Although she thus lost no time, the drive was, nevertheless, extremely trying, and it was a great relief to my sister when she at length rattled down the hill from Gjelleboek, and saw Drammen extended below her.  There were not many minutes left.

At last she was down in the town.  ‘In Drammen, in Drammen!’ muttered my sister, beginning to triumph.  Like a fire-engine she dashed along the streets to the station.  Everything was paid.  She had only to jump out of the carriole; but when she looked up at the station clock, the minute-hand was just passing the number twelve.

Undismayed, my sister collected her knick-knacks and rushed into the waiting-room, which was quite empty.  But the young man who had sold the tickets, and who was in the act of drawing down the panel, caught a glimpse of this belated lady, and was good-natured enough to wait.

‘A ticket—­for Heaven’s sake!  A ticket for Drammen!  What does it cost?’

‘Where are you going, miss?’ asked the good-natured young man.

’To Drammen—­do you hear?  But do make haste.  I am sure the train will be gone.’

‘But, miss,’ said the young man, with a modest smile, ’you are in Drammen.’

’Ah!  I beg your pardon.  Yes, so I am; it is to Modum, to Modum that I want to go.’

She received her ticket, filled her lap with her things, and, purse in mouth, hurried out upon the platform.

She was instantly seized by powerful hands, lifted off the ground, and tenderly deposited in a coupe.

‘Puff,’ said the locomotive impatiently, beginning to strain at the carriages.

My sister leant back on the velvet sofa, happy and triumphant; she had been in time.  Before her, upon the other sofa, she had all her dear little things, which seemed to lie and smile at her—­the bouquet and the book, the en-tout-cas and the umbrella, and the very plaids, with the strap completely unfastened.

Then, as the train slowly began to glide out of the station, she heard the footstep of a man—­rap, rap—­of a man running—­rap, rap, rap—­running on the platform alongside the train; and although, of course, it did not concern her, still she would see what he was running for.

But no sooner did my sister’s head become visible than the running man waved his arms and cried: 

’There she is, there she is—­the young lady who came last!  Where shall we send your luggage?’

Then my sister cried in a loud and firm voice: 

‘To Drammen!’

And with these words she was whirled away.

LETTERS FROM MASTER-PILOT SEEHUS.

KRYDSVIG FARM, January 1, 1889.

MR. EDITOR,