T'he Half Way House 
we could see the place from where we were, — 
a few houses scattered on the shore that sug- 
gested anything but a haven. 
It must be a cold and dangerous port for 
the poor mariners of life who have found their 
way there. Its pitiful old name of Hungry 
Cove no doubt better expresses the facts of 
life there than the better-sounding New 
Haven. 
But the people here, in spite of their fright- 
ful poverty, have a frank and pleasant manner 
very different from the impenetrable and silent 
demeanour of the Scotch. We met a little boy 
and girl gathering bits of wood by the roadside, 
pretty, fragile creatures ; and when we spoke to 
them they answered promptly and intelligently, 
and with a pretty eagerness to tell us what we 
wanted to know. 
We spoke to the people we met, and it was 
pathetic as well as beautiful to see the worn 
faces lighten at the messages we bore from 
their beloved pastor. 
One woman, upon hearing we had recently 
seen Mr. Gibbons, came running from her 
house with the tears raining down her face, 
blessing him at every step and begging us to 
271 
