Ticket No. 9672 | Page 2

narrow valley through which
flowed the Maan, which is half river, half torrent.
A wooden staircase, with heavy balusters and highly polished steps, led
from the lower hall to the floors above, and nothing could be more neat
and attractive than the whole aspect of this establishment, in which the
travelers found a comfort that is rare in Norwegian inns.
Hulda and her mother were in the habit of retiring early when they were
alone, and Dame Hansen had already lighted her candle, and was on
her way upstairs, when a loud knocking at the door made them both
start.

"Dame Hansen! Dame Hansen!" cried a voice.
Dame Hansen paused on the stairs.
"Who can have come so late?" she exclaimed.
"Can it be that Joel has met with an accident?" returned Hulda, quickly.
And she hastened toward the door.
She found a lad there--one of the young rascals known as skydskarls,
that make a living by clinging to the back of kariols, and taking the
horse back when the journey is ended.
"What do you want here at this hour?" asked Hulda.
"First of all to bid you good-evening," replied the boy, mischievously.
"Is that all?"
"No; that isn't all; but a boy oughtn't to forget his manners, ought he?"
"You are right. But who sent you?"
"Your brother Joel."
"And what for?" asked Dame Hansen, advancing to the door with the
slow and measured tread that is a characteristic of the inhabitants of
Norway. There is quicksilver in the veins of their soil, but little or none
in the veins of their bodies.
The reply had evidently caused the mother some anxiety, however, for
she added hastily:
"Has anything happened to my son?"
"No, but the Christiania postman gave him a letter, and--"
"A letter from Drammen?" repeated Dame Hansen, in a lower tone.

"I don't know about that," replied the youth. "All I do know is, that Joel
can't get home before to-morrow, and he sent me here to deliver the
letter."
"It is important then?"
"I should judge so."
"Hand it here," said Dame Hansen, in a tone that betrayed keen anxiety.
"Here it is, clean and not wrinkled in the least. But the letter is not for
you."
Dame Hansen seemed to breathe more freely.
"Then who is it for?" she asked.
"For your daughter."
"For me!" cried Hulda. "It is a letter from Ole! I am sure it is--a letter
that came by way of Christiania. My brother did not want me to be kept
waiting."
Hulda had snatched the letter from the boy's hand, and now taking it to
the table upon which her mother had deposited the candle, she
examined the address.
"Yes, it is from him. It is certainly from him! Heaven grant that he
writes to announce the speedy return of the 'Viking'!"
"Won't you come in?" said Dame Hansen, turning to the boy.
"Only for a minute. I must get back home to-night, for I am to go with a
kariol to-morrow morning."
"Very well. Tell Joel, from me, that I expect to go to Moel to-morrow,
and that he must wait for me there."
"To-morrow evening?"

"No; to-morrow morning, and he must not leave Moel until he sees me.
We will return to Dal together."
"Very well, Dame Hansen."
"Won't you take a drop of brandevin?"
"With pleasure."
The boy approached the table, and Dame Hansen handed him a glass of
the beverage which is such a powerful protection against the evening
fogs. It is needless to say that he drained the glass, then,
"God-aften!" he said.
"God-aften, my son!"
This is the Norwegian good-night. It was simply spoken, without even
an inclination of the head, and the lad instantly departed, without
seeming to mind in the least the long walk that he had before him. The
sound of his footsteps soon died away beneath the trees that border the
swiftly flowing river.
Hulda still stood gazing at Ole's letter. Think of it! This frail envelope
must have crossed the broad ocean to reach her, the broad ocean in
which the rivers of western Norway lose themselves. She examined the
different postmarks. Though mailed on the 15th of March, the missive
had not reached Dal until the 15th of April. Why! a month had already
elapsed since the letter was written! How many things might have
happened in a month on the shores of Newfoundland! Was it not still
winter, the dangerous season of equinoxes? Are not these fishing banks
the most dangerous in the world, swept by terrible gales from the North
Pole? A perilous and arduous vocation was this business of fishing
which Ole followed! And if he followed it was it not that she, his
betrothed, whom he was to marry on his return, might reap the
benefits?