dless of manners I fell to and devoured it, while all
the "little oysters stood and waited in a row." Like the walrus, with
a few becoming words I introduced myself as their future guardian, but
never a word said they. As, led by a diminutive maid, I passed from
their gaze I heard an awe-struck whisper, "IT'S gone upstairs!"

[Illustration: THE HERRING OF HIGH ESTATE]

In answer to my questions the little maid informed me that the last
mistress had left by the boat I had just missed, and that since then
the children had been in her charge, with such help and supervision as
the various members of the Mission staff could give. I therefore felt
it was "up to me" to make a start, and I delicately enquired when the
next meal was due. An exhaustive exploration of the larder revealed
two herrings, one undoubtedly of very high estate. As the children
looked fairly plump, I concluded that they had only been on such
meagre diet since the departure of the last "mistress." The barrenness
of the larder suggested a fruitful topic of conversation with which to
win the confidence of these staring, open-mouthed children, and I
therefore tenderly asked what they would most like to eat, supposing
IT were there. One and all affirmed that "swile" meat was a
delicacy such as their souls loved--and repeated questions could
elucidate no further. Subsequently, on making enquiries of one of the
Mission staff, I thought I detected a look which led me to suppose
that I had not yet acquired the correct pronunciation of the word. We
dined off the herring of lowly origin, and consigned the other to the
garbage pail. Nerve as well as skill, I can assure you, is required to
divide one herring into thirty-six equal parts. There is no occasion
for alarm. I have not the slightest intention of starving these
infants. To-morrow I go on a foraging expedition to the Mission
commissariat department (there must be one somewhere), and then the
fat years shall succeed the lean ones.

To-night I am too tired to do more, and there is a quite absurd
longing to see some one's face again. The coming year looks very long
and very dreary, and although I know I shall grow to love these
children, yet, oh, I wish they did not stare so when one has to blink
so hard to keep the tears from falling.

_July 7_

Morning! And the children may stare all they like. I no longer need to
repress youthful emotions. All the same it is a trifle disconcerting.
I had chosen