"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.
"You did not appear last night; not given in already, I hope!"
She is kneeling on one knee before the fire, holding her palms to the glow; and with her figure hidden in her loose, fur-lined coat, and the light showing up her strong face under the little tweed cap, she seems so like a clever-faced slight man that I feel I am conventionally guilty in talking so freely to her. She looks at me with a deliberate, critical air, and then springs up.
"Let me give you something for your head! Stewardess, a wine-glass!"