth blinds are still drawn round the verandahs, and nothing of life stirs abroad. But to-day there was life, without doubt, in front of Commodore's Cottage, and it struck fresh and charming upon us, in contrast to the solitude we had left behind.

Captain Alington of the Boxer, who had for the present taken up his quarters at Commodore's Cottage, was the prime mover of this lawn-tennis; the hospitable dispenser of tea to the combatants, and the active promoter of whatever healthful amusement gave pleasure to his junior officers, and to the few young people on board the Ascension. The spirit of dissipation seized upon us, and as a covering of cloud kindly promised to hide our folly from the contemptuous stars, we threw off the “Sun's Parallax” for a night, and gave ourselves up to mirth and revelry. The officers of the Boxer being accomplished players on wind and stringed instruments, we actually succeeded in getting up a dance; a thing unheard of in the annals of the island, and the few ladies did excellent duty to their numerous partners.

But the Kroomen have betatyed me into a long digression, and it is now absolutely necessary that I return to Commodore's Cottage and its inmates.

We had hoped to spend our Christmas holidays at Green Mountain, but having no authentic information as to when the Mail would arrive, we dared not venture far from harbour. Counting from the departure of the previous Mail, she was due on the 10th of January; but the captain of a barque which arrived from the Cape on Christmas Eve, brought word from the agents there, that the steamer calling next at Ascension would leave Cape Town on Christmas Day. In this case we must expect her on the 3rd or 4th of January. It was very annoying to be “in boxes,” and in a state of uncertainty about our departure for ten days, but it would have been infinitely more annoying to be left behind. Accordingly, we gave up the idea of removing our household to the Mountain, and contented ourselves with making short excursions from Garrison instead.

It was now Ascension mid-summer, and there was light enough for a good walk after five o'clock. Our first spare afternoon was devoted to “Dead Man's Beach,” which I have already described as lying south of Pierhead, and which, notwithstanding its gloomy name, is bright and life-like, as the blue waves dance in the sunlight, and break in quick succession on the glistening sand.