Next morning, Sunday, we were awakened by the novel sound of rain pattering against the window panes, and on looking out I saw—nothing. A dense fog surrounded us, and hid the pretty garden which I doubted not was benefiting richly from its temporary concealment.

By the time I had dressed, however, the air was somewhat clearer, and when I opened the door of our little drawing-room, a curious, perplexing view lay before me. Three paces from the door the ground went headlong down a precipice of 150 feet, covering its fall with Bahama grass, castor-oil trees and shrubs of different kinds. Then a rocky shoulder shot out from the main head, and on this stood the Mountain Hospital in a thicket of Port Jackson willows, now looking cool and fresh from their morning bath. Beyond this another steep descent went sheer down to the broad, crater-dotted plain which stretched away to Garrison and the sea, and where the sun was now shining with a fierce light, while the mist still floated fitfully above and around us.

Here the air felt fresh, sweet, and English-like; there it looked stifling and altogether tropical.