t of view, an objectionable phenomenon--a blot upon the
perfect summer day. By the inhabitants, however, of these remote regions
(with the exception of a few obstinate individuals, who had at first
looked upon it as the sure herald of dooms-day, and still were vaguely
wondering what the world was coming to,) it was regarded in a very
different light. This choleric little monster was to them a friendly
and welcome visitor, which established their connection with the outside
world, and gave them a proud consciousness of living in the very heart
of civilization. Therefore, on steamboat days they flocked en masse
down on the piers, and, with an ever-fresh sense of novelty, greeted the
approaching boat with lively cheers, with firing of muskets and waving
of handkerchiefs. The men of condition, as the judge, the sheriff, and
the parson, whose dignity forbade them to receive the steamer in person,
contented themselves with watching it through an opera-glass from their
balconies; and if a high official was known to be on board, they perhaps
displayed the national banner from their flag-poles, as a delicate
compliment to their superior.

But the Rev. Mr. Oddson, the parson of whom I have to speak, had this
day yielded to the gentle urgings of his daughters (as, indeed, he
always did), and had with them boarded the steamer to receive his
nephew, Arnfinn Vording, who was returning from the university for
his summer vacation. And now they had him between them in their pretty
white-painted parsonage boat, with the blue line along the gunwale,
beleaguering him with eager questions about friends and relatives in
the capital, chums, university sports, and a medley of other things
interesting to young ladies who have a collegian for a cousin. His uncle
was charitable enough to check his own curiosity about the nephew's
progress in the arts and sciences, and the result of his recent
examinations, till he should have become fairly settled under his roof;
and Arnfinn, who, in spite of his natural brightness and ready humor,
was anything but a "dig," was grateful for the respite.

The parsonage lay snugly nestled at the end of the bay, shining
contentedly through the green foliage from a multitude of small
sun-smitten windows. Its pinkish whitewash, which was peeling off from
long exposure to the weather, was in cheerful contrast to the broad
black surface of the roof, with its glazed tiles, and the starlings'
nests under the chimney-tops