nnocently happy were their quiet days. They were all
Norwegians. The more I see of the natives of this far-off land, the
more I admire the fine qualities which seem to characterize them as a
race. Gentle, faithful, intelligent, God-fearing human beings, they
daily use such courtesy toward each other and all who come in contact
with them, as puts our ruder Yankee manners to shame. The men and
women living on this lonely island were like the sweet, honest, simple
folk we read of in Bjoernson's charming Norwegian stories, full of
kindly thoughts and ways. The murdered Anethe might have been the Eli
of Bjoernson's beautiful Arne or the Ragnhild of Boyesen's lovely
romance. They rejoiced to find a home just such as they desired in
this peaceful place; the women took such pleasure in the little house
which they kept so neat and bright, in their flock of hens, their
little dog Ringe, and all their humble belongings! The Norwegians are
an exceptionally affectionate people; family ties are very strong and
precious among them. Let me tell the story of their sorrow as simply
as may be.

Louis Wagner murdered Anethe and Karen Christensen at midnight on the
5th of March, two years ago this spring. The whole affair shows the
calmness of a practiced hand; _there was no malice in the deed_, no
heat; it was one of the coolest instances of deliberation ever
chronicled in the annals of crime. He admits that these people had
shown him nothing but kindness. He says in so many words, "They were
my best friends." They looked upon him as a brother. Yet he did not
hesitate to murder them. The island called Smutty-Nose by human
perversity (since in old times it bore the pleasanter title of Haley's
Island) was selected to be the scene of this disaster. Long ago I
lived two years upon it, and know well its whitened ledges and grassy
slopes, its low thickets of wild-rose and bayberry, its sea-wall still
intact, connecting it with the small island Malaga, opposite
Appledore, and the ruined break-water which links it with Cedar
Island on the other side. A lonely cairn, erected by some long ago
forgotten fishermen or sailors, stands upon the highest rock at the
southeastern extremity; at its western end a few houses are scattered,
small, rude dwellings, with the square old Haley house near; two or
three fish-houses are falling into decay about the water-side, and the
ancient wharf drops stone by stone into the little cove, where every
day the tide eb