e
afternoon. We had cast anchor, and I was reflecting on my next
course of action when I heard my name called from under the ship's
side. Looking down, I spied a tall, grave gentleman seated in a
boat. I replied as well as I could for the noise, and presently the
stranger clambered up on deck and announced himself as Mr.
Eversleigh, to whom Mr. Sanderson had recommended me. I had no
notion until this moment--and I state it in proof of Mr. Sanderson's
kindness--that any arrangement had been made for entertaining me at
Colombo. It is true that Mr. Sanderson had told me, on the night
when our acquaintance began, to send this gentleman's address to
Margery, that her letter might safely reach me; but beyond this I
knew nothing. Mr. Eversleigh shook me by the hand, and, to my
unspeakable joy, handed me my dear wife's letter.

"I say to my unspeakable joy, for no words can tell, dear wife, with
what feelings I read your letter as the little boat carried me up to
the quay. How often during the idle days of my recovery have I lain
wondering how you and Jasper were passing this weary time, and cried
out on the weakness that kept me so long dallying. Patience, dear
heart, it is but a little time now.

"I have forgotten to speak of Colliver. He has been as delightful
and indifferent as ever throughout the voyage. Certainly I can find
no reason for crediting Mr. Sanderson's suspicions. In the hurry of
landing I missed him, not even having opportunity to ask about his
plans. Doubtless I shall see him in a day or two.

"Dec. 10th.--What an entrancing country is this Ceylon! The monsoon
is upon us, and hinders my journey: indeed, Mr. Eversleigh advises me
not to start for some weeks. He promises to accompany me to the Peak
if I can wait, but the suspense is hard to bear. Meantime I am
drinking in the marvels of Colombo. The quaint names over the shops,
the bright dresses of white and red, the priests with their robes of
flaming yellow--all these are diverting enough, but words cannot tell
of the beauty of the country here. The roads are all of some strange
red soil, and run for miles beneath the most beautiful trees
imaginable--bamboos, palms, and others unknown to me, but covered
with crimson and yellow blossom. Then the long stretches of rice
fields, and again more avenues of palms, with here and there a lovely
pool by the wayside--all this I cannot here describe. But most
wonderful of all is the monsoon which