The man in the Guernsey frock was John
Stewart, sole mate and half the crew of the Free Church yacht Betsey;
and the skipper-like man in the pea-jacket was my friend the minister of
the Protestants of Small Isles. In five minutes more I was sitting with
Mr. Elder beside the little iron stove in the cabin of the Betsey; and
the minister, divested of his cap and jacket, but still looking the
veritable skipper to admiration, was busied in making us a rather late
tea.

The cabin,--my home for the greater part of the three following weeks,
and that of my friend for the greater part of the previous
twelvemonth,--I found to be an apartment about twice the size of a
common bed, and just lofty enough under the beams to permit a man of
five feet eleven to stand erect in his night-cap. A large table, lashed
to the floor, furnished with tiers of drawers of all sorts and sizes,
and bearing a writing desk bound to it a-top, occupied the middle space,
leaving just room enough for a person to pass between its edges and the
narrow coffin-like beds in the sides, and space enough at its fore-end
for two seats in front of the stove. A jealously barred skylight opened
above; and there depended from it this evening a close lantern-looking
lamp, sufficiently valuable, no doubt, in foul weather, but dreary and
dim on the occasions when all one really wished from it was light. The
peculiar furniture of the place gave evidence to the mixed nature of my
friend's employment. A well-thumbed chart of the Western Islands lay
across an equally well-thumbed volume of Henry's "Commentary." There was
a Polyglot and a spy-glass in one corner, and a copy of Calvin's
"Institutes," with the latest edition of "The Coaster's Sailing
Directions," in another; while in an adjoining state-room, nearly large
enough to accommodate an arm-chair, if the chair could have but
contrived to get into it, I caught a glimpse of my friend's printing
press and his case of types, canopied overhead by the blue ancient of
the vessel, bearing, in stately six-inch letters of white bunting, the
legend, "FREE CHURCH YACHT." A door opened, which communicated with the
forecastle, and John Stewart, stooping very much, to accommodate himself
to the low-roofed passage, thrust in a plate of fresh herrings,
splendidly toasted, to give substantiality and relish to our tea. The
little rude forecastle, a considerably smaller apartment than the cabin,
was all a-glow with the bright fire in the