arge, warm heart. His countenance is one sober shadow of honest
brown, occasionally lighted by a true and guileless smile. William
Waterland has seen the "island-of-ice." "It lies off there, two miles
or more, grounded on a bank, in forty fathoms water."

It was nearly six o'clock; and yet, as there were signs of the fog
clearing away, we thought it prudent to wait. A dull, long hour passed
by, and still the sun was high in the northwest. That heavy cod-seine,
a hundred fathoms long, sank the stern of our barge rather deeply, and
made it row heavily. For all that, there was time enough yet, if we
could only use it. The fog still came in masses from the sea, sweeping
across the promontory between us and Torbay, and fading into air
nearly as soon as it was over the land. In the mean time, we sat upon
the rocks, upon the wood-pile, stood around and talked, looked out
into the endless mist, looked at the fishermen's houses, their
children, their fowls and dogs. A couple of young women, that might
have been teachers of the village school, had there been a school,
belles of the place, rather neatly dressed, and with hair nicely
combed, tripped shyly by, each with an arm about the other's waist,
and very merry until abreast of us, when they were as silent and
downcast as if they had been passing by their sovereign queen or the
Great Mogul. Their curiosity and timidity combined were quite amusing.
We speculated upon the astonishment that would have seized upon their
simple, innocent hearts, had they beheld, instead of us, a bevy of our
city fashionables in full bloom.

At length we accepted an invitation to walk into the house, and sat,
not under the good man's roof, but under his chimney, a species of
large funnel, into which nearly one end of the house resolved itself.
Here we sat upon some box-like benches before a wood fire, and warmed
ourselves, chatting with the family. While we were making ourselves
comfortable and agreeable, we made the novel and rather funny
discovery of a hen sitting on her nest just under the bench, with her
red comb at our fingers' ends. A large griddle hung suspended in the
more smoky regions of the chimney, ready to be lowered for the baking
of cakes or frying fish. Having tarred my hand, the fisherman's wife,
kind woman, insisted upon washing it herself. After rubbing it with a
little grease, she first scratched it with her finger-nail, and then
finished with soap and water and a good wiping wit