Aylmer Bosanquet's shack had three rooms, all on the ground floor, with a veranda reached by steps. All the wooden houses have a basement beneath them, dug out of the earth and concreted. This helps to keep the houses dry and warm, and in the larger ones the furnace for the central heating is placed here. A stove going night and day is absolutely essential in the winter, as it is often forty or fifty degrees below zero. But the cold is not felt as severely as might be expected because of the dry, sunny atmosphere. Life in a shack was a distinct contrast from life in New York. My hostesses slept together in a bed 2-1/2 feet wide in order to accommodate their guest. In the dark of the wintry morning, about 7 a.m., I roused up sleepily to find Aylmer Bosanquet bringing me hot water, herself fully dressed and armed with logs, just going out to light the stove in the church, so that it might be warm when the people came at eight o'clock. St. Colomba's was a typical prairie church, square built, without a chancel, the plainness of the walls only accentuating the richness of the altar furnishings. The walls were hung with framed Nelson pictures, which lent beauty and atmosphere to the church, and suggested meditation on holy things to all who entered. Most of the pictures were Aylmer Bosanquet's gifts, and the little wooden font, with its brass basin, was given by the Sunday School children. The splendid attendance at Holy Communion and Morning Prayer showed that the adornment of the church was the expression of a real love for religion. The hearty way in which the congregation joined in the services was very striking. Their mutual friendliness also was pleasant to see, and gave point to the usual greeting: "Pleased to meet you!" murmured in broken English even by the Chinese member of the congregation, a phrase which left me at a loss for a suitable reply until I hit upon the plan of always saying it first. Preparation for the afternoon Sunday School was somewhat hampered by the necessity for cooking lunch at the same time, and the peas got burnt while the sand-tray was being prepared. At this unpropitious moment Mr. G., the Mission clergyman, looked in to smoke a surreptitious pipe, removed from the disapproving gaze of his flock, who have no sympathy with this form of self-indulgence on the part of their spiritual pastors. Unfortunately, in peas versus tobacco, peas won, and with a discerning sniff Mr. G. remarked: "You seem to be having very strange food." Which was the more disconcerting as the shack owners had more than once been reproved for their carelessness of their own comfort.