I find a strange pleasure in watching the rocks peep out under the snow, the children dragging their hand-sleds along the ice. All the little bits of winter life of which I get flying glimpses as we pass, bring back scenes grown dim in the years between. There is a mist ahead; and when we pass Dröbak cuddled like a dormouse for winter's sleep, I go below. A bright coal-fire burns in the open grate of the stove, and the "Rollo" saloon looks very cosy. My compatriot is stretched in a big arm-chair reading. She is sitting comfortably with one leg crossed over the other, in the manner called shockingly unladylike of my early lessons in deportment. The flame flickers over the patent leather of her neat low-heeled boot, and strikes a spark from the pin in her tie. There is something manlike about her; I don't know where it lies, but it is there. Her hair curls in gray-flecked rings about her head; it has not a cut look, seems rather to grow short naturally. She has a charming, tubbed look; of course every lady is alike clean, but some men and women have an individual look of sweet cleanness that is a beauty of itself. She feels my gaze, and looks up and smiles; she has a rare smile,--it shows her white teeth and softens her features. "The fire is cosy, isn't it? I hope we shall have an easy passage, so that it can be kept in." I answer something in English. She has a trick of wrinkling her brows; she does it now as she says,-- "A-ah, I should have said you were Norsk, are you not really? Surely, you have a typical head, or eyes and hair at the least?" "Half of me is Norsk, but I have lived a long time in England." "Father of course; case of 'there was a sailor loved a lass,' was it not?" I smile an assent and add: "I lost them both when I was very young." A reflective look steals over her face. It is stern in repose; and as she seems lost in some train of thought of her own, I go to my cabin and lie down; the rattling noises and the smell of paint make me feel ill. I do not go out again. I wake next morning with a sense of fear at the stillness; there is no sound but a lapping wash of water at the side of the steamer, but it is delicious to lie quietly after the vibration of the screw and the sickening swing. I look at my watch,--seven o'clock. I cannot make out why there is such a silence, as we only stop at Christiansand long enough to take cargo and passengers. I dress and go out. The saloon is empty, but the fire is burning brightly. I go to the pantry and ask the stewardess when we arrived. Early, she says; all the passengers for here are already gone on shore, and there is a thick fog outside; goodness knows how long we'll be kept. I go to the top of the stairs and look out; the prospect is uninviting, and I come down again and turn over some books on the table, in Russian, I think. I feel sure they are hers. "Good-morning!" comes her pleasant voice. How alert and bright-eyed she is! it is a pick-me-up to look at her.