the spring that fills the ditch is inside the wall, and bubbles
out at the top of the hill winter and summer alike, and I always
keep a store of four months' provision in the house.'

Crossing over a plank and through a very narrow opening in the
wall, we entered into what Mrs Mackenzie called _her_ domain --
namely, the flower garden, the beauty of which is really beyond
my power to describe. I do not think I ever saw such roses,
gardenias, or camellias (all reared from seeds or cuttings sent
from England); and there was also a patch given up to a collection
of bulbous roots mostly collected by Miss Flossie, Mr Mackenzie's
little daughter, from the surrounding country, some of which
were surpassingly beautiful. In the middle of this garden, and
exactly opposite the veranda, a beautiful fountain of clear water
bubbled up from the ground, and fell into a stone-work basin
which had been carefully built to receive it, whence the overflow
found its way by means of a drain to the moat round the outer
wall, this moat in its turn serving as a reservoir, whence an
unfailing supply of water was available to irrigate all the gardens
below. The house itself, a massively built single-storied building,
was roofed with slabs of stone, and had a handsome veranda in
front. It was built on three sides of a square, the fourth side
being taken up by the kitchens, which stood separate from the
house -- a very good plan in a hot country. In the centre of
this square thus formed was, perhaps, the most remarkable object
that we had yet seen in this charming place, and that was a single
tree of the conifer tribe, varieties of which grow freely on
the highlands of this part of Africa. This splendid tree, which
Mr Mackenzie informed us was a landmark for fifty miles round,
and which we had ourselves seen for the last forty miles of our