One forenoon, however, when she had a great deal to do in the house, she was passing quickly through the room up-stairs, and there sat at one of the small tables, with an untouched mug of ale before him, a bearded man in a blue pea-jacket. In her hurry she had set him down as some mate or captain; but there must have been something about him that attracted her attention, for she turned again at the door for an instant, and looked at him before she went out. He was so pale—and he had sent her one look.
As she stood outside the door she knew it was Salvé, although she had always pictured him to herself as a common sailor. She stood there trembling all over, and fumbling with the latch of the door in the greatest agitation, evidently debating with herself whether she should dare go in again. She pressed upon the latch, in the certainty that it would go up before she had actually decided that she would go in; and it did so. The door opened again of itself, and Elizabeth entered with downcast eyes, and scarlet in the face, and passed through the room, making a slight inclination of her head, as if for greeting, as she passed him. She had reached the opposite door when she heard a quiet bitter laugh behind her.
At once she turned, with pride in every feature of her face, and looked at him.
"How do you do, Salvé Kristiansen?" she said, firmly and quietly.
"How do you do, Elizabeth?" he replied, rather huskily, getting up and looking confused.
"Are you lying here in Amsterdam with some vessel?"
He sat down again, for there was something in her manner that denied approach.
"No; in Pürmurende," he replied. "I only came in here to—"
"You are in the timber line, then, now?"
"Yes—Elizabeth," he ventured to add, in another tone, which had a whole volume of meaning in it. But she took her leave of him now in the same proud manner, and left the room.