e neither saw
nor heard anything of the unfortunate person.

All the afternoon, we had a continuation of the same wonderful
scenery--precipices of red rock a thousand feet high, with snowy,
turreted summits, and the loveliest green glens between. To the east
were vast snow-fields, covering the eternal glaciers of the Alpine
range. As we looked up the Salten Fjord, while crossing its mouth, the
snows of Sulitelma, the highest mountain in Lappmark, 6000 feet above
the sea, were visible, about fifty miles distant. Next came the little
town of Bodo where we stopped for the night. It is a cluster of wooden
houses, with roofs of green sod, containing about three hundred
inhabitants. We found potatoes in the gardens, some currant bushes, and
a few hardy vegetables, stunted ash trees and some patches of barley.
The sun set a little before eleven o'clock, but left behind him a glory
of colours which I have never seen surpassed. The snowy mountains of
Lappmark were transmuted into pyramids of scarlet flame, beside which
the most gorgeous sunset illuminations of the Alps would have been pale
and tame. The sky was a sheet of saffron, amber and rose, reduplicated
in the glassy sea, and the peaked island of Landegode in the west, which
stood broad against the glow, became a mass of violet hue, topped with
cliffs of crimson fire. I sat down on deck and tried to sketch this
superb spectacle, in colours which nobody will believe to be real.
Before I had finished, the sunset which had lighted one end of Landegode
became sunrise at the other, and the fading Alps burned anew with the
flames of morning.

CHAPTER XXIV.

THE LOFODEN ISLES.

The northern summer soon teaches one fashionable habits of life. Like
the man whose windows Sidney Smith darkened, and who slept all day
because he thought it was night, you keep awake all night because you
forget that it is not day. One's perception of time contracts in some
mysterious way, and the sun, setting at eleven, seems to be no later
than when he set at seven. You think you will enjoy the evening twilight
an hour or two before going to bed, and lo! the morning begins to dawn.
It seems absurd to turn in and sleep by daylight, but you sleep,
nevertheless, until eight or nine o'clock, and get up but little
refreshed with your repose. You miss the grateful covering of darkness,
the sweet, welcome gloom, which shuts your senses, one after one, like
the closing petals of a flower, in the r