To Ragna especially, Uncle Olaf was an embodiment of the spirit of adventure and of the sea; he became in her imagination a sort of "Flying Dutchman," doomed to sail forever and ever the Northern Seas, passing the fjord and his old home in the whirling storm, doomed never to bring his ship into port, never to rest in the haven where he fain would be. She loved him, the tall, beautiful young sailor, with the waving fair hair and deep-set blue eyes, and she imagined him amongst his grey-bearded seamen,--they would grow old, but he, never. Some days when she took her boat out in the open water, beyond the sheltering fjord, she would imagine that far away against the dark horizon, against the gathering storm-clouds, she saw the phantom vessel, flying before the wind, all sails set, half veiled in the blowing scud. Her two sisters would talk of when Uncle Olaf should come home, of the riches he would bring, and the wonderful tales of adventure in far countries he would tell, but only Ragna knew that he would never come, that his mysterious doom was to sail on and on till the Judgment Day, longing for peace and home, family and joy, but never to find them; seeing his comrades grow old and grey, and die--but himself, always young, always stretching longing arms toward the happiness and rest he might never attain to--and so on and on for ever, till the end of the world. Ragna, as you may see, was impulsive and visionary, and while her sisters both became capable little housewives, she took but little interest in homely duties. Eagerly she read whatever fell in her way, but especially she loved the old Sagas, with their great fierce women, and strong, terribly human men. She heard the call of the Valkyries in the wind, saw their shapes in the battling clouds; the Aurora Borealis to her, lighted the feasting of heroes in Valhalla. Naturally, she wrote verses herself, but in secret, hiding her copy-book deep in her clothes press. There her sister Lotte found it one fateful day, and produced it, in a fit of childish mischief, after supper in the family circle. Poor Ragna, all confusion and blushes, fearing the inevitable reprimand for foolish waste of time, tried to snatch her darling, but the father held up his hand. "Give that book to me, Lotte," he said, and when she had complied, he locked it up in his desk, and nothing further was said. A week passed, and still Ragna trembled for the fate of her treasure, but dared not inquire. She stood in awe of her father, and would as soon have bearded a lion in his den, as question him. When he finally summoned her to his study, and bade her close the door behind her, she entered timidly, not daring to look him in the face. If he was secretly amused by her air of conscious guilt, he gave no sign.