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CAMPBELL found so much to attract him in the little colonial village that he determined to spend the rest of his furlough in its leafy and surge-circled bosom. He found a quiet lodging in a farmhouse on the top of the cliff, looking straight over the Pacific Ocean towards the mystic Antarctic regions; and there he unpacked his books, his violin, his MS. sketch of “Life in Northern India” (which might be destined to grow some day into a thick, fat, green-covered volume, and be spoken of in years to come as the standard work of the century on this subject). He also bought a couple of young horses for a mere song—that was what the seller termed the transaction, all unknowing that the composers are few and far between who would realize £50 (cash) on their inspirations, as he did. At all events the mare was cheap at the price, and possibly she might carry off a small hurdle race some day if he took her back to