At this place is settled the only survivor of the first missionaries that landed--an old, white-headed, saint-like man, by the name of Wilson, the father of our friend, the consul.
The little parties on foot were frequently encountered; and, recalling, as they did, so many pleasant recollections of home and the ladies, I really longed for a dress coat and beaver that I might step up and pay my respects.

But, situated as I was, this was out of the question.

On one occasion, however, I received a kind, inquisitive glance from a matron in gingham.

Sweet lady! I have not forgotten her: her gown was a plaid.
But a glance, like hers, was not always bestowed.
One evening, passing the verandah of a missionary's dwelling, the dame, his wife, and a pretty, blonde young girl, with ringlets, were sitting there, enjoying the sea-breeze, then coming in, all cool and refreshing, from the spray of the reef.

As I approached, the old lady peered hard at me; and her very cap seemed to convey a prim rebuke.
The blue, English eyes, by her side, were also bent on me.