ter_ life was fast being
augmented under her cousin's supervision, notwithstanding Hansine's
remarks about her inabilities.

The cabin wherein the three were seated was of the rudest kind, but
everything was scrupulously clean. The blazing pine log cast a red light
over them as they sat at the table.

"So you see nothing grand in your surroundings?" asked Hr. Bogstad of
Hansine.

"How can I? I have never been far from home. Mountains and forests and
lakes are all I know."

"True," said he, "and we can see grandeur and beauty by contrast only."

"But here is Signe," remarked Hansine; "she has never seen much of the
world, yet you should hear her. I can never get her interested in my
cows. Her mind must have been far away when she dished up the mush, for
she has forgotten something."

"Oh, I beg pardon," exclaimed the forgetful girl. "Let me attend to it."

She went to the cupboard and brought out the sugar and a paper of ground
cinnamon, and sprinkled a layer of each over the plates of mush. Then
she pressed into the middle of each a lump of butter which soon melted
into a tiny yellow pond.

"I should like to hear some of these ideas of yours," remarked the
visitor to Signe, who had so far forgotten her manners as to be blowing
her spoonful of mush before dipping it into the butter.

"I wish I were an artist," said she, without seeming to notice his
remarks. "Ah, what pictures I would paint! I would make them so natural
that you could see the pine tops wave, and smell the breath of the woods
as you looked at them."

"You would put me in, standing on The Look-out blowing my _lur_,
wouldn't you?"

"Certainly."

"And I have no doubt that we could hear the echoes ringing over the
hills," continued Hansine, soberly.

"Never mind, you needn't make fun. Yes, Hr. Bogstad, I think we have
some grand natural scenes. I often climb up on the hills, and sit and
look over the pines and the shining lake down towards home. Then,
sometimes, I can see the ocean like a silver ribbon, lying on the
horizon. I sit up there and gaze and think, as Hansine says, nearly all
night. I seem to be under a spell. You know it doesn't get dark all
night now, and the air is so delicious. My thoughts go out 'Over the
high mountains,' as Bjornson says, and I want to be away to hear and see
what the world is and has to tell me. A kind of sweet loneliness comes
over me which I cannot explain."

Hr. Bogstad had finished his dish. He, too, w