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Thursday, June 11th, 10 a.m.—In sight of the Loffoden Islands; sky overcast; some few rays of the sun; sea smoother; the vessel still rolls.

Friday, June 12th, 9.30.—At last we are in the straits which lead to Tromsö. I was so ill to-night that I should have thrown myself into the sea had I forgotten, for one moment, my duty and my family.

DANES ISLAND AND THE PIKE HOUSE.

At 11 p.m. I sent for the doctor; it seemed to me that I was going to die all alone in my narrow cabin. He ordered me champagne and sleep. Charlotte, the stewardess, brought me some oranges, and took off my boots, which I had not had the courage to take off for four days. Oh, Charlotte, my fair Scandinavian maid, with your clear eyes, your engaging smile, your gay face, and your lithe but robust physique, how you must have pitied “the French gentleman,” as they called me, who but the other day was so nimble, so sure of himself to all appearance, and who has suddenly become more inert and helpless than an old cap that has been cast away by the skipper!