On her shoulders she wore a small dark-colored fichu that crossed upon her breast, which was also covered by the large bib of her apron.

She always wore as a head-dress a close-fitting black-silk cap that covered almost her entire head, and tied behind, a kind of head-dress that is rarely seen nowadays.
Seated stiffly erect in her wooden arm-chair, the grave hostess neglected her spinning-wheel only to enjoy a small birchwood pipe, whose smoke enveloped her in a faint cloud.
Really, the house would have seemed very gloomy had it not been for the presence of the two children.
A worthy lad was Joel Hansen.

Twenty-five years of age, well built, tall, like all Norwegian mountaineers, proud in bearing, though not in the least boastful or conceited.

He had fine hair, verging upon chestnut, with blue eyes so dark as to seem almost black.

His garb displayed to admirable advantage his powerful shoulders, his broad chest, in which his lungs had full play, and stalwart limbs which never failed him even in the most difficult mountain ascents.