was once nearly scalped himself.  All this with that ingenious candor which is perfectly justifiable in a barbarian, but which a Greek might feel inclined to look upon as “blowing.”  Thinking of the wearied Parthenia, I began to consider for the first time that perhaps she had better married the old Greek.  Then she would at least have always looked neat.  Then she would not have worn a woollen dress flavored with all the dinners of the past year.  Then she would not have been obliged to wait on the table with her hair half down.  Then the two children would not have hung about her skirts with dirty fingers, palpably dragging her down day by day.  I suppose it was the pie which put such heartless and improper ideas in my head, and so I rose up and told Ingomar I believed I’d go to bed.  Preceded by that redoubtable barbarian and a flaring tallow candle, I followed him up stairs to my room.  It was the only single room he had, he told me; he had built it for the convenience of married parties who might stop here, but, that event not happening yet, he had left it half furnished.  It had cloth on one side, and large cracks on the other.  The wind, which always swept over Wingdam at night-time, puffed through the apartment from different apertures.  The window was too small for the hole in the side of the house where it hung, and rattled noisily.  Everything looked cheerless and dispiriting.  Before Ingomar left me, he brought that “bar-skin,” and throwing it over the solemn bier which stood in one corner, told me he reckoned that would keep me warm, and then bade me good night.  I undressed myself, the light blowing out in the middle of that ceremony, crawled under the “bar-skin,” and tried to compose myself to sleep.

But I was staringly wide awake.  I heard the wind sweep down the mountain-side, and toss the branches of the melancholy pine, and then enter the house, and try all the doors along the passage.  Sometimes strong currents of air blew my hair all over the pillow, as with strange whispering breaths.  The green timber along the walls seemed to be sprouting, and sent a dampness even through the “bar-skin.”  I felt like Robinson Crusoe in his tree, with the ladder pulled up,—­or like the rocked baby of the nursery song.  After lying awake half an hour, I regretted having stopped at Wingdam; at the end of the third quarter, I wished I had not gone to bed; and when a restless hour passed, I got up and dressed myself.  There had been a fire down in the big room.  Perhaps it was still burning.  I opened the door and groped my way along the passage, vocal with the snores of the Alemanni and the whistling of the night wind; I partly fell down stairs, and at last entering the big room, saw the fire still burning.  I drew a chair toward it, poked it with my foot, and was astonished to see, by the upspringing flash, that Parthenia was sitting there also, holding a faded-looking baby.

I asked her why she was sitting up.

“She did not go to bed on Wednesday night before the mail arrived, and then she awoke her husband, and there were passengers to ’tend to.”