Mr. G. found a part of somebody's outfit, consisting of clothing and tin dishes, on the beach today. Miss J. held a little meeting again in the kitchen for the natives after supper, and is very happy over having the two new little Eskimos. This is our fourth week in the Mission, and pleasant and happy ones they have been, at least, if there have been vexations to some, they have succeeded admirably in keeping them out of sight. November fifteenth: The weather is still warm, wet and slippery under foot. This morning a young man called from Nome, with a letter from Mary, saying she is coming by dog-team as soon as the trails are good. The commissioner called today to get the preacher to officiate at the funeral of the man who was killed, but it was postponed until tomorrow, because the grave could not be finished before dark. The commissioner sat for half an hour, and chatted in the sitting room. November sixteenth: All hands are at work now for the children, and overalls, waists and shirts for the little boys as well as garments for the girls are on the docket. The big boys fished, and got smelt and tom-cod. B. sewed at mittens for himself, and G. took the church organ to pieces to clean and repair it. Mr. M., who has been at work on the Home, has come here to spend the winter. I wish he would set to work and catch some of the mice which infest the house, and run over me when I am asleep in the night time. A meeting for the natives in the house again tonight, and the doors had to be left open on account of the pungent seal oil perfume from the garments of the Eskimos. The man who was killed was buried today in the edge of the little graveyard on the hillside. The Swedish preacher was asked to go to the grave, and he did so, reading a Psalm, and offering a prayer. Only four or five men were present. It is a stony, lonely place, without a tree in sight; the few scattering graves having only wooden slabs for head boards. Being just above the beach, the spot commands a view of the bay in front, but it is now all a snow and ice desert, and the most dreary place imaginable. Very little was known of the murdered man, and no good could be said of him, but it is supposed that he has a wife and children somewhere. What a dreadful ending! Will his family ever know what has become of him, and is his mother still living? If so, I hope they may never learn of his horrid death and worthless life in Alaska. He was never conscious for a moment after being hurt, so they know nothing as to where to write to his relatives. It makes one shudder to think of it! He may have been a good and bright child, beloved by parents and brothers, but the drink curse claimed him for its own.