The last day of this trip —­ Thursday, January 11 —­ will always be fixed in our memory; it was destined to bring us experiences of the kind that are never forgotten.  Our start in the morning was made at exactly the same time and in exactly the same way as so many times before.  We felt pretty certain of reaching Framheim in the course of the day, but that prospect was for the moment of minor importance.  In the existing state of the weather our tent offered us as comfortable quarters as our snowed-up winter home.  What made us look forward to our return with some excitement was the possibility of seeing the Fram again, and this thought was no doubt in the minds of all of us that January morning, though we did not say much about it.

After two hours’ march we caught sight of West Cape, at the entrance to the bay, in our line of route, and a little later we saw a black strip of sea far out on the horizon.  As usual, a number of bergs of all sizes were floating on this strip, in every variety of shade from white to dark grey, as the light fell on them.  One particular lump appeared to us so dark that it could hardly be made of ice; but we had been taken in too many times to make any remark about it.

As the dogs now had a mark to go by, Johansen was driving in front without my help; I went by the side of Stubberud’s sledge.  The man at my side kept staring out to sea, without uttering a word.  On my asking him what in the world he was looking at, he replied “I could almost swear it was a ship, but of course it’s only a wretched iceberg.”  We were just agreed upon this, when suddenly Johansen stopped short and began a hurried search for his long glass.  “Are you going to look at the Fram?” I asked ironically.  “Yes, I am,” he said; and while he turned the telescope upon the doubtful object far out in Ross Sea, we two stood waiting for a few endless seconds.  “It’s the Fram sure enough, as large as life!” was the welcome announcement that broke our suspense.  I glanced at Stubberud and saw his face expanding into its most amiable smile.  Though I had not much doubt of the correctness of Johansen’s statement, I borrowed his glass, and a fraction of a second was enough to convince me.  That ship was easily recognized; she was our own old Fram safely back again.

We had still fourteen long miles to Framheim and an obstinate wind right in our faces, but that part of the way was covered in a remarkably short time.  On arriving at home at two in the afternoon we had some expectation of finding a crowd of people in front of the house; but there was not a living soul to be seen.  Even Lindstrom remained concealed, though as a rule he was always about when anyone arrived.  Thinking that perhaps our friend had had a relapse of snow-blindness, I went in to announce our return.  Lindstrom was standing before his range in the best of health when I entered the kitchen.  “The Fram’s come!” he shouted, before I had shut the door.  “Tell me something I don’t