different chamber. It is furnished with the usual couches spread with
skins, and on the edge of one of these, Lydia is seated. She does not
rise to greet her visitors, nor does it occur to her to offer a seat.
What shall she offer? A box? As with the rest of those visited, her
welcome takes the form of a good-humoured laugh. One or two objects in
her room testify to a refinement unusual for this station. A guitar
hangs on the wall near a cage with a bird in it, and against the
partition stands a piano. Fancy such an instrument in a low turf hut,
even though it be but an old square piano! Here, as elsewhere, we
speak a few words of kindly greeting and spiritual interest, and then
take leave with "Aksunai."

The occupant of the next hut is not at home. This is indicated by two
great slabs of slate, one at the entrance to his porch and one over
his front (and only) window. These are more for protection against
prowling dogs than dishonest men.

Now we come to the dwelling of the oldest couple, William and Hulda,
whose heathen names were Nochasak and Aksuana. They are, respectively,
fifty-five and fifty, but look older. Two sons live with them, of whom
the elder is married. Both parents are at home, and the
daughter-in-law with her first baby in her arms. Here first I notice
the curious lamp, a sort of dish hollowed out in a soft stone. The
wick is a kind of moss which floats in seal-oil, and gives a feeble
flame apparently more for warmth than for light, for the houses are
not dark.

Next to William's stand the roofless remains of an unoccupied
dwelling, which may serve to show how these huts are built. It is a
square enclosure three or four feet in height; the back is dug out of