_AT HOME_ In December I was once more at home, where I found everything outwardly the same as of old, only, possibly by reason of what had passed, still quieter and sadder.

My father was restlessly active, but not very communicative.

He probably did not consider me fitted to share his anxieties.
Susanna, who, like myself, was now over nineteen years of age, was on a visit at a house some miles away and was to come home at Christmas.

My longing for her was indescribable.
It was during the last dark, stormy week before Christmas, that the Spanish brig _Sancta Maria_ was driven by the weather in to our station, in a rather damaged condition, which, with the poor labour we could command, resulted in her having to lie under repair for nearly six weeks.
The captain, who owned both ship and cargo, was a tall, sallow, becomingly-dressed Spaniard, with iron-grey hair, black eyes, and large features.

With him was his son, Antonio Martinez, a handsome young man with an olive-brown face and fiery eyes like his father's.
My father, who had done Senor Martinez considerable service in the getting in the cargo, now invited him, with Nordland hospitality, to put up at our house.
Although the intercourse between us could not be very lively, as the foreigners only understood a few Norwegian words and were often obliged to have recourse to a phrase-book, it was soon evident that they were both very agreeable men.