After our curiosity respecting wells, pipes, drips, and tanks, had been pretty well satisfied, the crater-exploring mania seized us again; and one fine afternoon my husband and I, accompanied by Mrs. Phillimore, set out for “Cricket Valley,” one of the mysterious basins lying among the plateaux on the eastern part of the island. David had walked there the day before, and had picked up in one of the furrows or runs near the valley, some beautiful specimens of carbonate of iron, the bright sparkle of which has given to the spot where they are found, the name of the “Silver Ore Run.”

It was this silver that we now went in search of. Making use of Jimmy Chivas alternately, Mrs. Phillimore and I followed David round the north side of the mountain along what we confidently supposed to be Elliot's Path. But we now found, that when Elliot's Path gets round to the north side of the mountain, it becomes Rupert's Path—in honour of some other admiral, no doubt—and with the effect of needlessly complicating the geography of the little island. However, it is the same narrow mountain way with a new name; and along Rupert's Path we now proceeded towards Cricket Valley, admiring as we went the rock-hewn gulleys sliding from our feet down to the plain below, and hiding in their deep gloom, aloes and banana trees.