THE PARSONAGE 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, dyed scarlet and embroidered 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
