But misfortune fell at length within the snow-hut. Poor old Kablunet, the voluble and kind-hearted and industrious wife of Tcheitchenguak, took sick. Her disease was pneumonia, and it ran its course with great rapidity. All my medicines and all my efforts to save her were of no avail, and she died on the fourth day. This unhappy event had nearly destroyed my prestige as a Narkosak, and indeed it would have done so completely had it not been for the fortunate occurrence of an auroral display, during which time Jensen, whom my journal mentions as "a convenient and useful man," informed the Esquimaux that the white man's medicine will not operate. And thus was saved my reputation. She died at five o'clock in the evening; at six she was sewed up in a seal-skin winding-sheet, and before it was yet cold the body was carried on Hans's sledge to a neighboring gorge and there buried among the rocks and covered with heavy stones. The only evidences of sorrow or regret were manifested by her daughter, Merkut, the wife of Hans, and these appeared to be dictated rather from custom than affection. Merkut remained by the grave after the others had departed, and for about an hour she walked around and around it, muttering in a low voice some praises of the deceased. At the head of the grave she then placed the knife, needles, and sinew which her mother had recently been using, and the last sad rites to the departed savage were performed. Tcheitchenguak came over and told me that there was no longer anybody to keep his lamp burning, and that his hut was cold, and with a very sorrowful face he begged to be allowed to live with Hans. My consent given, that of Hans was not deemed necessary; and so the snow-hut became deserted, and the cheerful family that had there dispensed a rude hospitality was broken up; and the "house of feasting" had become a "house of mourning," and Tcheitchenguak had come away from it to finish alone his little remaining span of life. Old and worn down by a hard struggle for existence, he was now dependent upon a generation which cared little for him, while she who alone could have soothed the sorrows of his declining years had gone away before him to the far-off island where the Great Spirit, Torngasoak the Mighty, regales the happy souls with an endless feast on the ever green banks of the boundless lake, where the ice is never seen and the darkness is never known,--where the sunshine is eternal, in the summer of bliss that is everlasting,--the Upernak that has no end.