hile little Vanda, a
blonde of ten years, was seated on a stool, knitting a large stocking
with red wool.

At their feet a large dog of a yellowish-white color, with wool as thick
as that of a sheep, lay curled up sound asleep.

For more than one hour the silence had been unbroken, and the copper
lamp suspended over their heads, and filled with fish oil, lighted
softly this tranquil interior.

To tell the truth, the silence became oppressive to Dame Katrina, who
for some moments had betrayed the desire of unloosing her tongue.

At last she could keep quiet no longer.

"You have worked long enough for to-night," she said, "it is time to lay
the cloth for supper."

Without a word of expostulation. Erik lifted his large book, and seated
himself nearer the fire-place, whilst Vanda laid aside her knitting, and
going to the buffet brought out the plates and spoons.

"Did you say, Otto," asked the little girl, "that our Erik answered the
doctor very well?"

"Very well, indeed," said Otto enthusiastically, "he talked like a book
in fact. I do not know where he learned it all. The more questions the
doctor asked the more he had to answer. The words came and came. Mr.
Malarius was well satisfied with him."

"I am also," said Vanda, gravely.

"Oh, we were all well pleased. If you could have seen, mother, how the
children all listened, with their mouths open. We were only afraid that
our turn would come. But Erik was not afraid, and answered the doctor as
he would have answered the master."

"Stop. Mr. Malarius is as good as the doctor, and quite as learned,"
cried Erik, whom their praises seemed to annoy.

The old fisherman gave him an approving smile.

"You are right, little boy," he said; "Mr. Malarius, if he chose, could
be the superior of all the doctors in the town, and besides he does not
make use of his scientific knowledge to ruin poor people."

"Has Doctor Schwaryencrona ruined any one?" asked Erik with curiosity.

"Well--if he has not done so, it has not been his fault. Do you think
that I have taken any pleasure in the erection of his factory, which is
sending forth its smoke on the borders of our fiord? Your mother can
tell you that formerly we manufactured our own oil, and that we sold it
easily in Bergen for a hundred and fifty to two hundred kroners a year.
But that is all ended now--nobody will buy the brown oil, or, if they
do, they pay so little for it, that it is not worth while to take the
jo