e from the depths below us a wailing cry, and all night
long it rose and died away, and rose again, and died away again; whether
born of our brain or of some human thing, God knows.

[Illustration: "I SPEND AS MUCH TIME AS I CAN WITH HER."]

And these, a little altered and shortened, are the letters:--

_Extract from first letter:_

"I cannot tell you, my dear Joyce, what a haven of peace this place is
to me after the racket and fret of town. I am almost quite recovered
already, and am growing stronger every day; and, joy of joys, my brain
has come back to me, fresher and more vigorous, I think, for its
holiday. In this silence and solitude my thoughts flow freely, and the
difficulties of my task are disappearing as if by magic. We are perched
upon a tiny plateau halfway up the mountain. On one side the rock rises
almost perpendicularly, piercing the sky; while on the other, two
thousand feet below us, the torrent hurls itself into black waters of
the fiord. The house consists of two rooms--or, rather, it is two cabins
connected by a passage. The larger one we use as a living room, and the
other is our sleeping apartment. We have no servant, but do everything
for ourselves. I fear sometimes Muriel must find it lonely. The nearest
human habitation is eight miles away, across the mountain, and not a
soul comes near us. I spend as much time as I can with her, however,
during the day, and make up for it by working at night after she has
gone to sleep, and when I question her, she only laughs, and answers
that she loves to have me all to herself. (Here you will smile
cynically, I know, and say, 'Humph, I wonder will she say the same when
they have been married six years instead of six months.') At the rate I
am working now I shall have finished my first volume by the end of
August, and then, my dear fellow, you must try and come over, and we
will walk and talk together 'amid these storm-reared temples of the
gods.' I have felt a new man since I arrived here. Instead of having to
'cudgel my brains,' as we say, thoughts crowd upon me. This work will
make my name."

_Part of the third letter, the second being mere talk about the
book (a history apparently) that the man was writing:_

"My dear Joyce,--I have written you two letters--this will make the
third--but have been unable to post them. Every day I have been
expecting a visit from some farmer or villager, for the Norwegians are
kindly