"A frightful little hole!" repeated Erik, indignantly. "Those who say that must be without eyes. If you could only see our rocks of granite, our mountains, our glaciers, and our forests of pine, looking so black against the pale sky! And besides all this, the great sea; sometimes tumultuous and terrible, and sometimes so calm as scarcely to rock one; and then the flight of the sea-gulls, which are lost in infinitude, and then return, to fan you with their wings. Oh, it is beautiful! Yes, far more beautiful than a town."
"I was not speaking of the country but of the houses," said Kajsa, "they are only peasants' cabins—are they not, uncle?"
"In these peasants' cabins, your father and grandfather as well as myself were born, my child," answered the doctor, gravely.
Kajsa blushed and remained silent.
"They are only wooden houses, but they answer as well as any," said Erik.
"Often in the evening while my father mends his nets, and my mother is busy with her spinning-wheel, we three sit on a little bench, Otto, Vanda, and I, and we repeat together the old sagas, while we watch the shadows that play upon the ceiling; and when the wind blows outside, and all the fishermen are safe at home, it does one good to gather around the blazing fire. We are just as happy as if we were in a beautiful room like this."
"This is not the best room," said Kajsa proudly. "I must show you the grand drawing-room, it is worth seeing!"
"But there are so many books in this one," said Erik, "are there as many in the drawing-room?"
"Books—who cares for them? There are velvet armchairs, and sofas, lace curtains, a splendid French clock, and carpets from Turkey!"
Erik did not appear to be fascinated by this description, but cast envious glances toward the large oaken bookcase, which filled one side of the parlor!