sight round the bend of the road. They must be in a hurry, for I could hear the driver of the cariole clucking to his horse to make him go faster."

"IT WAS A SORT OF GIG WITH VERY LONG SHAFTS."

"Run right down to the rye-field, Mari, and tell your father to send Snorri up with the horses. Leave the baby with me."

Mari hurried away, while her mother went out into the yard to greet her visitors who had now drawn near.

The first carriage was a cariole, as Mari had said. It was a sort of gig with very long shafts. It had a seat in front just wide enough to hold one person, with a small place behind, where the post-boy sat. A lady rode in this cariole and drove the sturdy little horse.

Behind her came a second carriage, which could not be very comfortable, as there were no springs and the seat was directly over the axle. Two people were in this, also, a gentleman and the driver.

"We are in great haste to reach the next station by afternoon," the gentleman tried to explain to the farmer's wife. He spoke brokenly, for he seemed to know but few Norwegian words.

"He must be an American," Mari's mother said to herself. "Those people always seem to be in a hurry." She dropped a deep curtsy to the lady, who seemed to be the gentleman's wife.

"Won't you come into the house while you wait for the carriage?" she asked. The lady smiled, and followed her into the living-room.

"What a lovely big fireplace you have!" exclaimed the visitor, as she sat down. "And what good times you probably have here in the long winter evenings. Indeed they must seem long when the daylight only lasts two or three hours."

Mari's mother smiled. "Yes, and the summer days seem long now that there are only two or three hours of darkness in the whole twenty-four," she answered. "At least, they must seem long to you who are a stranger," she went on. She spoke in good English, of which she was very proud. She had learned it when she was a girl in school, and was already teaching Mari to use it.

"Is that your spinning-wheel?" asked the visitor, as she looked around the room. "Excuse me for asking, but I do wish I could watch you spinning. In America everything we wear is made in the mills and factories, and a spinning-wheel is not a common sight nowadays."

"I make all the clothing for my family," answered Mari's mother. "It is so strong it lasts nearly a lifetime. Look at my dress; I have worn it every working-day for many years, and it is still as good as new."

"Dear me! what a smart woman you are. If you don't mind, I should like to examine the goods. I suppose that is what people call homespun. And I suppose the wool of which it was made came from your own sheep, did it not?"

"Yes, indeed, and my husband raised every one of the flock himself," was the answer. "I will gladly spin some of the wool for you now. But see! the carriages are waiting, and your husband looks impatient."

"Then I must not keep him waiting, for we have a long journey before us. So good-bye. Perhaps we may stop here again on our way back from the north. Thank you very much for your kindness."

The lady went out, and Snorri helped her into the cariole and himself jumped up behind, and away they went. The lady's husband followed in another carriage in the same manner they had driven into the yard. The ones that had brought them here had gone away as soon as the travellers stepped out. Their drivers would take them back to the station where they belonged.

"Mother, why is our house a posting-station?" asked Mari, when the travellers had gone. "I think it is a great bother. No matter how busy father and the men are, they must stop their work and harness up the horses to carry strangers along the road. They don't get money for it, either, do they?"

"That is the way your father pays his taxes," her mother answered. "You know what good roads we have in our country, Mari. You know, too, that many other things are done by the government to make this country a fine one. Of course every one must share in the cost of these things. As we live on a farm and have horses, your father is allowed to pay his share in work. That is, he agrees to carry the travellers who come this way to the next station. After all, it isn't very much bother," she said, thoughtfully. "But come, dear, set the table; it is near dinner-time, and your father will soon be here."

The table did not stand in the middle of the room. It was in the corner nearest the fireplace. A wide bench was built round the two sides of the room nearest it, so that most of those who gathered around the table could sit on these benches.

Mari's mother soon had a steaming junket ready, besides a dish of smoked salmon, plenty of boiled potatoes, a large, dark-coloured cheese which looked like soap, and last, but not least, a plate was piled high with flat-bread.

"May father have the cakes I made?" asked Mari.

"Sure enough, little daughter. He will eat them with pleasure, I know."

In a few minutes the farmer and his helpers appeared. All gathered around the table together.

"What a fine junket this is to-day," said Mari's father, as his wife helped him to another plateful.

The junket was made of milk, barley, and potatoes, and was a dish of which he was very fond.

"Dear me! how good the flat-bread is, too. And only to think that our little Mari made it all herself," continued the farmer. "She will soon be a woman at this rate."

Mari's rosy cheeks grew redder still at her father's praise.

"I shall be glad to see Gretel back again," said the little girl's mother, after a while. "I miss her very much, though Mari is a good little helper. But Gretel is having a good time with Henrik, I'm sure."

Gretel and Henrik had gone up on the mountain to the summer-house, where the cows were pastured during the two warmest months of the year. Henrik was now fourteen years old, and his father felt that he could be trusted to care for the cows as well as he could do it himself; while Gretel could make good cheese and butter, although she was only thirteen. This boy and girl were now living together all alone up on the mountain-side, but they were not the least bit lonely.

Every Saturday afternoon Henrik brought down the butter and cheese his sister had made during the week. He had so many stories to tell of their good times, that Mari would say:

"Oh, dear! Henrik, I wish I could go back with you."

"I wish you could, little sister, but mother must not be left alone, you know." And Henrik would put his arms around her and kiss her lovingly.

"Where is Ole?" asked the farmer, as the family finished eating their dinner. "He should not be late to meals and give you trouble, good wife."

"He went up to the river on a fishing trip. I told him I should not scold if he was late this time," said his mother. "I was glad of the thought of having some fresh salmon."

"Very well, then. But come, my men, we must get back to the field now. The noon hour has passed." And the farmer led the way out of the house.

But before he rose from the table little Mari said:

"Thanks for the food, dear father and mother," while she went first to one, then the other, and gave each of them a loving kiss.

Then the workmen rose and