Maritzburg, April 4, 1876.

Can you believe that we are crying out for rain already, and anxiously scanning the clouds as they bank up over the high hills to the south-west? But so it is. It would be a dreadful misfortune if the real dry weather were to set in so early, without the usual heavy downfall of rain which fills the tanks and springs, and wards off the evil day of a short water supply and no grass. Besides which, everybody faithfully promises me pleasanter weather,—weather more like one's preconceived idea of the climate of Natal, after a regular three days' rain. It is high time for my temper, as well as for the tanks, that this rain should come, for the slow, dragging summer days are now only diversified by constant gales of hot winds. These same hot winds are worse than anything, more exasperating and more exhausting; nor does a drop of dew fall at night to refresh the fast-browning vegetation, over which they scatter a thick haze of dust. Hot winds are bad enough in India, lived through in large, airy, lofty rooms, with mats of fragrant grass, kept constantly wet and hung at every door and window; with punkahs, and ice, and all the necessary luxury and idle calm of Indian life.