THE PARSONAGE. 37 



female face. I tapped at the door, and was ushered 

 into a cosy little apartment, (the fastidious neatness of 

 which left no doubt as to the sex of its occupants,) by 

 the oddest specimen of woman-kind that ever answered 

 bell. She was a full-blown Esquimau, with coppery 

 complexion and black hair, which was twisted into a 

 knot on the top of her head. She wore a jacket 

 which extended to her waist, seal-skin pantaloons, and 

 boots reaching above the knees, dved scarlet and em- 

 broidered in a manner that would astonish the girls 

 of Dresden. The room was redolent of the fragrant 

 rose and mignonette and heliotrope, which nestled in 

 the sunlight under the snow-white curtains. A canary 

 chirped on its perch above the door, a cat was purring 

 on the hearth-rug, and an unmistakable gentleman 

 put out a soft white hand to give me welcome. It 

 was the Rev. Mr. Anton, missionary of the place. 

 Mrs. Anton soon emerged from a snug little chamber 

 adjoining. Her sister came in immediately afterward, 

 and we were soon grouped about a home-like table ; 

 a genuine bottle of Lafitte, choice coffee, Danish fare, 

 and Danish heartiness, quickly made us forget the 

 hardships of our cramped life in the little tempest- 

 tossed schooner. 



My visit to Mr. Anton had, however, an association 

 of much sadness. A valued member of my party, 

 Mr. Gibson Caruthers, had died during the previous 

 night, and I called to ask the missionary to officiate at 

 the funeral service. His consent was promptly given, 

 and the hour of burial was fixed for the following 

 day. 



The burial of a companion, at any time painful, was 

 doubly so to us, isolated as we were from the world. 

 The deceased had endeared himself to all on board by 



