swered Thelma. "He knows where I am
going. Do not be at all anxious, Friedhof,--I shall make the journey
very well and I am not afraid of storm or wild seas."

Friedhof still looked dubious, but finally yielded to her entreaties and
agreed to arrange her passage for her in the morning.

She stayed at his hotel that night, and with the very early dawn
accompanied him on board the ship he had mentioned. It was a small,
awkwardly built craft, with an ugly crooked black funnel out of which
the steam was hissing and spitting with quite an unnecessary degree of
violence--the decks were wet and dirty, and the whole vessel was
pervaded with a sickening smell of whale-oil. The captain, a gruff
red-faced fellow, looked rather surlily at his unexpected passenger--but
was soon mollified by her gentle manner, and the readiness with which
she paid the money he demanded for taking her.

"You won't be very warm," he said, eyeing her from head to foot--"but I
can lend you a rug to sleep in."

Thelma smiled and thanked him. He called to his wife, a thin,
overworked-looking creature, who put up her head from a window in the
cabin, at his summons.

"Here's a lady going with us," he announced. "Look after her, will you?"
The woman nodded. Then, once more addressing himself to Thelma, he said,
"We shall have nasty weather and a wicked sea!"

"I do not mind!" she answered quietly, and turning to Friedhof who had
come to see her off, she shook hands with him warmly and thanked him for
the trouble he had taken in her behalf. The good landlord bade her
farewell somewhat reluctantly,--he had a presentiment that there was
something wrong with the beautiful, golden-haired daughter of the
_Jarl_--and that perhaps he ought to have prevented her making this
uncomfortable and possibly perilous voyage. But it was too late
now,--and at a little before seven o'clock, the vessel,--which rejoiced
in the name of the _Black Polly_,--left the harbor, and steamed fussily
down the Humber in the teeth of a sudden storm of sleet and snow.

Her departure had no interest for any one save Friedhof, who stood
watching her till she was no more than a speck on the turbid water. He
kept his post, regardless of the piercing cold of the gusty, early
morning air, till she had entirely disappeared, and then returned to his
own house and his daily business in a rather depressed frame of mind. He
was haunted by the pale face and serious eyes of Thelma--she looked very