Despite our difficulty of communication, my fat friend and I soon became very amicable and talkative. He told me no end of stories, of which I did not comprehend a sentence, but looked as if I did--smiled, nodded my head, and said "ya, ya,"--to which he always replied "ya, ya,"--waving his arms, and slapping his breast, and rolling his eyes, as he bustled along beside me towards his dwelling. The house was perched on a rock close to the water's edge. Here my host found another subject to expatiate upon and dance round, in the shape of his own baby, a soft, smooth, little imitation of himself, which lay sleeping in its crib, like a small cupid. The man was evidently extremely fond of this infant. He went quite into ecstasies about it; now gazing at it with looks of pensive admiration; anon, starting and looking at me as if to say, "_Did you ever, in all your life, see such a beautiful cherub_?" The man's enthusiasm was really catching--I began to feel quite a fatherly interest in the cherub myself. "Oh!" he cried, in rapture, "det er smook barn!" "Ya, ya," said I, "megit smook," (very pretty)--although I must confess that _smoked_ bairn would have been nearer the mark, for it was as brown as a red-herring. I spent an agreeable, though I must confess mentally confused, afternoon with this gentleman, who, (when he succeeded in tearing himself away from that much-loved and megit smook barn), introduced me to his two sisters, who were stout and good-humoured like himself. They treated me to a cup of excellent coffee, and to a good deal more of incomprehensible conversation. Altogether, the natives of the Esse Fjord made a deep impression on us, and we parted from their grand and gloomy but hospitable shores with much regret. I had hoped, good reader, to have jotted down some more of my personal reminiscences of travel--in Algiers, the "Pirate City," at the Cape of Good Hope, and elsewhere--but bad health is not to be denied, and I find that I must hold my hand. Perchance this may be no misfortune, for possibly the "garrulity of age" is descending on me! Before closing this sketch, however, I would say briefly, that in all my writings I have always tried--how far successfully I know not--to advance the cause of Truth and Light, and to induce my readers to put their trust in the love of God our Saviour, for this life as well as the life to come. CHAPTER SEVEN. THE BURGLARS AND THE PARSON. A Country mansion in the south of England. The sun rising over a laurel-hedge, flooding the ivy-covered walls with light, and blazing in at the large bay-window of the dining-room. "Take my word for it, Robin, if ever this 'ouse is broke into, it will be by the dinin'-room winder."