“Oh, Roy! he couldn’t have known or he would never have said it.” “Oh, yes, he knew it well enough. It was meant for a snub, richly deserved by the presuming tradesman who dared to come to Norway for his holiday instead of eating shrimps at Margate, as such cattle should, you know!” and Roy laughed good-humoredly. Snubs had a way of gliding off him like water off a duck’s back. “I should have hated it,” said Cecil. “What did you do?” “Nothing; studied Baedeker with an imperturbable face, and reflected sapiently with William of Wykeham that neither birth nor calling but ‘manners makyth man.’ But look! this must be Bergen. What a glorious view! If only you had time to sketch it just from here!” Cecil, after one quick exclamation of delight, was quite silent, for indeed few people can see unmoved that exquisite view which is unfolded before them as they round the fjord and catch the first glimpse of the most beautiful town in Norway. Had she been alone she would have allowed the tears of happiness to come into her eyes, but being on a crowded steamer she fought down her emotion and watched in a sort of dream of delight the picturesque wooden houses, the red-tiled roofs, the quaint towers and spires, the clear still fjord, with its forest of masts and rigging, and the mountains rising steep and sheer, encircling Bergen like so many hoary old giants who had vowed to protect the town. Meanwhile, the deck resounded with those comments which are so very irritating to most lovers of scenery; one long-haired æsthete gave vent to a fresh adjective of admiration about once a minute, till Roy and Cecil were forced to flee from him and to take refuge among the sporting fraternity, who occasionally admitted frankly that it was “a fine view,” but who obtruded their personality far less upon their companions. “Oh, Roy, how we shall enjoy it all!” said Cecil, as they drew near to the crowded landing-quay. “I think we shall fit in, Cis,” he said, smiling. “Thank Heaven, you don’t take your pleasure after the manner of that fellow. If I were his traveling companion I should throttle him in a week.” “Or suggest a muzzle,” said Cecil, laughing; “that would save both his neck and your feelings.” “Let me have your key,” he said, as they approached the wooden pier; “the custom-house people will be coming on board, and I will try to get our things looked over quickly. Wait here and then I shall not miss you.”