on our heads,
and the rain coming down in a steady, wet, monotonous fashion. The
half-dozen little dark log or frame-houses, with their double windows
and turf roofs, standing about at all sorts of angles to the road, as if
they had rolled down the mountain like the great bowlders beyond them,
looked dark and cheerless. I was weak enough to wish for a second that
I had waited a few days for the rainy spell to be over, but two little
bareheaded children, coming down the road laughing and chattering,
recalled me to myself. They had no wrapping whatever, and nothing on
their heads but their soft flaxen hair, yet they minded the rain no more
than if they had been ducklings. I saw that these people were used to
rain. It was the inheritance of a thousand years. Something, however,
had to be done, and I recognized the fact that I was out of the beaten
track of tourists, and that if I had to stay here a week, on the
prudence of my first step depended the consideration I should receive.
It would not do to be hasty. I had a friend with me which had stood me
in good stead before, and I applied to it now. Walking slowly up to the
largest, and one of the oldest men in the group, I drew out my pipe and
a bag of old Virginia tobacco, free from any flavor than its own, and
filling the pipe, I asked him for a light in the best phrase-book
Norsk I could command. He gave it, and I placed the bag in his hand and
motioned him to fill his pipe. When that was done I handed the pouch to
another, and motioned him to fill and pass the tobacco around. One by
one they took it, and I saw that I had friends. No man can fill his pipe
from another's bag and not wish him well.

"Does any of you know Olaf of the Mountain?" I asked. I saw at once that
I had made an impression. The mention of that name was evidently a claim
to consideration. There was a general murmur of surprise, and the group
gathered around me. A half-dozen spoke at once.

"He was at L---- last week," they said, as if that fact was an item of
extensive interest.

"I want to go there," I said, and then was, somehow, immediately
conscious that I had made a mistake. Looks were exchanged and some words
were spoken among my friends, as if they were oblivious of my presence.

"You cannot go there. None goes there but at night," said one,
suggestively.

"Who goes over the mountain comes no more," said another, as if he
quoted a proverb, at which there was a faint intimation of laughter o