Ticket No. 9672 | Page 6

crisp oaten and barley
cakes, fruits, more especially strawberries, bread--unleavened bread, it
is here, but of the very best quality--beer, and some old bottles of that
Saint Julien that have spread the fame of French vineyards even to this
distant land?
And this being the case, it is not strange that the inn at Dal is well and
favorably known in all the countries of Northern Europe.
One can see this, too, by glancing over the register in which many
travelers have not only recorded their names, but paid glowing tributes
to Dame Hansen's merits as an inn-keeper. The names are principally
those of Swedes and Norwegians from every part of Scandinavia; but
the English make a very respectable showing; and one of them, who
had waited at least an hour for the summit of Gousta to emerge from
the morning mist that enveloped it, wrote upon one of the pages:

"Patientia omnia vincit?"
CHAPTER III.
Without being very deeply versed in ethnography, one may be strongly
inclined to believe, in common with many savants, that a close
relationship exists between the leading families of the English
aristocracy and the oldest families of Scandinavia. Numerous proofs of
this fact, indeed, are to be found in the ancestral names which are
identical in both countries. There is no aristocracy in Norway, however;
still, though the democracy everywhere rules, that does not prevent it
from being aristocratic to the highest degree. All are equals upon an
exalted plane instead of a low one. Even in the humblest hut may be
found a genealogical tree which has not degenerated in the least
because it has sprung up anew in humble soil; and the walls are
adorned with the proud blazons of the feudal lords from whom these
plain peasants are descended.
So it was with the Hansens of Dal, who were unquestionably related,
though rather remotely, to the English peers created after Rollo's
invasion of Normandy, and though rank and wealth had both departed
they had at least preserved the old pride, or rather dignity, which
becomes all social ranks.
It was a matter of very little consequence, however. Whether he had
ancestors of lofty lineage or not, Harald Hansen was simply a village
inn-keeper. The house had come down to him from his father and from
his grandfather, who were widely known and respected, and after his
death his widow continued the business in a way that elicited universal
commendation.
Whether or not Harald had made a fortune in the business, no one was
able to say; but he had been able to rear his son Joel and his daughter
Hulda in comfort; and Ole Kamp, a son of his wife's sister, had also
been brought up like one of his own children. But for his uncle Harald,
this orphan child would doubtless have been one of those poor
creatures who come into the world only to leave it; and Ole Kamp

evinced a truly filial devotion toward his parents by adoption. Nothing
would ever sever the tie that bound him to the Hansen family, to which
his marriage with Hulda was about to bind him still more closely.
Harald Hansen had died about eighteen months before, leaving his wife,
in addition to the inn, a small farm on the mountain, a piece of property
which yielded very meager returns, if any. This was especially true of
late, for the seasons had been remarkably unpropitious, and agriculture
of every kind had suffered greatly, even the pastures. There had been
many of those "iron nights," as the Norwegian peasants call
them--nights of north-easterly gales and ice that kill the corn down to
the very root--and that meant ruin to the farmers of the Telemark and
the Hardanger.
Still, whatever Dame Hansen might think of the situation of affairs, she
had never said a word to any living soul, not even to her children.
Naturally cold and reserved, she was very uncommunicative--a fact that
pained Hulda and Joel not a little. But with that respect for the head of
the family innate in Northern lands, they made no attempt to break
down a reserve which was eminently distasteful to them. Besides,
Dame Hansen never asked aid or counsel, being firmly convinced of
the infallibility of her own judgment, for she was a true Norwegian in
that respect.
Dame Hansen was now about fifty years old. Advancing age had not
bowed her tall form, though it had whitened her hair; nor had it
dimmed the brightness of her dark-blue eyes, whose azure was
reflected in the clear orbs of her daughter; but her complexion had
taken on the yellow hue of old parchment, and a few wrinkles were
beginning to furrow her forehead.
The madame, as they say in Scandinavia, was invariably attired in a full
black