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not let me stand still; bald and old looking, I fear you will hardly recognise me. I often wonder if I shall perceive a similar change in any of you. It is surprising how the memory clings to the appearances which it last saw, and I fear this is one of the disappointments necessarily attendant upon a meeting after a long absence.
July 5th.—When I came to look for my horse to-night, at Major Irwin's, it had gone off, so I had no ready way of coming across the river without borrowing a horse, which I did not care to do, and I quietly walked through the river up to my neck, just opposite my own door, and slipped into the house unperceived to get a towel to dry myself. In the meantime the servants were on the look out to hear the footsteps of the horse, and when they heard me call out from the house without hearing the horse I believe they thought it was my ghost. As I came to the bank of the river I had some qualms about going in, thinking it would be cruelly cold, but I was very agreeably surprised to find it rather pleasant than otherwise. Now this is the middle of our winter. I had a discussion to-night about the propriety of going home by India. Irwin advised it, but Mr. Mitchell says the monsoons prevail from July till October, at which time it is not practicable to travel. I think the first ship might be an American one, so there is no knowing from what quarter I might drop in upon you.
Monday.—A native has unfortunately been wounded to-day on Ellen's Brook, on my farm there. A boy was charging a pistol when it went off, and shot the ramrod into a native who was with him. They know it to be accidental, but I fear they will not be easily reconciled if the man dies. It struck him about the loin.
July 17th.—I have delayed closing this letter in the hope that I may be able to give some more decisive information as to my movements, but I have learned nothing more definite. I think I may consider that I have obtained my leave,
