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 she speak French grammatically, as the natives are taught to, and read and write it, but also English—Coast English no doubt, but comforting to the wanderer who falls in with her, while she claims an equal knowledge of Spanish; no mean range of accomplishments for a lady. I return to my abode and have a square meal and sugar in my coffee, thanks to the missionary, and so to bed, as Mr. Pepys would say. I am sure, by the way, Mr. Pepys would like Agnes, she is quite his style of beauty, plump and pleasant; I don't expect he would care for my seaweed bed though, unless he had been broken into it by African travel, for Mr. Pepys had great ideas of being comfortable in a conventional way.

August 11th—Agnes rouses me from my thalassic couch and suggests Mass at 5.30. It seems a very proper suggestion, so I carry it out. I find the rest of the inhabitants already on their knees in the church, singing their Salve Maria responses in that musical, metallic twang the Latin seems to bring out so strangely in the African voice, usually so full and throaty. I endeavour to follow properly, and when my whole attention is absorbed in so doing, a terrific tug at my skirts alarms me, I look carefully round and see Agnes on her knees behind me. "What's the matter?" I ask. She whispers something. "Salve Maria," I say, joining the congregational chorus hastily, and add in a whisper "I no fit to hear you, speak them thing softly, softly,"—she then emits a hissing whisper, full of earnest meaning but incomprehensible as to detail; "Salve Maria" comes again and I, feeling frightened that I am doing something awfully wrong somehow, answer anxiously "What?" and then right out loud and clear, Agnes says, "I be his Jack wash." "Salve Maria," say I, with the congregation. Then we have an explanation outside, and it seems she does his reverence's washing, and feeling, justly enough, proud of the white lace petticoats which he was displaying before the altar she was compelled to communicate the fact to me and claim her share in their beauty. Vanity, thy name is Woman!

I take leave of Agnes with gifts, and of my host, the owner of the house, giving him a present. He is more than satisfied, but explains this must be regarded as a gift and not as pay for the hire of his house—it not being the fashion of his