Wait here, my lads, I shall return directly." And he strode away, leaving Errington and Lorimer delighted at the success of their plans, yet somewhat abashed too.

There was a peace and gentle simplicity about the little room in which they were, that touched the chivalrous sentiment in their natures and kept them silent.

On one side of it, half a dozen broad shelves supported a goodly row of well-bound volumes, among which the time-honored golden names of Shakespeare and Scott glittered invitingly, together with such works as Chapman's Homer, Byron's "Childe Harold," the Poems of John Keats, Gibbon's Rome, and Plutarch; while mingled with these were the devotional works in French of Alphonse de Liguori, the "Imitation," also in French,--and a number of books with titles in Norwegian,--altogether an heterogenous collection of literature, yet not without interest as displaying taste and culture on the part of those to whom it belonged.
Errington, himself learned in books, was surprised to see so many standard works in the library of one who professed to be nothing but a Norwegian farmer, and his respect for the sturdy old _bonde_ increased.
There were no pictures in the room,--the wide lattice window on one hand, looking out on the roses and pine-wood, and the other smaller one, close to the entrance door, from which the Fjord was distinctly visible, were sufficient pictures in themselves, to need no others.

The furniture was roughly made of pine, and seemed to have been carved by hand,--some of the chairs were very quaint and pretty and would have sold in a bric-a-brac shop for more than a sovereign apiece.

On the wide mantle-shelf was a quantity of curious old china that seemed to have been picked up from all parts of the world,--most of it was undoubtedly valuable.