Some weeks now passed by pleasantly and busily, but so entirely devoid of incident, that I fear my readers would find in a daily chronicle of them only monotonous repetition.

Sometimes a pretty little donkey would peep over the rocks at us and scamper off again; sometimes a wild cat would mistake my larder for public property, and bring involuntary fasts into the camp. Almost daily a ship of some kind passed us; sometimes so far off as to seem a mere white speck on the horizon, at other times so close that we could easily read her signals without the help of a glass. “What news of the East?” “Is England at war?” “When is the mail due?” were invariable questions; and often, when outward-bound vessels found that a mail was expected soon, they would send letters ashore at Garrison, so that Ascension has still good claim to its old name, “The Sailor's Post Office.”

About the middle of November H.M.S. Beacon, homeward-bound from China, put into harbour for coals and provisions, and her coming made another break in our little community, for at sight of her Graydon grew home-sick. Having exceeded his term of service on the West Coast by two years, he might have gone home with the Orontes in September; and David could not find it in his heart to oppose him now, much as we were likely to suffer by a change.