rine would be playing one of those soft German folk-songs, of
which she was so fond, and most probably thinking of himself; Madame
Bernstein would be knitting in an easy-chair beside the stove; while
the gentlemen would be listening to the music, and wondering how long
it would be, before they would be at liberty to retire to the
smoking-room and their cigars. He could picture the soft electric
light falling on a certain plain gold ring on Katherine's finger, and
upon the stones of a bracelet upon her slender wrist. Taken
altogether, he did not remember to have felt so home-sick in his life
before. As if to add to his sensation of melancholy, while he was
pursuing this miserable train of thought, a wolf commenced to howl
dismally in the forest behind him. This was the climax. Unable to
bear any more, he retired into the hut, bolted the door, and, wrapping
himself up in his blanket, laid himself down upon his bed and was soon
asleep. When he looked out upon the world next morning he found
himself confronted with a dense fog, which obscured everything--the
forest behind him, the ice-girdled shore in front, and, indeed, all his
world. It is, of course, possible that, in this world of ours, there
may be places with more unpleasant climates than Saghalien, but it
would be difficult to find them. On the west coast the foggy and rainy
days average two hundred and fifty-three out of every three hundred and
sixty-five, and even then the inhabitants are afraid to complain, lest
it might be worse with them. As Browne reflected upon these things, he
understood something of what the life of Katherine's father in this
dreadful place must be. Seeing that it was hopeless to venture out,
and believing that it was impossible the men he expected could put in
an appearance on such a day, Browne retired into his hut, and, having
closed the door carefully, stirred up the fire, and, seating himself
before it, lit a cigar. He had another day's weary waiting before him.
Fortunately, when his boat had brought him ashore from the yacht, it
had also brought him an ample supply of provisions and such other
things, as would help to make life bearable in such a place. On the
rough table in the centre of the hut were arranged a collection of
books of travel and adventure, and, since he did not pretend to be a
blue-stocking, a good half-dozen novels, yellow-back and otherwise.
One of the latter, a story by Miss Braddon, he remembered purchasi